Roscoe took the pause between major events as an opportunity to rest and gather his thoughts. For a while he simply focused on nothing, looking out the carriage and following the ground as they were pulled over it. The cobblestones of Kenash eventually gave way to a rugged, well worn dirt trail. It was soothing, watching the ground just move along. He had learned years before that it was important to be able to let things roll off of you, to be able to let the stresses of life fall away. He had failed at that today, but that didn't mean he couldn't pick up and keep going. He seemed to have been given some sort of a chance to carry on among the living, a mercy he doubted would have been afforded if a man came to his store and destroyed half his merchandise.
'Rehashing this over and over isn't going to change anything,' He thought to himself. 'I need to get my mind off of this...' Roscoe sighed heavily, allowing giving him a brief refreshment and allowing his thoughts to wander. They went first to Syliras, his most recent home. It was without a doubt the most vile, putrid place he had ever been, and he prayed often on his journey since that he would never have to return, except perhaps to burn it to the ground. Everybody in the city- everyone, without fail, was a subject. They were peons, little ants scurrying about the feet of the 'Syliran Knights'. They served this supposedly 'honorable' bunch of petching fools who claimed to stand for justice, peace, and order. But Roscoe knew that they were only offering lipservice to such ideals- that in truth they were rotten to the core, infected with a truly terrible disease and completely fooled as to their true mission. All the supposed 'heroes' had ever accomplished was fostering the weakness of humanity. There was no justice in that. They didn't even like extending their 'justice' to other races and peoples, unless it was the end of their swords extending it. He had no doubt in his mind that there was not a single redeeming quality to that city. When the day came for him to bring the might of true justice and honor to bear on that city, he would see to it that none escaped. None. Those fools running around fighting 'evil' slavers and magicians. They were too stupid to see their own hypocrisy. What was Syliras if not a city of slaves?
At this point Ros tried to remove himself from that particular train of thought. It made him angry to dwell on that place. After another moment passed he again drifted to another place in his memory. At first he started to recall memories of Zeltiva, but quickly pulled away. It was better to leave that untouched. He didn't need those kinds of thoughts right now. So he settled on Sunberth instead. Sunberth, the wondrous city of his youth, the city he claimed as him home and as his name. He loved the place. Filled to the brim with the right kind of people. There was no law in Sunberth, there was only the will of the strong. And if you and your will were stronger, you got to lead. You got to rule. It was the way the world ought to work. The weak were fodder. The weak were prey. And the strong, by virtue of their own strength, deserved to consume the weak. Likewise, the weak, by virtue of their weakness, deserved to be consumed. After all, what stopped a man from claiming strength? These battles were fought in the mind, in the soul and the heart. Strength was not an attribute men were born with, it was not something they simply knew how to do. The abundance the weak in the world had proven that. But all people could become strong. Through the force of their will, they could become strong. And anyone who opted for weakness- who refused to become strong- those people were the disease of Mizahar. They were the ones destroying the world. The tyrannical rule of the weak had to be broken. Their masses had to be slaughtered, their leaders defeated. Only when Mizahar was free of weakness could a new era begin. Only then could all of Mizahar- All people of all races- strike forth into the future and become greater than it had ever been before.
Roscoe dwelt on these things for what seemed like quite a long time, before eventually the paths ran out and they were switched to rowboats. No longer being in the carriage, Roscoe took the moment to absorb his surroundings. It was totally unlike anything he had ever experienced. The grasslands and forests of Sylira had not prepared him for this. Floating plant-islands, seemingly rich with produce, abounded in the midst of the neverending shallows and the massive swamp trees. And just as present was the thick scent of their crops in the air. A distinct cacao smell permeated the swamp air, blended with a defined tobacco smell. It made him long for his pipe, wishing he was not in such a dire situation as to not be able to smoke it. It certainly would have made for some great relaxation.
Eventually, a ways into the ride, a chuckle arose from one of the rowers. It was the man with the gauntlet, the one they had referred to as the 'Gray Fist'. Roscoe looked him over, noticing that he had been patched up where he was previously bleeding from the head. It was clear that he had some lingering pain- which, as Roscoe thought of it, caused him to notice a deep and abiding throb in his own head- but still he laughed, seeming somehow pleased with the way things had turned out. After his laughter died off, he spoke.
"You did alright by me, kid. You should be alright. From what I've seen, Willum would've asked one of us to just throw you into the rivers if he planned to get rid of you."
Roscoe might have asked him what he meant by that remark, but suddenly it seemed they had arrived at their destination. It was a house, but it appeared to be floating on the water. It seemed a strange place to put a house to Roscoe, but at the same time understandable. Their didn't exactly seem to be much dry land in these parts, and he also suspected his hosts might be Svefra- meaning a home like this would be an easier choice for them. They moved off of the rowboat and onto the house boat. The Draer spoke briefly with one of the guards before sending him off somewhere else on the house boat. Roscoe might have lingered on the thought of what exactly he was doing under different circumstances, but things began to move quite quickly after they arrived. The man spoke.
"You neglected to mention your name upon capture, cur. You will speak it now, then you will listen to my words."
"My apologies, sir. Roscoe Sunberth." He was quick and frank, knowing that this was not the time for eloquence or long winded stories and explanations. The Draer responded.
"Then, you will consider your chance. I offer you a proposal. You showed prowess against Mr. Lanscast. You also show a clear head and an eloquence in your words. I offer you a chance to avoid the life of a slave. Instead, you will be enchained to Kenash and the Draer in a different manner. I estimate the extent of the damage to be worth approximately three-thousand gold-rimmed mizas. I will have to check on it, but that is your debt. Until that debt is paid to the Draer Dynasty in full, by whichever means you can find, you will work for me, as well."
At this point the guard returned holding a strange looking stick. During a pause in the Draer's words, the guard approached Roscoe, another taking hold of his right wrist with a tight grip. He wondered momentarily why in the world they felt the need to hold him down, but then he understood. He noticed the heat first. A sharp- very sharp- rise in temperature occurred as the man approach, as though he carried molten rock with him. As he drew within a few feet of Roscoe, he could see the bright, terrible head of the stick, and he knew. It was a brand. The kind you used on a slave. Except he wasn't a slave. 'enchained to Kenash and the Draer in a diferent manner' the words rang in his head. They were about to brand him. Like petching cattle. Sweat broke out all over Roscoe as his eyes widened at the sight of the brand. Everything began to slow down. He could feel each throb in his head from the headbutt Gray Fist- or as the called him, Mr. Lanscaster- had performed. He could count his heartbeats. It seemed like hours had passed since the Draer last spoke, and then he began again.
"I will give you the brand of a Freeborn, a mark usually given at the Magistrate's office, but I will also give you one other. Do you accept my terms? Or must I get the other brand, instead?"
Roscoe figured the 'other brand' was probably the one that put him on the end of a real chain. That couldn't happen. It took him a moment to gather himself and conquer the fear of the pain he was about to experience, but he knew it was what he had to do. There was little hesitation in him as he replied.
"I will not spurn the grace you've offered me here today. I gladly accept your terms." Then, tilting his head slightly toward the guard holding his arm, he spoke again. "You don't have to hold me down, you know." And once more, this time with a nod toward the guard with the brand. "I'm ready."
They were tough words, all of them. Things he took little pleasure in saying and doing. But he had no choice, and embracing his new role was the best way to be strong in this situation. He would live and breathe the business of the Draers until he was free from their employ, and he would trust that the gods watching over him did what they did to make him stronger. As events progressed, he mumbled a prayer to get through the pain.
'Wysar, god of conviction. I have followed mine and they have lead me here. I know you do not abandon me, and I know you watch over me on my quest. Give me strength to carry on, and I will render to you all that is mine, and will make this world a place of discipline and integrity.' |
