Taming a beast with bars [Flashback] [Solo]

by **Cyrus** on June 17th, 2012, 1:07 pm

9th Day of Summer, 505AV.

Plumes of smoke ascended into the air, carrying with them the smell of roasted pork. A fire buzzed and crackled from the ground, its base dug firmly into the shifting sands beneath it. The fire itself was nestled inbetween two sand dunes, the plumes of smoke the only indication that anyone was there. The scent had not been a familiar one through the sands, as rarely were mortal men able to delve into the delicacies of fine meats. Instead, they hunted for desert cows, skinned the flesh from the bone of golden wolves. For such a scent to be present within the desert was like a beggar sitting upon a throne as king. Unheard of, and bloody uncommon.

Around the fire sat three men, each feasting upon the delicacies they had brought along on their journey. Each man was finely garbed, dressed in bright purple and green velvet, with cowls to protect them from the desert sun. Thick moustaches hung from below their nose, layered in wax to keep them curled at either tip. These were no ordinary men. They were not of noble descent, nor were they honourable men. Slavers, men who saw to the sale of other human beings to maximise their own profits, and live as wealthy men. It was a dangerous game to delve into, as slavers generally liked to bicker amongst each other. When bickering was not enough, death followed.

Beside the three men, who had been far too enthralled in conversation to pay attention to anything else, a wagon resided. Two horses had pulled it, and the poorly-dressed driver still sat atop his seat, trying to refresh his horses with canteens of water. Within the back of the wagon was a cage, a cage that housed a dozen men. Each was stained with dirt and grime, clad in ripped shirts and pants. None spoke, and it was as if each man had been killed already. They were the slaves, the men that gave up their lives to make greedy men even more greedy. It was a cruel cycle, yet it was one that would never cease until slavery became an illegal act.

Broad hands wrapped around the cage bars, bars that had been crafted from Isurian steel, unbendable and unbreakable. A mop of matted brown hair pressed against the cage, and piercing green eyes shone out through it, staring at the slavers with a fearsome gaze. The men paid him no attention, continuing their conversation with laughs and loud chews of the meat they had brought. The other slaves looked at the man standing like he was some sort of idiot, knowing that there truly was no hope for him. Cyrus, on the other hand, thought otherwise. He slammed a fist against the wooden frame of the cage, then turned to face the others.

”You are all cowards, cowards. Nothing more. These men have come into your homes, they have raped your women, slaughtered your children, and here you sit. Whimpering like dogs without their bones.” He protested, waving a hand towards the slavers that sat outside the cage. The men did not move, their faces dark with sorrow and fatigue, their spirits ripped in two with the deaths of their families. None of these men had any hope left, and trying to pull it to the surface was near-impossible. Hanging his head down in disappointment, Cyrus ran a dry tongue against his grime-ridden teeth, in a desperate attempt to clean them. As he went to sit back down with the others, one of the wagon guards approached, curved dagger held up against the cage.

”What are you doing, slave? Did we say you could speak?” The man spat saliva over Cyrus as he spoke, and for a moment he thought of licking it off as some form of water. The man was rather large in girth, with short hair and a reasonably sized black beard. He was adorned in chainmail that had been covered in a desert garb, a turban nestled atop his head. He was one of five guards, and most possibly the angriest of all of them.

”I am parched, I need water. What good is a dead slave, after all?” Cyrus shot back, his piercing green eyes meeting the man’s squinted brown. Grimacing, the guard tossed him a canteen through the bars. They always said that water was more valuable than life in the desert, and Cyrus knew it to be true. Relishing the liquid like it was a god, he allowed it’s cool, clear form to run through him, cherishing every moment that it descended through his mouth and down his throat.

”Thankyou, you are far too kind.” Cyrus stated, voice full of sarcasm. He threw the canteen back through the bars, almost laughing as the guard dropped it. When the large man finally scooped up the fallen canteen he stormed off, back around the side of the caravan. The drink had slightly refreshed the Benshiras, yet not enough to quench his thirst. The blazing hot sun burned down upon them, burning his skin a bright red. The other men sat further back in the wagon, sheltered by the shade it provided. Still, the small cage would not be enough to tame him for long. Soon he would escape, soon he would be free. And when he was free, he would find Ezral, and kill the man himself. He had put him in this position, after offering him life for letting him go.

Cyrus had let him go, and he had paid the consequences for doing so too. The man had returned with more warriors, and set ablaze his people. He was granted life, yet it was a life that he did not wish to lead. Cyrus had tried several times already to escape the steel door, and had tried several times to punch through the wood that surrounded them. All attempts had been futile, and only ended him up with bloodied knuckles and sore arms.

Cyrus slammed his hand into the wood beside him, then used his outspread hand to lean up against the wall. He soon drifted into thought, unaware that the slavers had begun to pack up their fancy little picnic, ready to make a move once more. They were nearing their destination, and soon he would become a slave, left to rot cleaning a man's shoes and kissing his ass.

by **Cyrus** on June 18th, 2012, 12:16 pm

Whilst lost in his thought, Cyrus did not notice the smell of roasted pork growing nearer and nearer. Soon, it felt like he could taste it, he could feel the sweet juices running down his face like miniscule waterfalls. Suddenly, he snapped out of his daydream, and realized that the remaining meat had been tossed into the cage of slaves. The other men rushed for it like rabid dogs, rabid dogs that had been famished for weeks on end. Despite the undeniable hunger that had consumed him in the recent days, Cyrus remained still, and watched as the other men scratched and clawed over the little food they had been given. They were being treated like animals, and acted as such.

Cyrus could not help but shake his head, watching as men turned to beast’s right before his eyes. It was a daunting environment, one that could change the persona of many men. But he was stubborn, he still had pride. Cyrus would not break like the others; he would remain true to his sanity. He was not about to let these slavers get the best of him, he was not about to turn into a savage. He had seen great men rise and fall before, and he was not about to follow them in their descent. When all was said and done, when the slave wagons arrived at their destination, he would escape. He would run as fast and as far as he could, and create a home for himself wherever he ended up. That was his plan.

As the men moved away from what had once been pork, Cyrus turned to them all. Each man had meat hanging from their mouth, or blood dripping from their nostrils. Food was scarce in these wagons, and it had been the only source of survival. These slavers were starving them, so that they would want to be sold into a family to serve for the rest of their life. At least families fed them. Cyrus gazed around at each man individually, his piercing green eyes daunting to some. Few men looked back at him, as most had been too busy enjoying the little food they had been given. Those that did were full of sorrow, eyes deep pits of sadness and misery. None of them wanted to be there, but then who would?

”They treat us like animals, not men. Do you not see?” Cyrus began, waving a hand around at all the men. The few that had not been paying attention to him now began to, still chewing on the remainder of their meat. ”When we arrive at wherever they are taking us, we will no longer be men. We will truly be pets, household slaves that work for no wage, no reward. When we are sold into families, we will be no better than a dog, or a cat. Do you really want to be living your lives for another person? Rubbing their feet when they want, kissing their ass when they ask? Slaves are not humans, they do not possess a mind, or a will, of their own. We are not slaves. We are free men. So stop acting like it, and help me break out of this damned cage we sit in!” Cyrus’ speech seemed to inspire the others, and soon they rose, slamming body after body against the steel cage.

The wagon had begun to move again, but it had also begun to rock. The wooden frame swayed from side to side as the men slammed themselves against it, kicking and punching and clawing their way to an attempted freedom. The horses whinnied from before them, and the wagons driver shouted profanities at the top of his lungs. Cyrus stood by the men as they tried to break free, slamming his own foot against the lock that held the cage shut. Their efforts were all in vain, as the cage did not budge, nor show any signs of damage. After several minutes, the slams and rams soon began to cease, and the spirit that the men previously held began to die. Cyrus knew that breaking through the bars was impossible, yet that had not been his true intentions.

Moments after the commotion had died down, two guards arrived, each with a whip in hand. Their brown eyes peered out at the slaves through the cage, gazing upon each to decide who would be punished. Cyrus openly admitted that he was the one who had begun the attempted breakout, and was dragged from the cage with his hands bound. The other men cheered him on as he was lead away from the moving wagon, and pushed up against a rock by his stomach. The steps he had taken to the rock felt like his last tastes of freedom, the last steps he would take as a free man. The guards stood behind him with large smirks across their faces, yet still the other men cheered. A sense of pride washed over him like a current, pride that he had not felt since he had been hunting with his dead father.

”You may tear my skin, but my spirit remains the same. I will never surr-“ Before he could finish, leather cracked down upon his spine, teeth gritted and eyes watered. As the first whip was lowered, the other struck, leaving a large wound across his back. And then another. He grimaced. Another. He moaned. Another. He moaned again. Another. It continued until his back was soaked crimson, and his eyes ran like wild, uncontrollable rivers. When the punishment had ended, Cyrus was dragged by his hair back to the wagon, and tossed back in like a piece of rubbish. The cage was closed behind him, and the other men stared down upon him with pity. He tried to speak, yet words had escaped him. The pain was inescapable, and his back burnt like a fire in a forest.

Yet, Cyrus had not done it for nothing, he had not endured such pain for the sheer fun of it, or the glory. When the pain began to gradually die off, and his back began to ease, Cyrus opened his callused palms to the other slaves, revealing a set of brass keys. They were no ordinary keys though, to him, and all the others in that wagon, they were freedom.

by **Cyrus** on June 18th, 2012, 1:45 pm

Freedom was within reach, yet he knew it would have been unwise to attempt an escape at that time. Hot-headed, but not stupid. The blazing sun was still perched upon it’s throne in the sky, and with it there an escape would have been foolish. Cyrus had planned to wait for the cover of nightfall to move out. The wagon had been travelling slowly through the desert, the last of the caravan. Cyrus had only noticed it when he had been whipped, that they were not the only slaves there. Three other wagons full of men rolled along the sand before them, each pulled by drivers that looked more fierce than an angry lion, each owned by the slavers that rode before them; on horses of gold and velvet. Cyrus was unsure if the keys he had taken would fit every lock, though time would be the only thing that would tell.

Knowing that they would not be able to escape until nightfall, Cyrus had spent the little hours of the day that remained plotting their escape. Without any tools, such as a map to plot out their decisions, or any real knowledge of where they were, the task proved challenging. Still, Cyrus had grasped a basic idea of what they would do once they were free. He had ran through the plan in his head time and time again, yet did not truly know whether or not it would work in the long run. Still, life was all about taking chances.

“I will unlock the cage, and attempt to free the other slaves. Kill or maim the drivers with whatever you can find, their own weapons if need be. Leave the slavers alive, for they must suffer as we have for them.” He explained, tracing a finger along the floor like he was searching for something. A decrepit man with a large mane of hair and a beard to match, stepped forward. Dirt stained his body and face, an oddity within the desert. He stared at Cyrus with a sense of valour, and then spoke. His voice was hoarse and cold, as if he was a man of the North. “Let me kill the slaver in purple, he has done my family much grief. I promise to serve, as long as I am granted this one small wish.” He pounded a hand against his brittle chest, and Cyrus nodded.

”Very well, but no more.” He did not question the man’s honour or intentions, yet the slender form he possessed made him question whether he had the strength left to kill a man, especially one surrounded by guards. Still, if all went well, Cyrus did not plan for a single body outside the wagons to remain alive come morning. He would slaughter them like the pigs they were, with their own blades and blunt maces. Hatred burned like fire, and fire served as fuel to anger. Anger would walk him down the road to victory, anger would make him leave this gods-forsaken wagon alive.

As the man stepped back into the group of filthy men, another walked forward. His hair was ginger, curly and cut-short, with eyes as black as the night. His frame was lean, many of his muscles defined as thin crevices that ran throughout his body. His fists were clenched by his sides as he spoke.

“I want to kill them. We should move now, attack when they least expect it.”

Cyrus smiled, looking down towards the floor. ”And we will, brother. At the night’s beginning, they will die. All of them.”

The ginger smiled, and began to clench his fists tighter. ”I can help, y’know.” He said informatively, stained yellow teeth biting his lower lip. Cyrus nodded.

”As can all of us. We will work together to free ourselves, and leave this shithole.” Cyrus replied, his tone stern and serious. The man did not sit, and still loomed over the kneeling form of the Benshiras.

“No, I can help lead. Me and you, together, we can kill these guards and slavers right now.”

”There is nothing to lead, friend. We are all equal here, all men tossed into the same cage, left to die. When we fight, we do so as equals.”

”Equals?” The ginger man began, ”We are not equals. Some of these men were rich men, others murderers and common thieves. We may be in the same cage together, but we are far from the same. I see something different in you, though. You want to survive, you need to survive. These others are cowards, killers and men that are dead already. You would be better to leave them behind.”

The man spoke like he and Cyrus had been alone, like the other slaves had not been inches from his back, faces red in anger. Some gritted their teeth as he spoke, others clenched their fists. Cyrus could not help but wonder what had.. inspired.. him to say such words, when those he spoke about were so close, and so hostile. Still, they did not act, nor did Cyrus make eye contact with the man at all during their conversation.

“Take a thief, and a murderer. Throw them into a cage, call them prisoners. Are they not equal then? “ He replied, gaining the nods of some slaves. The ginger man still stood defiantly, as if he were trying to make a great stand against something. His fists had relaxed somewhat, yet still remained clenched. He opened his mouth to speak, yet no words were found. Instead he crouched down beside Cyrus, and whispered into his ear.

”What I am saying is, these men will turn on you the second you free them. They will kill you before you even try to escape, along with each other. They cannot be trusted. We need to leave now, and without them. I also do not think the guard will take much longer to realize his keys are missing from his back pocket.” He paused for a second, then continued. ”Davison Furer, former mercenary and son of a farmer. People call me Snake.” He extended a hand, and Cyrus shook it, muttering his own name in return.

He could feel the eyes of the other slaves burning down upon him, wondering whether or not he would stay true to his words of promised freedom.

by **Cyrus** on June 19th, 2012, 6:46 am

Night had come. The time when the sun set, and the moon rose, bringing with it the beasts of the night, and the ever-lingering darkness that came with it. Torches had been lit outside the wagon, and the caravan now moved at a far slower pace. He could hear the slavers words of uncertainty, and their fear ran rampant through the cold night air. They were afraid, not of the slaves, but of the creatures that roamed the desert. Cyrus had dealt with them on many occasions in the past, and no longer did they pose a threat to him. If they came, he would deal with them like he had countless times before.

Murmurs rose amongst the slaves, each of which sat patiently amongst the wagon floor. Snake sat beside Cyrus, yet he did not speak. Instead he chewed upon a piece of straw he had been chewing on ever since he was thrown into slavery. He was quiet in comparison to the others, and only spoke when the time deemed it necessary. The other slaves had already been discussing their plans amongst each other, telling each other of what they would do in life beyond the cage bars. Cyrus had no time for discussion, as the plans ran like a marathon through his mind. He wanted to discuss it with someone, yet Snake was the only one who would listen. And for some particular reason, he did not trust the ginger haired man. There was an aura about him, one of treachery and betrayal. He had already rejected his claims to leave the other men behind, and silence had ensued between the two since.

”Stop! Stop the wagons!” Cyrus heard a voice cry, and watched as many of the slaves ran to the cage. They would not be able to see anything, as the slavers led the caravan from the front. All that they could truly see was darkness, darkness, and more darkness. Still, the voices seemed as clear as they would have been standing right beside him. Intrigued by what was transpiring, Cyrus listened closely. He felt the wagon come to a steady halt, and the voice shouted once more.

“What is that?” One voice asked.

“Gods know, but we would be wise to go around it.” Another, deeper voice, replied.

"How can we avoid something that comes towards us?"

By this stage, Cyrus was overly curious about what the men were seeing. He knew that he had the key to freedom, yet it was not the time to use it. If whatever it was they saw attacked them, then he would remain in the cage until the threat passed. Whilst he was confident that he would be able to overcome any beast of the desert, he did not wish to risk the lives of the other slaves. Instead he kept the keys close, and his face pressed against the wood, hoping to hear what was going on. Snake sat beside him, his eyes fixated upon the keys in hand. Cyrus did not notice the ginger man staring, but Snake’s eyes never left the keys Cyrus held so closely to him. He seemed uninterested at what transpired before them.

“Bandits? Raiders? What? I cannot make it out clearly.”

”Not raiders. Erzal runs the ‘desert raider’ business, they’d likely be his men if they are though.”

”Golden Wolves?”

”No, they’re far too big.”

The sound of hooves and whinnying horses began to draw nearer.
“Raiders.” The hoarser man said, before beginning to speak again. As he did so, his words were drowned out by the approaching men. Cyrus sat still, pressed against the wooden wall.

”I am Bablagu, King of the Sand Devils.” A voice shouted, his words projecting across the deserts like thunder in the rain. Cyrus pressed himself closer, listening to the self-proclaimed king. And he had been self-proclaimed, for Cyrus had never heard the name before. There was no other conclusion available.

”My pleasure. I am Ryin, and this is my caravan. We are travelling to Yahebah to sell these slaves.” The slaver replied, and Cyrus could hear the makeshift sounds of the man dismounting. He seemed heavily armoured, judging by the way his feet slammed against the ground on his dismount.

”Erzal has sent me, to be your guards. My men and I will help guard your caravan, and make sure none of the slaves are harmed unless it is by your own hand. We are trained warriors, and will do our part well.”

The slaver laughed. "Then welcome, Bablagu, King of the Sand Devils."

Cyrus, along with several other slaves, grimaced. With a higher amount of guards at their backs, there was no way he would be able to escape successfully. The sheer amount of hooves heard on the approach meant there was many men with Bablagu, too many for the slaves to overcome unarmed and unprotected. Five would have proved enough of a bother, but not this many. The only chance they had of escaping would have been then, though Cyrus was unsure if they would make it even then. The horses would have ran them down in no time, and blades would be upon them before long. Believing it to be the wisest decision, Cyrus turned to the other slaves, each of which knew what had been coming.

“We can no longer escape tonight. We will have to wait, buy out our time, so that we can escape when they sleep. But for now, we are captured slaves. We try to flee, and they will rip our tongues from our throats, pluck our eyes from their sockets.” It was a harsh truth, yet the other slaves all nodded in agreement. All besides Snake, who rose from his slumped position on the ground. From even a glance, Cyrus could presume he was unhappy with the decision. The words that followed confirm his assumptions.

“You would rather sit around like a dog, than try to do anything at all? Why didn’t we escape earlier? We could have been halfway to a safe city by now. No, you chose to sit, and wait for nightfall. What has nightfall brought us? Nothing but more guards to slip past. Give me those keys, and I will leave this damned place myself.” His voice was furious, and his fists were clenched. Cyrus did not want to fight him, though nor did he want to give up their only chance at freedom, just so one man could escape. Stubbornly, Cyrus shook his head.

”None of us are leaving tonight.”

by **Cyrus** on June 19th, 2012, 7:29 am

Snake did not seemed pleased with Cyrus’ decision, nor the words he spoke. In a sudden spark of rage, the ginger haired man lashed out, swinging a fist towards Cyrus’ head. He manoeuvred towards the cage, causing Snakes hand to slam against the wood. He yelped as knuckles were splintered, and the other slaves pushed back against the walls, giving the two ample space to continue their fight. It was not much, but it was enough to allow Cyrus to avoid the next two fists that came flying towards his face. Snake cussed as each of his hits failed to land, and Cyrus only breathed heavily while he tried to avoid them. More and more came with each passing minute, and whilst some did land on him, even more missed.

”Petch!” Snake shouted as he drove a knee towards Cyrus, and the Benshiras caught it with heavy hands. As quick as he could, Cyrus wrapped his arms around the man’s thigh, though was beaten with several fists to the cheek. Still, he was resilient, and his tight grip did not falter. Many looked on in confusion as Cyrus latched onto the man, not capitalizing on the grip, but rather holding it and tucking his head into his chest, so that the opposition could not hit it any more. After almost a minute in the grip, Cyrus pushed forward and released his hands, sending Snake toppling onto his back. With barely enough room, Cyrus drove a foot into the man’s ribcage, causing him to writhe in pain. Cyrus was quick to leap atop the man, pinning his shoulders down with his bare knees.

“Stop this you halfwit!” Cyrus demanded, though Snake would have none of it. He used his remaining strength to push the man from him, sending Cyrus toppling towards the cage. He quickly regained his footing, and used his forearms to block the incoming punches. Crimson began to trickle down his forearms as he blocked, a result of Snakes bloodied knuckles. The man shouted and cursed as he opened a relentless flurry of bone and flesh, trying to break the tight defence that Cyrus had created. The space they fought in was small, giving the Benshiras ample room to move around and avoid the attacks. Blocking seemed the only way. The ample light that was present in the room made it even harder to fight fairly, yet the two did so nonetheless.

After keeping up the block for almost two minutes, Cyrus knew it was time to finish it. He was growing tired from the punishment he had received, and knew that taking it much longer would have been the death of him. As Snake moved forward to strike his face, Cyrus tilted his body to the right. The opponents hand made a direct hit with the Isurian-built steel bars, and a loud crack ran throughout the air. Snake moaned in pain, brandishing his broken knuckles. Cyrus used either hand to grasp his ginger curls, and began to relentlessly slam the man’s head against the very same bar that broke his knuckle. Once, twice, three times. Blood began to form a puddle beneath him, a crimson lake that was father to floating teeth and phlegm. The other slaves watched in shock as Cyrus ran the man’s head into the bar over and over, repeating the process until he was dead.

When he breathed his last breath, and his heart beat for the last time, Cyrus stopped the onslaught. What had once been skin, eyes and other facial features was now nothing more than a bloodied mess, complete with a bent nose and a bare gum. His eyes were bloodshot and red, and his forehead seemed as though it had been cracked in two. Snakes facial features were no longer noticeable, and he was reduced to nothing more than a bloody mess. The other slaves stared in horror at the scene, though did nothing about it. Cyrus tossed the man down to the ground, panting from all the energy consumed. Unlike the others he was not fazed by the blood, or the mess that had once been a man’s face. He had seen far worse sights in his life, as such things had been a regular occurrence to him; even for an eighteen year old. Cyrus wiped his hands on his dirt-caked shirt, and closed his eyes as he rubbed his aching forehead.

The other slaves were unable to take their eyes from him, though the expression on their face showed not only horror, but appraise. Snake had been a selfish man, and whilst Cyrus was nearly the same, he still wanted them all to escape together. It was only fair, a word that Cyrus rarely condoned. As silence lingered again, and Cyrus had regained his breath, he turned to the other slaves. Some smiled at him, yet others showed him glances of fear, and uneasy smirks. He knew it made them uncomfortable, but it had been necessary. Snake would have killed them all, if he had been given the chance. It was gruesome, yet it had to be done. The man was dead now, and the other slaves, along with Cyrus, had been freed of his presence. As he turned to the slaves, Cyrus managed to muster a smile, one that reassured them of their safety.

“I am sorry you had to see that.” He muttered to the slaves, then slammed his hand against the wall, yelling aloud.

“Guards, guards!” He shouted, and soon the sound of hooves grew near. A guard mounted on horseback appeared around the corner, and made Cyrus realize that the wagon had begun to move again. The guards eyes opened wide as he shone a torch upon the wagon, grimacing down at the dead body that littered the floor. He said several words in a foreign tongue, and another guard joined him behind the wagon. The second guard looked up at Cyrus curiously.

“What happened here?” He asked, his tone serious and demanding. Cyrus tried not to laugh.

“He fell, and hit his head on the bar. Poor soul.” Cyrus lied, waving a hand down at the body. The larger of the guard pulled out a set of keys, and opened the barred door. Cyrus and the other slaves stepped aside as the man began to haul the body from the wagon, and as he did so, Cyrus cautiously removed the dagger from the back of his belt. He quickly tucked the weapon into the back of his pants, and shot the other guard a cautious look. Thankfully, he had not seen. As the steel bars shut once more, Cyrus flashed a smile amongst the illuminated light.

“Thankyou, he was beginning to stink.”

The guards said nothing, and tossed the body upon the ground carelessly, Snake left to decay at the wrath of the desert. They began to follow closely behind the wagon, constantly shining their torches closer to make sure everyone inside was following the rules.

by **Cyrus** on June 19th, 2012, 9:37 am

The morning that followed, Cyrus was woken up by the loud clanging of blades against the steel bars. He awoke slowly, blurry eyes making out the silhouettes of the guards. He heard the guards enter the wagon, and before he knew it he was being dragged by bound hands along the coarse sand. His cloth shirt had been pulled from his torso, and his bare skin was left to feel the wrath of the desert as he was pulled along against his will. He could hear the sounds of people talking and cursing around him, yet their voices were drowned out by the pain he suffered. After two minutes of being dragged, it stopped, and he was tossed face first into the sand. His body had been covered in grazes, with hints of crimson surfacing among his cuts. They stung like something he had never experienced, and his face and back ached.

When his eyes finally came to focus, Cyrus could make out the figures of the slavers, towering over him as he lay on his stomach amongst the sand. He could see leather boots move past him, the boots of a guard. The sand had gotten in his eyes, and his focus could not truly be restored. Instead, he was forced to go off voice alone.

“You are a crafty one, I’ll give you that much.” He heard a voice say, and he identified it as Ryin, leader of the caravan. It seemed his plans had been found out. He no longer felt the iron of the dagger pressed against his tailbone, alongside the cold brass keys. They had been removed from his person.

“How did you..?” Cyrus began, though the slaver interjected. “After you made that little.. commotion, last night, my men realized they had possessions missing. When we asked who had done it, all the slaves pointed to you.” He cackled, and Cyrus could make out his feet moving closer. He grimaced as a shoe was raised from the ground, and grunted as it came down upon his temple, driving his head into the ground. Cyrus could feel the undeniable taste of sand within his mouth, covering his gums and staining his throat yellow. He tried not to swallow as the boot pushed his face deeper into the sand, and as he was about to give in, the boot eased, allowing his head to rest atop the surface once again.

“Tell me, slave, do you think yourself a hero? Planning a great escape, killing your fellow slaves..” The slaver asked, his voice cynical and stern. Cyrus coughed.

“You would do the same, you petch. You have taken free men and thrown them in chains for your own profit. I should have put that dagger in your back while I had the chance.” Cyrus spat at his feet, his saliva a mixture of phlegm and sand. The man pushed his head back into the sand, then walked several feet away, laughing. “ Sadly you won’t get the chance. You see, I’ve devised a small game for you to play, one that will more than likely end with a dagger in your back.” He walked away then, and returned several minutes later. Cyrus could hear mean struggling and cursing, he could hear the shaking of chains.

“These men you wanted to free so badly, will now be your enemy.” The slaver explained, and Cyrus took a deep gulp. He knew that it was always a battle for survival, but he never knew it would be elevated to such an extent. The Benshiras felt himself be lifted to his feet, and the chains that bound him removed. He was quick to rub his eyes, removing the sand that misguided them. Before him stood his entire wagon, each still bound and chained at wrists and feet. Ryin stood to his right, and a circle of guards had surrounded them. He could not try to run, he could not try to fight his way out. He had to do as he was told, if he wished to live another day. Cyrus looked on at the slaves, each of which seemed afraid and pitiful. They had seen what he could do, and knew that he would do what it took to survive. And he would, if that is what he had to do. Cyrus knew the other slaves would do the same; any man would of in such a situation. He gave the men a silent nod as they peered into his green eyes, yet none returned it. They knew it was inevitable. They could feel death approaching.

“Hand him a sword!” Ryin shouted, and a guard tossed his scimitar down at Cyrus’ feet. He bent down and picked it up, observing the blade before him. It was like any other scimitar, sharp and deadly, though the blade had seemed to have dulled over time. Still, it was sharp and light enough to efficiently overcome the men that stood before him. “Unbind a slave, come on! We haven’t got all day here!” Ryin shouted again, waving a chubby finger at the slaves. He was a round man, with a large girth that had been covered in expensive green velvet. Gold necklaces hung like hair from his neck, adorned with only the most precious diamonds and rubies. His hair was thin and wiry, greying from stress, or old age. He was not tall, yet his round form made him look somewhat higher than he actually was. Behind him stood Bablagu, a man twice his size, adorned in dulled chainmail armour. His thick black hair was tied into a topknot, and his face had been covered in red warpaint.. or blood. A scimitar sat upon either hip in a torn leather sheath, and a dagger had been tucked into the leather band around his bicep. He was a fearsome looking man, and his gaze had been imbedded upon Cyrus. It only made him feel more uncomfortable.

“Very well then, release a slave, and let’s be on with it!” Ryin clapped, giggling as the guards removed the iron chains from the scrawniest of the slaves, and handed him their sword. The man stepped forward in fear, and Cyrus could see the yellow liquid running down his inner thigh. He readied the scimitar in front of him, awaiting the slaves attack.

by **Cyrus** on June 19th, 2012, 10:15 am

At first, the man did not move. He stood frozen, legs shaking and hands trembling. Cyrus knew that he was afraid; he knew that he did not want to fight. Yet in the battle that was life, sometimes a man had to do things he did not want, sometimes he had to go against his ways, his wills, to survive. Taking a deep breath, Cyrus edged towards the man, twirling the scimitar around in his hands. The guards shouted and cheered for the men to fight, yet some shouted profanities for their lack of contact. As Cyrus drew closer, the slaves instincts kicked in, and he charged forward with his sword, swinging it like an uncivilized barbarian. Cyrus weaved to the side to avoid the attacks, and rammed his foot into the back of the man’s kneecap, causing him to fall forward into a crouch. Quickly he leapt forward, and drove the sharp point of his scimitar through the back of the man’s throat. It protruded outward from his jugular, several drops of crimson staining the sand below. The man gurgled for a moment, and then he was gone to another place.

As he pulled the blade free, the man dropped to the ground haplessly, and Cyrus turned his head to face the slaver. The man seemed satisfied, as though he had just won a large bet. Before any words could be spoken, another two slaves had been freed of their bonds, and each was given a sword. These two seemed far more confident than the last, and walked quickly towards Cyrus, flanking him. The Benshiras glanced back and forth at either man as he stepped slowly backwards, body hunched like a savage. His blade still dripped with the fresh blood of the fallen, and Cyrus knew he could use it as an advantage.

As the men stalked him, Cyrus lashed out, swinging a blade at the air. Blood shot from the sword and into one of the slaves eyes, causing him to stumble off in temporary blindness. Cyrus quickly spun back to parry off the blade of the other slave, swinging an arc down at the man’s head. Impressively and unexpectedly he blocked the attack, and used footwork to push Cyrus back. Cyrus swung another blow, yet it was blocked too. The man then pressed forward, attempting to stab Cyrus in his chest. He managed to avoid the attack by stepping sideways, the blade skimming across his bare skin. Drops of crimson rolled down his stomach, and Cyrus smiled in the adrenaline of it all. The other man had regained his vision, and now attempted to join the fray. He was quickly met by the heel of Cyrus in his stomach, causing him to fall back onto the ground in pain, clenching his stomach as he tossed back and forth like a dying animal. The stalemate continued with the other slave, who had been using quick, precise swings to try and defeat the Benshiras. Still, he was unskilled in comparison, and Cyrus used his own skills against him.

”Kill! Go, kill him!”

“ Fight! To the death you dogs!”

The cries from the crowd only heightened his survival instinct, his will to carry on in life. Cyrus brisked by the man as he swung a blind blade towards him, and drove an elbow deep into the man’s ribcage on his way past. The man groaned in pain, and Cyrus quickly drove his scimitar into the sand. With both hands free, Cyrus latched onto the man’s head from behind, and violently snapped his neck with an incomparable force. The dirt-stained body fell to the ground in a heap, following the sickening crack of his neck. Cyrus pulled his scimitar from the sand, and approached the other man, who was now standing back on his feet. The two stood silent for a moment, before Cyrus tossed his scimitar to the ground again and charged the man at a sprint. Frozen, the man allowed the Benshiras to tackle him to the sand, helpless as he beat his face over and over with his clenched fist. Blood soon began squirting up from the man’s eye, and running freely down his nose and lip.

As he stood, the man lay limp, beaten to death by a clenched fist. Blood now covered Cyrus' torso, cheek and thighs. He looked more like a rabid dog than a man, more animal than human. Cyrus turned to face the other slaves, then turned back to the slaver, who stood there in bewilderment. Cyrus panted heavily, his voice hoarse and his words drawn out.

“Is that not enough? Have I not been punished enough? Return us to our cage, and let’s be off. This is a petchin’ waste of time.” He spat upon the man’s body as he finished, and Ryin only barked a shrill laugh, holding his protruding gut.

“Punished? I see no punishment on your part, only victory. Perhaps a bigger challenge would be more suitable..” He giggled, then turned back to the large man that stood behind him. As he did so, Cyrus could feel his heart, and gut, drop. Bablagu was a huge man, and one he would have rather not have fought. Still, sometimes life threw unsurpassable odds at you, and you just had to go with it, and try your damn hardest to overcome them. Several whispers were exchanged on Ryin’s part, and soon Bablagu drew his scimitars, and walked forward into the circle of guards. He stood several heads taller than Cyrus, with a chest twice as wide. As he entered the circle, Bablagu began unclipping his armour at the shoulders, and Cyrus watched as his armour fell onto the sand below. When he was done, the large man stood in nothing but a pair of slacks, without shoes or armour. His body was riddled with deep scars, scars that could have only been achieved through battle.

He would prove a far more deadly opponent then the common slave.

”Bablagu will crush you, and mount your head upon his horse!” The man taunted, slamming the hilt of his scimitar against his broad chest. His men cheered and roared, as though an inspirational speech had just been spoken. Cyrus gulped, and scooped up the scimitar he had so carelessly dropped. He held it out in front of him, his own body now shaken with fear. Bablagu remained still, beating on his chest and shouting at his opponent in a foreign tongue. Ryin stood behind the huge barbarian, giggling behind his groomed moustache.

This was going to be one hell of a shykefest.

by **Cyrus** on June 19th, 2012, 11:59 am

“Bablagu can go get petched..” Cyrus whispered under his breath, twirling the scimitar around in his hand. His legs were spread apart, his body leant forward, and his hands were gripped tight around his sword. He was ready to fight, he was ready to die. Whatever would happen in those coming moments, he did not care. At least he would die a warriors death. His father had always told him that the Jaroma always died warrior’s deaths, and that Cyrus would follow them in the family line. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was time for Cyrus to die, perhaps it was time for him to die a warriors death. He was already starving, and his mouth was drier than the desert sands he stood upon.

He raised his sword, and Bablagu charged.

Two scimitars slammed against the sharp side of Cyrus’, and the Benshiras was pushed backward, nearly losing his balance. As he did so, he noticed the scimitar of the dead upon the ground, and kicked it up into his hand. Bablagu charged a second time, bringing hard iron down upon his opponent. Cyrus pushed upward with either scimitar, slamming his own blades against the barbarians. As their blades met in stalemate, Bablagu effortlessly pushed a foot into Cyrus’ chest, sending him toppling down onto the sand. He was quick to regain his feet, though was soon burdened with another flurry of swords. Surprisingly he managed to block and swerve the assault, though was soon met with a fist to the face. Cyrus stumbled backwards, and Bablagu strode after him.

As the large man approached, Cyrus closed his eyes. He felt the enormous fist collide with his cheek, sending a jet of blood from inside his mouth. It dotted the sand like a mural, staining the gold grains crimson. Cyrus groaned as another fist hit his opposite cheek, the feeling of bony knuckles stinging his flesh. He jerked backward, nearly losing his footing in the soft sands beneath him. He opened his eyes then, only to see a third fist coming his way, slamming directly against his forehead. The force was enough to throw him off his feet and onto his back, head aching from the onslaught, blood dripping from his nose. He could hear the cheers of the crowd against him, provoking Bablagu to finish what he had begun. Yet the man did not, preferring to play with his toys before he broke them.

As Cyrus lay flat on his back, an underlying groan ringing his lungs, the barbarian pulled him back to his feet. He opened his eyes once more, to see the man standing before him, a single scimitar clenched in his right hand. He was dazed and beaten, barely able to stand straight. His body swayed in all different angles, and the Benshiras felt as though his balance had been lost. The barbarian charged at him once more, swinging a blade from over his head down upon Cyrus’. With the little energy he had left, Cyrus brought his blade up, expending all his energy just to block the blow. The man roared fiercely as his blade was stopped, and slammed an open palm against Cyrus’ chest, to push him back. Once again he toppled to the ground, battered and beaten from the pain.

“Stand, weakling.” Bablagu commanded, his voice deep and demanding. Cyrus tried to compose himself as he pushed off one knee, rising to his feet for what he felt would be the last time. The large man approached him once again, but this time without a blade. Instead, he had his fists clenched before his face, one leg put before the other. Cyrus grimaced as he swung a hook towards his head, the impact causing him to jerk sideways. At that point, Cyrus was no longer with it. He felt like he was in a different place, a better place, free of bloodshed and combat. He did not feel a single one of the blows that followed, each driving him closer to death. All that he could see was stars and darkness, and a divine hymn played through his mind. Bablagu continued to deliver him a punishment through his fists, Bablagu continued to mock him as he fell. Yet he was not there in spirit, only body. He did not notice the heel that was continuously driven into his ribs, nor the fist that pounded his face like a drum. He was on the verge of death, and the only thing that awoke him from it was the shouts of his name.

As his eyes opened, so did his ears hear once again, and so did his face feel. He felt knuckles slam against his cheek, and he could hear the slaves. Despite all that had happened, they were screaming his name. Despite the fact he had killed four of them, they still wanted him to win. Their hoarse cries were all he heard, even over the sounds of the guards screaming and hollering the name of Bablagu. All other sound was drowned out, all other sound was irrelevant. If they wanted him to win, if they wanted him to live, then so did Cyrus. As the giant fist continued to pound, continued to spill his own blood, Cyrus raised his arms to block. The fist began to pound against his wrists, shaking the very bones within them. He had to make an opening for himself, he had to get up. Yet on his back, with Bablagu at his side continuously swinging an enormous fist, it was easier said than done.

Then, Cyrus noticed it. His foot had been down by the large man’s crotch, the only possible weak spot on the war-mongering barbarian. As the fists continued to batter him like a battering ram upon a gate, Cyrus swung his foot upwards, into the man’s genitals. He moaned in pain, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Cyrus quickly scrambled to his feet, and with the little energy remaining, began continuously beating a closed fist against the side of Bablagu’s head. The man moaned in pain as Cyrus began his onslaught, though the smaller man was soon tossed aside like a doll, grimacing as Bablagu rose like nothing had ever happened. His eyes were now pits of rage, wrapped in burning orange flames.

“I am King of the Sand Devils. I will not be beat by some puny man.”

Bablagu began to approach Cyrus with his fists clenched by his sides, breathing heavy breaths through both mouth and nostril. Cyrus began to walk backwards, trying to keep a reasonable distance between him and his foe. The large man soon broke into a jog, and Cyrus knew he could not waste anymore time. As he rushed forward, Cyrus moved a hand from behind his back, a hand he had used to collect a scimitar from the ground. As Bablagu charged, Cyrus sliced through his abdomen with all his might, a thin film of blood soon following down his stomach. The man looked down at the wound, and smiled as though it had been pleasurable for him. It had opened him up and caused him to bleed, but he was unaffected. He began to chase Cyrus once again, knocking the scimitar away from him with the back of his hand.

Cyrus was not stupid; he knew he could not defeat a man like this without a weapon. But without one, he was as good as dead. He continued to briskly move back around the circle, trying to avoid Bablagu’s fists and feet as he swung them. He was losing breath however, and soon fatigue would get the best of him. Cyrus had to press on, he had to win. The slaves still cheered him on, despite the fact that they were whipped for doing so. He was not a hero in any sense of the word, yet he was a hero among them. He did not know why, nor did he care. It was the truth, and he would not disappoint those who did truly believe in him. Cyrus kept moving, using the little shreds of energy he had left to avoid the gargantuan man.

And at last, his running paid off. The wound had taken its toll on Bablagu, and he began to stumble and fall. As soon as he noticed, Cyrus leapt forward, and shoved a bare hand into the wound. It was a squishy yet gruesome feeling, but he knew it was the only way to end it quickly. The man looked down on him with horrified eyes as his hand entered him, and left with his entrails. Guts and other parts dropped down into the sand below, filling the air with a glorified stench. But to Cyrus, it was the stench of victory. Bablagu’s body fell in a heap, face planted in the sand. A pool of blood lay below the corpse, soaking the sand. Cyrus pushed the dead man’s head with his foot to confirm the kill, and smirked when nothing happened. He had won, even though he was beaten half to death. He had won.

”Impossible!” Ryin shouted, pointing at the body of Bablagu. Cyrus began to walk towards him, bending down without stopping to pick up the scimitar once again. The man’s eyes soon grew wide with terror, and he turned to pushed through the guards and run. They showed him no quarter, and merely stood tall, not allowing him to pass.

”What are you doing? Let me past! Kill him!” He commanded, but still the guards did not move. Cyrus drew nearer, a smile plastered across his face.

”I did not realize at first.. but these are men of the sand, sand devils.. or in my tongue, Drakvari. King of the Sand Devils is not something self-proclaimed, but rather the title the leader takes up. To acquire the title, you have to kill the last king, and spill his blood amongst the desert.” Cyrus explained, then pointed the scimitar back to the corpse he had just made.

“I am their leader now, I command them. I am King of the Sand Devils.” He looked around at the men, each of which had their hands pressed against their chests in respect to their new leader. Cyrus smiled, and the slaver lord began to piss himself.

”Bring him here.” He commanded, and the two guards closest to Ryin brought him before Cyrus, pushing him down to his knees. Ryin began to sob as he spoke, urine still tinkling down his velvet robe.

”Please, I will spare you if you just let me live. Be generous! I have fed you, hydrated you, and kept you alive! You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me!” He begged, though Cyrus simply laughed. He was fatigued, tired and broken, but a sense of fulfilment suddenly had coursed through his body. He had to finish it.

”You have left us three days with nothing but one serve of leftover pork, you have given us nothing but a splash of water.. You have done nothing for us.” Cyrus pressed the tip of his blade against the man’s neck, and reached down to take the brass keys from the ring on his belt. He held them up to Ryin’s face, then looked over at the guards, lowering the keys.

”Water, I need water.”

A minute later they returned with a full canteen full of water, bowing as they returned to the circle that encompassed Cyrus and Ryin. Cyrus pulled the key to the chains from the keyring, and shoved it into Ryin’s open mouth. The man began to gag as Cyrus poured water down his throat, and slammed his jaws shut, forcing him to swallow. The brass key ran uncomfortably down the slavers throat, and he soon broke out into tears. Cyrus slapped him as hard as he could, leaving a blood red handprint on the man’s cheek. Smiling, he turned to the slaves.

“Your freedom lies within this man’s gut. Take up the weapons, and free yourselves.” He tossed the slaver to the ground effortlessly, and watched as the slaves began to charge towards him, several of them picking up the scattered scimitars that lay amongst the sand. He heard the screams of Ryin from behind him, and heard the sound of his stomach being opened by a blade. As he began to walk away from the swarm of slaves that surrounded the dead slaver, the rest of the Sand Devils followed. They worked under Erzal, the man who had destroyed his clan, and allowed Cyrus to suffer through it all. For that, he would never forgive him. He would destroy him for it.

As Cyrus walked towards the supply cart, he turned to face the men that followed him. ”Do you follow me, or do you follow Erzal?” He asked curiously, green eyes peering around at each man. None spoke, until one stepped forward. ”We serve the King of the Sand Devils, and that is you, m’lord. Our last king served Erzal, and we served him. Now that he's defeated, our loyalty stays with you.” He said, bowing low before he returned to the crowd. Cyrus smiled, and took a large gulp from a half-filled canteen.

Perfect.

End.

Secret :

Me · by **Colombina** on July 8th, 2012, 1:05 am

The XP Wand Is Waved!

Hi Cyrus! I think is my first or second thread grade for you. This was well written and a good adventure style read. I also appreciate your awareness of setting. I'm glad you allowed your character to be beat up a little too.
Sometimes a plot is more gripping if you aren't sure the character is going to win. I read a piece of advice on conflict that I really liked and want to pass on to you: Say 'no'. This means whenever your character is faced with a chance to succeed, say no to him, make him fight for it. This lets the tension build and can hone your character's personality.

On a technical note, I appreciate your OOC saying the Sand Devils are just raiders, etc. But please be mindful of making up NPCs or groups you treat as fixtures without running them by a mod first. More often than not, the ideas will be approved with minor modification. It's just to make sure people aren't empire building while my back is turned

Cyrus's Loot

1 XP Rhetoric
1 XP Larceny
3 XP Brawling
3 XP Scimitar
Lore of slave mindset
Lore of slaver methods