Don't Look for a Savior

[Keating Ash]

Date TBD, Summer 512 A.V. “Wham!” The dusty crate hit the other containers in the pile hard, sending tiny puffs of gray-brown flecks into the air. The man retrieved another of the heavy containers, and without stopping began a second stack with the same forcefulness. Dust coated the man’s skin, but a sheen of slick sweat turned it grimy. There was no mistaking the musky masculine odor of heavy labor. His thick work shirt had been pulled off bells ago; no longer affording comfort of any kind. With dirt-caked nails and worn fingers, Keating Ash draped the dripping garment over another stack, in hopes it might dry at some point. The strong line of Bala’s gnosis about his thick forearm lay blurred by the grime that collected on his skin. The warehouse was hot. Its thick air settled in his lungs and made each load feel heavier than the next. He worked without stopping, without complaining. It was not Keating’s way to whine over physical labor; instead it was his solace against obsessive thoughts. Only when exhaustion forced him to stop, would he, for then he could breathe easier – even in the unmoving, stagnant air of the warehouse. Strain. Lift. Move. Release. Breathe... Strain. Lift… Boxes. Crates. Cages… Keating moved them all – from this spot, to that, sometimes to a boat or a cart. The work never ended. The cargo came and went, and he lifted and lifted, and lifted, until a strange joy lay in the release of the weight from his hands. Like a living thing the warehouse inhaled life, only to exhale change... He carted produce or fancy furniture for those that would pay for such things. But sometimes, it was slaves... And Keating refused to think of them. Petch! It wasn’t his place to feel sorry for anyone. Maybe they deserved it. Shyte, Keating didn’t know and didn’t want to care. The dark haired man was only glad it weren’t him going to that slave market. A dirty forearm swept across his forehead as he stood and looked around the cavernous space. The warehouse was quiet; everyone had gone, some to home for the night or to the taverns, and others to lie in a whore’s arms. But Keating stayed here. Since Cass had kicked him out, he slept on a rickety, old cot in one of the smaller storage rooms. To pay for the cramped space, he kept an eye on things and worked beyond his limits. Done in, Keating called it a night. Poking his head out the entry door, he nodded to the guard on duty. He had seen him before, and tonight was no different than the hundred before it. The man watched the dark, scanning the docks for trouble, yet he also watched the warehouse, to insure everything of value stayed right inside. Keating grunted and nodded, it was both a hello and a goodnight. The guard inclined his head, in perfect male understanding. They wasted no time on words, there was no need - each knew their place, their job. Both men looked hard and worn from the trials of life; neither was one was much for idle chatter. Back inside, Keating headed for his storage room. Sitting heavily on the edge of the cot, he took a long pull from the bottle he kept hidden behind the mop sticks. The dark haired man sighed, as might a man lost in the desert without water for far too long. For long minutes, he sat there, leaning his elbows on his knees as he drank. Bala! He was tired! Already exhaustion settled over him. But there was a noise… Mouse? Or… no. It was the slave in the cage, a woman brought in earlier. Keating had been kept busy the entire day and hadn’t had a chance to look at her. He yelled out, deep voice carrying through the warehouse, “Shut the petch up! Don’t even think about starting!”He was in no mood. Sometimes slaves cried all night, or begged loudly making wild promises they’d never be able to keep. Keating wouldn’t be able to sleep for their whining... What did they think? That he might rescue them? He was just a man, a man who couldn’t change shyke about nothing. And that girl, she’d have to wait till long morning to get wherever she was going. Keating took another swig off the bottle, swearing under his breath, “Ah, Hai!” He supposed he should take one look, before bedding down. So he pushed himself to standing, still holding the bottle. Keating had no doubt; he was a sorry man- with a sorry life… Rounding stacks of potatoes and crates of corn, he made his deliberate way to the holding cages near the office. Leaning against a large crate, he looked downright comfortable as his dark gazed locked steadily on her, and he said evenly, “Sure hope you ain’t gonna cry all the night…”

[Priscila]

Sorry!I know I promised a reply earlier, but it was an earn-your-vacation week for me at the office. Anyhoo, let's roll!

The darkness felt like a heavy blanket on her shoulders. The silence was tightly wrapped around her body, pounding in her ears. They had bound her on her feet, the rope was old but unkind. Her hands were not free as well, but at least she had them in front of her. She promised not to cry, more to herself than her captors, but the tears were flowing now in spite of her. Her shoulders shuddered as she tried her best to push back at fear, but her throat gave up first. A sob, louder and louder.

Priscila was alone, and she could only imagine the worst. It would have been better if they took her with them, to be sold as a slave or kept as a whore. It would have been better knowing that there was a finality to hell, to know the end. But the men told her unspeakable things and her mind was breaking...

She was but a simple farmer's daughter in the Mithryn Outpost of Syliras, with knowledge of nothing beyond hops and barley, best friends no one else but her cow and goats. She had a family, or what could pass for it. Her mother had died a long time ago, and her father had remarried. She has a loving stepmother and two stepbrothers. She also had OId Aggie, even if Old Aggie wouldn't have her.

Oh gods, who would take care of her grandmother now?

Priscila had embarked on a journey to Mura in search for medicine for her grandmother who fell ill not so long ago. No amount of home remedy was able to cure Old Aggie, so she took it upon herself to travel. But the world was not a safe place, it has never been since the Valterrian... more so since Ivak's release. If anything, her decision to travel to Mura herself was a risk, and she was paying the price today.

Her caravan was ambushed by some raiders, and this was not the petty kind that the Knights often murmured to scare travelers who left Kabrin Road. They were real and vicious and mean. They took everything from the caravan, and killed those who sought to fight. In actuality, they took the whole caravan...

Priscila was scuttling on the cold stone floor, groping, feeling her iron cage, touching door and tracing it where it met the lock. She asked if it would miraculously open, giving it a tug. They should have left her gagged, she hated the sound of her voice as it grated against desperation. Priscila awkwardly jumped away, careened her body and slammed herself to the door, as if that would break it open. Once, twice... she stopped sobbing when she couldn't bear the futility of it. She fell to the floor, her chest suffocating in agony. She cried and cried and cried and wished Syliras would hear her.

When Keating came complaining to her, Priscila felt no remorse. He could have been one of them, but she didn't care. He stank of sweat and musk, and possibly drunk judging by the bottle in his hand. She threw up a dagger gaze to the man and cried even harder. He looked quite agitated, but she had his attention now. The end of her suffering... oh how she wished it would come now, in this man's hands, because she couldn't stand this cage, not a chime longer. She would gladly welcome death in exchange for what was to come on the morrow.

Priscila parted her lips and let a shriek pass through her throat. She did with her voice what she could not do with her words, "Whoever you are, please end my suffering. I cannot bear this any longer." And at last, when she didn't have anymore strength to cry her heart out, she punctuated her plea with silent tears.