[Flashback] Fragile Bird [Ifran]

[Dazen Gyre]

1 Summer, 511 “Am I dead?” Dazen thought to himself. From what he knew about death and from what he was taught of those that were in the transition between this life and the afterlife, there was no pain once one was dead. But Dazen felt pain, immense and intolerable pain from the rough pads of his feet to his sore jawbone that was a favourite place of his captor’s large fist. The pangs from hunger in his stomach were pains that Dazen never managed to block out; when the smell of food was near him, even the faint scent of freshly baked bread, made his stomach yearn for food. This desire to fill his empty stomach was strong once more as Dazen looked around the bright room that he was placed in along with a man with a strong arm behind him. No words were exchanged between the two men as Dazen stood there, shackled like a monster but with a face and a body of a young man taken from his element. Not only was the desire for food great in his mind and body, but the desire of the sea was a hunger he felt in his soul. While Alvadas was on the Suvan Sea, Dazen knew that his pod was nowhere near that port. Nor would he have the strength, even if he were granted freedom, to get himself out to sea and to find his family once more. His head was bowed down, his chin against his thin chest as this was the only way he could shield his eyes from the bright light of the sun – a light that he had not seen in many days. His hands shook the cuffs that bound his wrists together as he tried to pull his hand free just for the simple movement of shading his eyes from the blinding light. The man behind Dazen was not impressed with this movement and jerked the chain that held the bounds between his wrists and his ankles together backward, making the poor Svefra stagger back and struggle to keep his balance. Dazen knew what punishment he would receive if he failed to keep himself erect and off the floor. His body had cannibalized all the fat and muscle it could from his bones which left the young man with a frail and skinny body; a sad ruin of the strong Svefra he was just months ago. The only signs that the young man was from the seas was his long, dreadlock hair and beard that was adorned with beads, string and other relics of the waters. There were a few innocent looking bracelets laced around his wrists but they were tatters of what was originally there. “Just stand a little longer, boy, then you’ll meet your new boss,” The man said in a gruff voice, “Maybe you’ll be lucky and he’ll feed you to his dogs. A perfect death for trash like you.” Dazen didn’t retaliate at that remark, he didn’t have the strength to spit the venom he had coiled in his throat at the man behind him. What was his name, anyway? Something that sounded a lot like mouldy bread, if Dazen’s opinion had any ear that would listen to it. The sound of someone entering the room caught his attention, but not enough for him to move his head or acknowledge it any way with his body. Dazen closed his eyes as he let out a soft sigh, the hot breath from his mouth made his chapped lips even drier, if that was possible, and he felt as if he was losing precious amounts of water with that wasteful and unnecessary sigh. The two men exchanged words that Dazen didn’t care to focus or listen to; he just wanted to curl up on the ground and sleep. The floor was clean with a simple rug that Dazen’s eyes saw as they opened just to tiny slits. The rug would be a perfectly suitable place to sleep considering he spent the last night in a filthy corner in some cell that looked as if it belonged to a butcher, and the cell that Dazen slept in was the one where he threw the entrails. There was a shift behind him as he felt one pair of hands leave the chains between his cuffs and two more pair of hands take hold of his restraints. If death was as painless as Dazen was led to believe, he hoped that whoever was now holding onto his chains that they could do him the small mercy and end his life quickly and without hesitation.

[Ifran]

The pair of lordly Eypharians spoke in their own musical tongue, but they might have been saying anything for all their tones gave away. Their faces too were masks of mild interest, their eyes intense in their regard. Finally another person approached and the conversation began again in earnest, and in Common. "Ah, Master Ifran," said a voice familiar to Dazen Gyre. He chuckled gingerly, his voice thick with winehead. "You won the game, but I don't know how much value there is to the winnings." "I am sure I will think of some use for him," came the reply in a carefully relaxed tone, the speaker possessed of remarkable control over the timbre and quality of his voice. Papers rustled as they were signed and the men parted ways in a friendly enough manner. "Come with me, Dazen Gyre," said that same voice, inviting and gently commanding at the same time. It was the six-armed man, and he wore a benevolent smile. His four-armed companion was cold and aloof. "You need food and a bath, and in that order."