The Uprising

Galea
Labor Slave

Galea watched the exchange with a smirk. Not a good day for Machavell. First had been an accident, or looked to be one, but the second… her smirk became a smile. As much as she agreed with his earlier actions, the second and current happening could only be defined as justice.

After the last insult toss, Machavell scowled and pointedly looked away – a clear dismissal. The man – she was going to need to learn his name eventually. He didn’t seem to be going away. He leaned back against the bars with a smirk, thoughts of victory no doubt running through his head. She studied him a moment before risking a glance at Machavall. He was still looking away, but she made sure to keep her face pointing forward, studying him from the corner of her eye.

She mentally shook her head before the ship rode over another swell, this one larger than the last. It took a moment to recover as the ship lurched to the side after it came over it, but if nothing else, it silenced the man’s laughter momentarily. A blessing on both sides. Machavell for obvious reasons and the man in that Machavell might be less motivated to rip the man’s tongue out if he ever got the chance.

Then, inevitably, her eyes turned to the three new arrivals. Judging from their dresses, their occupation upon landing wouldn’t be enjoyable for them in the least. Didn’t seem to matter much to ‘Videl’. She was still giggling, if not through her mouth, then through her eyes. Galea raised an eyebrow in her direction. Videl saw and winked back with a wave, not doubt scheming her next torment. Galea almost smirked at that.

Deaven:

He was happy. Euphoric almost.

Until the ship lurched and he woke up from the daydream.

The storm was giving out it's last breathes.

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl's body slammed against the wall behind her and the ship lurched, causing her cracked ribs to burn with pain. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, trying not to let the fact that it hurt become public. Then the whipped-one began to laugh, loudly.

"Ha!" He laughed louder, causing Videl to temporarily let go of the bar and grab her ears.

Curse this blasted life! She thought as Machavell began to yell in fierce arguement at the man.

"At least I don't scream every time I wake up."

"At least the only place where a woman has held me down was... much nicer." The man was grinning. Grinning! He apparently enjoyed her suffering.

"At least," Machavell mimicked. "I don't look like a wreck."

"You pansy, couldn't take one hit from that whip." The man replied, even louder.

"At least I wasn't stupid enough to get whipped." Machavell's exuberant anger was feeding into Videl. As soon as they escaped, if ever, she knew one of the two would be the first to die. Men didn't fight to let the other live; they fought to make the other die. Gruesome, pointless, and powerful. That's what fights were. Videl bit down on her lip, drawing blood.

Shirin Bedros, Love Slave

Shirin pressed her cracked lips together as the guard dragged her and Videl into a larger cell, turning them lose with a careless admonition to hang on. She stood there for a moment, bound wrists in front of her, staring out from behind her bedraggled hair at the other slaves. She wished she could rub her arm where the guard had grabbed her; it hurt. There would be finger-shaped bruises there soon.

Videl moved before her, while Shirin was still taking stock of the situation. One, two, three--five prisoners, that she could see: a halfling and the dark man and three other men. There was a woman on the floor, too, moaning; six. And Videl, and her. Eight.

The ship lurched and Videl fell onto a man nearby, who promptly engaged in a shouting match with his neighbor. Shirin flinched and looked pointedly away, her eyes falling on the dark man.

His face was just as she remembered it, though she had only seen him for a few moments. This surprised her; typically, Shirin was as bad with the faces of humans as others are at distinguishing individual birds. He was nearly invisible in the dark, holding onto the bars, and she took an involuntary step towards him, yearning for his ability to disappear.

The ship bucked again--that was happening more and more often. She stumbled and almost fell, but managed to find her balance, standing with her feet spread wide, head tipped back and eyes directed at the ceiling as if she could see the storm. After a moment, she moved cautiously to one side of the cell, moving with the ship's rise and fall. She dropped to her knees beside the dark man and held onto the bars with her hands, wishing her wrists had been released so she could grip the bars better.

There is nothing more to be done, she thought, bracing herself. What would happen, shall, and 's naught I can do about it. Shirin looked beside her at the dark man and caught his eye. There was something there that reassured her. She nodded.

Kester
Labour Slave

Kester watched Deaven and Machavell’s exchange. The two of them finished their argument and turned away from each other. Kester was standing near the man. He moved as close as the rope that bound him would allow. The man gave him a quick glance to see who was nearing, then looked down again.

“I thought you’d be above getting into petty arguments.” Machavell glared at him and Kester quickly struggled to continue. “Not that you were wrong, of course. That idiot hasn’t done an intelligent thing since we were on this ship.” He jerked his head towards Deaven, talking in a whisper.

"Such insolence from a mere speck on the scene! Are you truly foolish enough to believe that?"

“I’m not foolish at all,” Kester said. “I weigh up every decision I make. The others are always watching you. Every sign of weakness, they see and make note of it. They’re even watching me talking to you now. Maybe they’ve decided that I’m a threat too. It’s impossible to tell. You have to think about every action, though.” Even as he spoke, he saw the woman who had fallen on Machavell glance in their direction.

Machavell’s eyes locked onto Kester’s now. Kester kept himself steady, although his instinct was to look away from the man. “I understand,” he said.

Kester grinned. “Good. I wasn’t sure if you would. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Machavell’s eyes seemed to be probing him, searching for any information he could get. “Where were you from before this?” he asked.

He shrugged. “Just a poor district. We didn’t have much.”

“And why are you here now?” A smile broke out on the man’s face.

Kester shook his head. “I’m not going to tell you that any more than you’re going to tell me why you’re here. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I value my privacy.”

“As do I,” said Kester. “I’m not going to confide in anyone before I know that I can trust them. I think you’re playing the same game as I am.”

"And what game is that?"

"You know," Kester said.

“If we are, then maybe it would be beneficial for us to play it together.”

What do you mean by that?” Kester asked.

Machavell smiled. “Think on it,” he said and turned away.

Kester looked away from him as well. A few of the other slaves were staring at him, but he ignored them. Machavell’s words echoed in his head. He wondered what the man was really proposing. I may not be able to trust him. He seems the type to be playing several games at once. It would be worse to have him as an enemy, though. Maybe I should agree to what he's offering, even if I don't know if I can trust him. All I can hope is that he won't betray me.

Elias; Exotic slave

Not quite sure how to react, Elias respectfully did not say anything about Lissa's dress but merely inquired as to her disposition:

"How are you faring?" he asked. Lissa turned her horrified eyes up to him and he decided to make the question easier. "Are you okay?" She nodded. He smiled reassuringly and looked back down at the shaken guard whose hands were turning white from clutching the bars so hard. They'd all been thrown pretty badly by the last swell.

"That's disgusting," Ballow said and Elias could imagine the horrid little creature wrinkling his nose or perhaps even sticking out his tongue...

"But not as disgusting as filth like you," Elias said calmly in an almost dutiful tone and another swelling wave cut off any imminent reply. The ship rocked, it ducked and it dived and then the spasms petered off and the water at last began to calm. The guard whimpered.

"I hope you keep your promises," Elias said with a calculated grin. He leaned a little closer, his own hands loosening on the bars now that the storm was passing. The guard nodded vigorously. The ship was still for a moment. Cautiously they all released the bars and the guard hurriedly moved back, a safe distance from all the cells.

"Ay, I'll keep the promise," he claimed. "But only because I can't have you dying on this voyage." He swaggered towards the door.

"That's good enough for me," Elias said. "But do be careful going up those steps. You never know when the ship might decide to lurch."

After the guard had gone, there was quiet for a moment. Elias tried not to look at Lissa though it was hard with her being in the opposite cell. He felt no pity for the girl and he had seen a much higher extent of grime for the vomit to bother him. But he did not want her dignity to be breached any more than it already had been.

"So what's the escape plan?" Elias asked.

Galea
Labor Slave


Galea watched as yet another person squeezed in next to Bob. First it was Machavell, but then the half-elf skipped in and, after causing a mild bout of havoc, grabbed the bars between Machavell and Bob, the latter of which sat comfortably in his corner. Following was the second new girl who, after nearly toppling over with the throws of the ship, managed to somehow find her balance and sat between Bob and her half-elf friend. Galea looked down to her left at the man, who had since quieted. Sobered, perhaps, by the chaotic rocking and skipping of the ship and the nausea it imposed.

She looked around. Only a couple people were still standing, but for Galea, it was a nice change to see the top of a head. Aside from that, she had been doing almost nothing but sitting for the past few weeks, and her body protested the idea of sitting down with everyone else.

She again looked at the man, who seemed lost in his thoughts. Sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, eyes traveling to different parts of the cell to keep pace with his thoughts.

Deaven.

Machavell had referred to him as Deaven when he turned him in. At least the man had a name now. Mid thirties, maybe early forties. Not a bit of smooth skin on him. She raised her eyebrows at that bit of information. Here was a slave who did not like to obey. So why was he here? Who would want a disobedient slave who, if his earlier actions were any voice for his past, threatens the lives of those in authority and assumes control? No one but a master who enjoys a challenge, or an idiot. Maybe both. She released a breath through her nose. Grand.

“’M Galea.” She said to him, snapping him out of whatever thoughts he was thinking. He looked up at her, surprised by the interruption.

“Deaven.” He said, holding out his bound hands. She waited a moment before holding her own out and exchanged a less than dignified handshake.

Circle around and to, she decided. The best way to get information was to start distant and work your way in, unless you had sufficient bribery and threats to back you up. At the moment, she had neither. A greasy-haired female Halfling with nothing but the clothes on her back wasn’t the most intimidating thing in the world, and she didn’t have anything she would be willing to bribe him with, or that he’d be willing to accept, for that matter. Besides, it wasn’t an interrogation.

Deaven stared at her, obviously waiting for her to continue. She cleared her throat and jerked her head over to the corner.

“Know anything abut the new arrivals?”

He followed her indication at the corner with his eyes for a moment before looking back at her face.

“Why?”

She shrugged.

“Just curious. Figured you were on the deck, you might know what they were about.”

"Bob" - Dijon

The ocean heaved, buffeted by the storm as the Heavens made known their fury.

The Clan was on the move, a vast herd of cattle and horses at the back, lead by the people at the front. The Gathering was to be held in the centre of Styria, the first in many a season. Scouts reported sighting of a boar, spooked by their arrival and as one, the men, bored by the march, gathered their mounts and launched into pursuit.
The horses thundered away, kicking up dust into the eyes and mouths of complaining women and gawking children. They exclaimed, “the Hunt is on, the Hunt is on!” and rejoiced to know of the glorious feast that would come.

If only he had noted the scout, and the man who had brought the report to his eyes, maybe he could have stopped it all…But no, that was wishful thinking.

Vokul – the wretched snake, may he rot in Sierra’s eternal embrace – smiled over at him, “the hunt is on!” he mimicked, shouting over the din. “May the Gods grant us a glorious catch!” Dijon smiled in return, thinking perhaps he’d misjudged Vokul; despite his vocal opposition to Dijon’s stance that lucrative trade options should be taken with the foreign, powerful nations of the East, he was at heart, a Styrian still. It wouldn’t do to forget that and so they rode on within the shadows of trees.

In his cage, Dijon railed inside – you fool, you fool you should have seen the glint in his eyes, the damned zealot traditionalism; you should have known! Twice imprisoned, physically and mentally, he could do nothing but watch it happen all over again.

The Dogman was confused; the hounds milled in confusion. They had lost the scent. There were a dozen trails now where before there was one. He looked disorientated and confused as the frustrated Hunt stamped around him, neighing, swearing, and sawing at the reins. He looked up at Dijon, scarred face troubled. “Strange magics in the air; much confusion; much trouble.” Dijon nodded, unsurprised. The shamans had been casting their bones all day and the results had left them more scatter-brained then usual.

The tedium of the march had seeped into them by now, gotten beneath their skin, it crawled all over them like a thousand fire-ants that would not be satiated. No, it wouldn’t do to stop now. “Split up, three a piece; branch out in a wide circle and we shall meet at a point in the distance. Good hunting.” They roared their approval and fanned out. Dijon, Vokul, and Dogman went ahead alone, following the central trail. Trees towered above them and the shadows, dappled with holes, swept in close.

The ship lurched, snapping the present back into focus. Dijon blinked sweat out of his eyes; people? More slaves had been brought in, but why?

They rode long and hard, over banks and little rivulets, spurred on by the passion within. It was some time before, tired, sore and hungry to boot, they reined in. “Is not possible; trail is gone; not weak, gone.” Dijon barely heard him. He felt gripped by a fever, a strange and urgent passion, so unusual for his normally calm attitude. Something was definitely wrong. He glanced over at Vokul, so silent through their journey and started. Vokul was gone. The shadows crept in, dark and cold. Dijon unhooked his spear from the saddle, gripping it in readiness.

They came under cover of magic, sound and sight were useless. Dijon waited. The horses shifted nervously, heads-half raising as they shuffled to the right. The two remaining hounds growled, hackles raised. Foolish, to neglect the much more primal, animal instincts of horses – Dijon shifted, thrusting his spear into the left. It punched into the darkness and he felt, rather then saw, it puncture a man’s body. Dogman barked twice and the hounds snarled, leaping into the shadows. Immediately, the shadows boiled, writing as though attacked. The nightspell broke, bursting apart into little fragments and pandemonium was unleashed.

A momentary lull; voices, whispering – male, in concert; something warm settled in nearby. Licked dry lips, trying not tremble from the rage; it would leap from his throat any moment and join the joyous howl of the sky. It was almost as though the elements knew his pain and voiced it for all the world to hear.

Three men rushed him, clothed in black, and Dijon roared, leaping off his horse to meet them. Dogman took the man on the right with a broad sweep of his cleaver, snarling. Engaged thus, the two whirled away. Dijon whirled his spear, stepping away from the one on the right now and clicking violently with his tongue. He lunged to the left, even as his warhorse reared at his call, hooves clipping the man on the head. As he fell, his skull was trampled, the shrill cry of the horse triumphant. Dijon smiled at the nervousness of the man in front of him, seeing his comrades so swiftly taken care of.

“Come now, prove you’re worthy,” Dijon growled, spear at the ready.

He didn’t wait though and lunged. The man jumped back, sword trembling. Dijon continued to harry him with feints and lunges, always keeping a distance. He herded the assassin backward, straight onto Dogman’s cleaver. Gasping, blood pooling in his mouth, he shivered and died. Dijon looked into Dogman’s eyes, exultant, only to see them widening in warning. He turned, but too late as something crashed into the back of his head and darkness swamped him.

He could imagine how it had gone from there: Vokul, having dispatched him with such cowardly ease, would have advanced on Dogman, whose cleaver was still buried in the dead assassin. He would have killed him and gone back to the tribe with his version of events. He had defeated the mighty Dijon, Warleader of the Tiyga Clan and by tribal custom would have his home, family and title. Dijon couldn’t take it anymore. He let his head fall back, ready to scream beneath the cover of the storm.

Something brushed his leg, small, soft and tentative.

Balked, Dijon held back a growl and looked downward. Into the trembling eyes of a slave he’d never seen before. She cowered by his feet, hair ragged and unkempt about her eyes; a little island of terrified calm. She was so like his daughter, like little Veera; so quiet and mouse-like. The shamans feared her for her silence, cautioned him on the powers she must possess. What of this one, now, before him? Her eyes darted to and fro; flinched back from the crack of lightning. She wasn’t bound with rope as he was, nor were, he saw after a quick scan, the other new arrivals.

He knelt down, placing his arms around her carefully. A sudden intake of breath – would she bolt? – he murmured soft strings of nonsense, shifting into Styrian. The rope about his waist tightened, reminding him of its presence. Female slaves, scantily clad, led into a room of frustrated men? In a storm? They should be worth much more to the guards; something was amiss here. Were there factions amidst the crew? Too many games, too many players, too much unknown – someone wanted there to be a meeting here, connections made, alliances perhaps.

How would this girl fare beneath such manipulations? Dijon wasn’t sure, but he feared the worst.

Eamon D'Arnise

Chuckling to himself at the complete mess the storm had made of him, Eamon extricated himself from the pile of clothing and gear that had once been stowed safely away in his sea chest, which was now tipped on its side in one corner of the room. He was still dry for the most part, having managed to both do his job and seek shelter in the cabin he shared with two other slavers. He shook his head and chuckled again, straightening his multitude of belts and adjusting his bracers before walking wobbily to the door.

He was still laughing some time later as he walked toward the Exotic Slaves' "pens," balancing a bucket of "grub," a ladle, and three bowls in his arms. The door opened just as he began to contemplate how he was going to attempt the feat, nearly bowling him over. The slaver was looking over his shoulder as he walked, and Eamon cleared his throat pointedly to get his attention. The man was easily among the smelliest, most disgusting of the naturally disgusting fools aboard the Aggressor. He sprung backward at the sound of Eamon's voice, catching his balance on the door frame and choking on his own saliva.

Eamon stifled a giggle before it escaped his lips, and managed to raise a patronizing eyebrow. "Abandoning your post?" he asked.

The slaver stumbled over his words a moment before finally deciding that silence was best. He slumped his shoulders in defeat and looked at his toes.

Eamon smiled and brushed past him. "No worries mate--go get some sleep while I feed the freak show." He could feel the guard's eyes on him as he closed the door behind him, but he knew the moron wouldn't question him. No one did; not on this ship. Eamon's grin widened as he approached the three cages, rather enjoying the disheveled appearance of the occupants.

"Oy! How's the freakshow then?" he called to them cheerily, setting the bucket of food--slop, really--down on the deck.

Name: Oenai Seneia

Race: Elf

Gender: Female

Age: 67

Appearance: 6’1” Long wavy chestnut hair tied at the back of her head, flowing to her waist; Upward slanting aquamarine eyes with delicate eyebrows and sparse eyelashes; High cheekbones and a full lipped mouth almost always set in a pout. Lean, strong body formed from riding and training horses.

Clothing: Tight cotton trousers and a loose silk blouse both well worn but fairly clean; Knee high riding boots and small leather thong tying back her long hair.

Personality: The only daughter of a horse trainer mother and a cook father she is strong willed, impatient, and arrogant. She knows what she can do and she does it well and efficiently. She is decisive and she hates not having a plan.

Weaknesses: well bred horses; attractive elves; shiny objects; blades

Videl Vane Va'Teir, Love Slave In Labour Quarters

Videl released her ears as the ship began to smooth out. The storm was over. Half her body wanted to go over to the man and let him know just how mad she was, but the other half wanted to stay near Machavell.

Videl knew she had made a powerful alliance with Machavell. He would never admit it, nor think of it that way, but she knew she had. A pang of fear arrived in her heart when she looked up at him; a worry that if she tried to seduce him, she might actually feel something. No, she wouldn't do it. She couldn't.

She looked up at the dark man, who had bent down to hold the other love slave. Videl suddenly felt alone. She looked up at Machavell, then hid her head in arms. Her whole life it had been about play; nothing but worthless play. Why now, all of the sudden, did she need the real thing?

Shirin froze as the man pressed her against him, thoughts racing. What was he doing? Was he trying to--to--initiate...? But no; he was only holding her, just holding her, though why she couldn't tell. Perhaps he was afraid, and clung to her the way her youngest sister used to cling to a stuffed doll. Either way, he was sturdy and he was warm, and after a few moments of stiffness, she allowed herself to at least nominally relax, though with as little as she had on (she cringed) he would probably be able to feel the tension still in her. She was not an idiot. She had already let one man snatch her up.

The only part of going to town that Shirin enjoyed were the horses. She didn't understand it: there were more horses in town than outside, in the fields! As her brothers went about their business nearby, she stopped by a farrier's and held her hand out softly to a young bay mare. The horse dropped its head to snuffle in her palm, and after a moment, Shirin stepped closer, stroking the beautiful beast's cheek. "Fair day, young miss," she murmured. "What's such a beauty doing weighting down her toes? You should be some great lady's mount and have only sweet pastures to pass over."

"She is pretty, isn't she?"

Shirin jerked back, looking up abruptly; the mare started and tossed her head a few times, snorting indignantly. There was a man on the mare's other side, tidying her forelock with proprietary calm. He was dressed richly, and (despite the fact that their family was not too bad off themselves), her father had always told her one thing: The Rich are not to be trusted. "S-sorry, m'lord, I meant no harm--"

"No, no, by all means. She's the best of my lot. Unfortunately, times are hard, and, well..." he shrugged elegantly; everything about him was elegant. Shirin rarely felt drawn to other humans, but there was something about this man, a certain animal quality, a power or a charm, that drew her in like a moth to the flame. A smile flickered over his handsome face, and he drew his fingers through his dark hair. "I could be wrong, but... would you like to see my hunting hounds? Fine, intelligent beasts, very sensitive. They're just over that way, with my man."

Shirin hesitated and glanced at the storefront her brothers had entered not long ago. Well, the man had said it wasn't far, and she was nineteen now, quite old enough to take care of herself for a few minutes. "Certain I would, m'lord, and thank you."

As she walked off with the handsomely dressed man, a young lady approached the farrier to see how her beautiful young bay mare was faring.

Shirin gritted her teeth and buried her face against the dark man's shoulder. Stupid little whore, she thought to herself. How imbecilic, to think that she could trust a man--trust anyone!

Like this man, this dark man who held her so kindly. He could only want something. It was how things went. No one gave anything for free. The thought, bizarrely, relieved her; it was the unexpected she feared, after all. And nothing could be unexpected when you thoroughly understood the consequences of your actions.

She relaxed into his arms, and waited--for the storm to be over, for him to name his price--but not for freedom. She was quite certain that was gone forever.

[b]Elias[b]

"I was quite enjoying it until you sent the freak away, but then, this new one is already proving to be interesting. I wonder: can it balance the bucket on its head?" Elias quipped with an easy grin. The dark haired slaver caught on fast with a soft chuckle and began to ladle generous amounts of slop into the bowls. It sloshed against the sides, bacteria breeding in its depths. Elias did not like the look of it.

"

Elias

"I was quite enjoying it until you sent the freak away, but then, this new one is already proving to be interesting. I wonder: can it balance the bucket on its head?" Elias quipped with an easy grin. The dark haired slaver caught on fast with a soft chuckle and stirred the slop a little. It sloshed against the sides, bacteria breeding in its depths. Elias did not like the look of it.

The slaver began to frown, his dark brows knitting down in a fierce displeasure. His blue eyes took on a scathing severity and he looked up at Elias.

"No, sadly... it really is tragic, the lack of balance your new freak has," he said in a mock serious tone that was so cleverly staged, if not for the context of the situation, Elias might have believed him. He decided to push a little further.

"That's a real shame, that is. Any chance it can juggle?" Elias looked across at Lissa who was watching the slaver with an alert interest. He raised a brow as if to suggest, 'not your average human, huh?' She smiled back but it was nothing in comparison to the gaping, abyssal grin on the slaver's face.

"Why, but of course!" he declared. He threw up the first bowl and then the second and even the third, sending them all spinning through the air, revolving as they were flipped and caught, flipped and caught. They scraped past each other with the clink of pottery but none slowed and none were knocked off course. Elias grudgingly applauded a little.

"I'm not eating anything its had its filthy hands on!" Ballow spat, glaring through the bars of his cage. The slaver ignored him, not pausing in his conversation with Elias:

"And dare I ask, what did you do to your previous freak? He looked rather shaken, he did." He caught the bowls for the last time, shifting two of them to the crook of his elbow so he could fill the first with the awful food. Elias thought about his answer for a moment, a reminiscent smile taking the place of his grin.

"I offered to share my cell with him, can't think how he could take that the wrong way," he explained. For extra emphasis, he curled his fingers around the bars and rubbed his claws along their length. They shrieked in pain, the sound cutting through the room. The slaver chuckled.

"Aye, that'd do it. And just so you know it's not poisoned..." He wrinkled his face in an expression of pained duty and took a sip from the bowl before handing it to Elias who pulled it towards himself with some eagerness. He stood back from the bars a little and looked down at his meal; space squirmed in his belly.

"Appreciated, mate and perhaps I'll appreciate it all the better after I've tried it for myself, eh?" He tipped the bowl a little, watching the slop gurgle around like filthy drain water but he tipped it to his lips and drank. His expression mirrored that of the slaver's and there was genuine disgust mingled with the anguished suffering. "Just like Father used to make. Send my compliments to the chef."

"Will do, friend." The slaver smiled and his tongue rolled across 'friend' with the same passing ease with which he moved on to the next cell. But there was meaning there and Elias pondered over that as he steadily sipped at his food. What could a slaver mean to accomplish by use of such a word?

Deaven:

He looked at Galea. He sighed. "They are the ´exotic`slaves. Slaves that aren't human."

"I see," Galea answered. Deaven looked at her intensly, he noticed a thing that he hadn't noticed before.

"You are a halfling," he stated finally. Galea nodded. Deaven waited for her to continue her questionnaire.
She noticed his patient waiting and cleared her throat.

"So how did you end up here?" She asked.
"on the ship, or as a slave?"

"You tell me," Galea smiled to him. Deaven grimaced. His history wasn't one of his favorite topics.

"I was born in the south. I belonged to the Galgaen tribe. I was fishing when they snatched me and my brother. It's a long story."

"Hey Deaven!" Ejàel was standing on the seashore.
Deaven looked up from his fishing stick. The fish wasn't really biting that day. He looked where his brother was pointing. He saw two men on a shipwreck. He had seen this before, it was the slave traders trick. He started to ignore them. The traders would never come to the shore, they never dared.
Who would? The Galgae tribe wasn't know for their friendliness.

He was turning back to his fishing when he saw his brother swimming to the traders.
He jumped up "Ejàel, don't go there!" He jumped to the water and started to swim towards his brother. "It's a trick.!" But it was useless. He was far away. Deaven picked his pace up.

He snapped out of him when Galea slapped him. She looked worried "You fell unconscious."
Deaven felt weak. "Those slave traders did a good job with the whip." Deaven said bitterly.