Nectorist 7424 Share Posted February 2 The Sound of the Whip Crack. Crack. Crack. A scream often followed. Man. Woman. Beast. Drogg’s ears, already poor from a beating when he had seen fewer than twenty turns of the moon, eventually could not tell which was which. They bled together. It intermixed in the small drain beneath the whipping pole that he had to clean after every beating. Tongues, Ghanyan, Ghanuwa, Hyspian, and Qalasheen tongues, laughed and jeered as the cries came out. Once, Drogg had seen an uruk woman his age, having taken fifty-and-three lashes, collapse still at the pole. She was left there for hours until she rose again. She was to carry water the next morning or she would die, said one light-skinned Hyspian. Drogg rarely received the whip. Enslaved by these marauders when he was young, he knew what was demanded. He worked in the mines, or in the fields, and sometimes cooked, though mostly for their amusement. He did it all with a nod and silence otherwise. To do anything but that would have brought the whip and the sound it made as it broke the air. Many of the new ones had hope. They prayed to God, or a forest spirit, or even the great planewalkers. "Ghorza- my path is not here. Guide me!” He was guided only to an early grave as a falling rock in the mines crushed his skull. "It was in my dream. I saw him, he had burnt skin. Leyd shall give me strength to break his chains.” Her strength withered as a famine struck the lands of the southwest, and soon she was another body along the side of a ditch. A haze, he drifts, what is that spirit? Can he hear me? Can he save me? NO- Drogg stopped his thought. Whatever he saw in the darkness faded to nothing. The Spirits could not hear his pleas. The Raguks had sinned many times, many years ago, his father had told him when he was a cub. For their crimes, they were cursed for as many generations as needed. So he toiled. His back stooped with the brunt of his labor, his skin aged as the beating sun cracked his knuckles. This was to be life until the end of time. Joy would come with extra scraps from the tables. Victory was another day lived. Drogg told himself this, but he could not disquiet the rage that grew within him. It was less difficult to strike a rock with his pickaxe than it was to not strike it against the head of one of the men. At night, when the slavers had dispersed to their tents, the few uruks in the camps gathered under the stars to speak of the stories and legends of both the earth and the sky. Heroes known by their ancestors, visions they had seen in the swirling dusts or in the haze of dreams, and tales of bravery and triumph that had been passed through their family lines for generations. Whether this group of orcs swelled or waned from week to week, it was the thought of the Spirits, doing and having done things greater than their own meager souls, that sustained them more than food or drink did. One chance. All I ask is one chance. Breaking his discipline, he hoped the Spirits would hear him. The chance came with the war. There had been many, both in stories shared among the slaves and from talk from the men of many tongues. The bandits, mercenaries as their document said, had been hired by kings of cities far away, recalled only by some of the eldest that could describe the splendor, riches, and freedom that these places held. Sometimes, Drogg half-questioned whether they were real, but he knew they were, for it was in these places that the Spirits gave their attention. There was one place, told by some of the new arrivals, that was a home for the uruk-kind. The Black Gate, they said, was that door which defended them. It must have been a large door to hold back all who wanted them dead or captured, Drogg assumed. Drogg was dependable, having served without a problem for many years. He was strong still, even if his knees ached with each step. He could carry the weapons as the slavers, all on horseback, rode to fight in the seas of grass. With a great pack designed to carry a bundle of weapons, Drogg slowly trudged along behind three of the men who rode at a trot, making up the rear of one of the squadrons sent east. Over the sandy hills of the south they reached craggy rocks further north, and soon after the uruk saw his first grassland. It was an ocean, like the stories said, that went as far as the eye could see. Eventually they reached the forest, a place with bushes that were taller, larger, and greener than anything in the desert. Their arms, both in the sky and on the ground, twisted like ropes. The same ropes that bound Drogg’s hands together and tied the weapons he carried to his back. They stretched and tangled, threaded and looped, the ground was so covered in them that even the nimble horses- "¡Joder!” The wail of horses broke the silence of the forest. Drogg looked up and saw, breaking through the rugged earth, these tree-ropes breaking through and coiling themselves around the legs of these horses like snakes around rats that they intended to eat. The Ghanyan fell from his steed and into a hole forming in the breaking ground. The Hyspian struggled to stay atop his and clutched to the reins tightly. The Qadarsi fumbled for the axe at his side to hack away the arms emerging from the ground. Drogg ran. His knees no longer hurt. The heavy pack fell to the forest floor and the weapons flew everywhere. A javelin thrown from the Qadarsi struck Drogg in the breast, and for a moment he fell to his knees, but a gust of wind rose him again and he staggered away. An arrow flew by his head, but struck a tree next to him, and the orc ducked behind it. The sun broke through the leaves of the tree, giving him a moment to orient himself. He needed to go south. To the Black Gates. It was there that he would find his people. Crack. Crack. Crack. The snapping of arms and legs grew louder behind him as the men continued to cry out. Was it the limbs of the trees or of them? The stumbling uruk did not look behind him to see. He continued south. Back to the desert wastes. The Spirits were bringing him there, lifting him on the wings of a thousand calls for help. Even the lowest slave was worthy. Even the lowest slave was never alone. 18 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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