“Luck is in our hands tonight,” states Leina while cleaning her hands with water, scavenged from the dead slavers’ canteens. “They’re to the mines, just south of here.”
“Why bother capturing slaves here when the only region that supports the use of such labor is in the North?” Standing up from his place against a tree trunk, Rune brushes his backside before folding his arms over his chest.
“Just because a region does not support slavery does not mean that slavers will not do it anyways.” Leina beckons him to follow her back into the woods. “It’s not hard to break the law in a land where nobody will enforce it.”
Nodding at her last few words, he feels a smudge of hypocrisy; they stole a carriage filled with goods, what place had they to criticize slavers? “How are we going to rescue them?” he asks, following her on the uneven terrain.
“A Reaper is an individual deemed worthy of the responsibility of defending Erelith.” Leina pauses for a moment, perhaps to let the words sink in. “To be worthy, you’ll have to adopt some new skill sets, so today is your lucky day; you’ll learn the way of stealth from one of the best.”
“And where will I find them?” Rune asks with a brow raised.
“You’ll find them at your throat momentarily,” Leina retorts with a roll of her eyes and a shake of the head.
The further into the wilderness the two progress, the less moonlight that penetrates the tree canopy. The dialogue between them dies down as they focus on traversing the wild terrain. The journey of darkness, silence and difficulties only intensifies gradually - an eternity to Rune passing - before the faint glow of torchlight presents itself past the trees. As they approach a break in the trees to a clearing, the cracking of whips, tortured cries of the whipped, and the barking of orders flood the air.
“This has to be the place,” whispers Leina as she peeks past the trees, “or I’ll be damned.”
Looking through the trees, Rune’s eyes wander down a vast pit to find slaves labor away under the watchful eyes of overseers. Those who are not mining are moving carts full of ores, or constructing scaffolding to mine more. Those who are not able to endure the physical demand of their labor are writhing in agony from the menacing lash of the whip. Their agonized wails fill the night air.
“We must hurry,” implores Leina, “else our companions will share the same fate.” Leaving the cover of the trees, she disappears from view, silent as she merges with the shadows.
Only having the direction she left for some suggestion of what to do, Rune creeps into the shadows after her. Letting his eyes adjust, a different world emerges; the pitch darkness loses its grasp in some areas as the thin beams of light that penetrate the tree canopy strengthen themselves.
“By breathing in the air of the shadows,” whispers Leina, “they conceal you from those who do not, and reveal the others who do.” She points a slender finger at a sentry, leaning up against a large, steel gate - likely the one and only entrance into the mines. “It also gives us the strength to deal death upon the unsuspecting.” Picking up a stick from the ground, Leina takes a deep breath before snapping it.
Lifting his head, the sentry draws his blade, looking about for the source of the noise. “Glimatther, is that you?” he calls into the darkness. “Have you found the other two so quickly? What of our losses, have they been recorded?” Stopping just short of the shadows, he shakes his head. “Just another animal,” the sentry mutters, turning around to walk back to his post.
With a spontaneous burst of energy, Leina strikes. One arm coils around the sentry’s mouth as the other drags her dagger across the sentry’s throat. In rapid succession, she pulls the dagger back, and plunges into the spine of the sentry.
Without a struggle, the sentry collapses to the ground in a crumpled, bloody heap. A failed scream comes forth as a silent gurgle as he lays deathly still.
Wiping the blood off of her dagger on the sentry’s clothing, Leina also searches the body.
“What are you doing?” asks Rune. “Looting the dead is a bad omen.”
“Breaking honor-bound taboos gives me an advantage over my enemy.” Reaching into one of the pockets, she pulls out a single, plain key from the corpse. “Besides, sometimes a little frisking of the dead is a necessity to progress.”
“I see.” Rune watches the access to the pit, his off-hand clutching the hilt of Gwynt. If someone comes through those gates, it will not be alone. He would have to be ready for a brutal fight, should they be caught. The lamented cries of workers coerces him into a high strung state of mind; a fate worse than death is possible here. “And what of the body? Our chances are shot if they find it.”
“There will be no body for them to find,” says Leina, her hands wrapping around the wrists of the corpse. She looks up at Rune expectantly. “Well, you can either sit there and let a lady struggle, or you can make yourself useful.”
“Alright, alright,” responds Rune. Grabbing the sentry’s ankles, he helps lift the body. Following Leina’s lead, the body is moved to the edge of the forest.
“Drop it here,” orders Leina, her timbre faint, yet cold and calculative. “They won’t search this far for one body. They have little patience for the unordinary.”
Acquiescing, Rune sets the body down in the thicket bordering the trees. “Do you ever regret killing men and women like these?”
“I have just as much remorse as they have for the reason I do kill them,” offers Leina as a response. Wiping her hands after the disposal of the sentry’s corpse, she turns around, strutting back to the gate.
Following in tow, Rune examines the gate, searching for a mechanism to raise or lower the gate. Investigating where the sentry stood, he notices a small lever, carved out of wood. Impulse takes over as he pulls it down, and the gate noisily crashes down in rapid succession. The sudden spike in sound raises the hair on Rune’s neck, and makes him recoil away from the lever, blade drawn.
A brief pause in the background sounds ensues before Leina steps into the open, hands on her hips. “Don’t forget; it’s curiosity that killed the cat.” Stopping at the gate, she looks at the ground, inspecting the grate the gate slipped down into.
“Leina?” Rune approaches her, placing a hand onto her shoulder. “What is it?”
“If there is any way to increase the odds in favor of our success, it would be us going in separate directions.” Turning back, Leina walks past him, towards the darkness. “I’ll find anohter way in. You’re going through here.”
“If you say so,” says Rune, watching her go as he sets Gwynt back into its sheath.
“Oh, one more thing,” Leina adds. “I… well, just don’t get caught.” Slipping away, she leaves Rune to press further on his own.
“Don’t get caught,” he mutters, “what great advice.” Maintaining a level of constant alertness, Rune progresses down a well-worn path that splits the abundant foliage of the forest. The cries of agony only increase in volume; is he getting closer, or are the cries just becoming louder from a distance? Rounding the corner, he is welcomed by the thin, bony carcass of a slave - or, rather the deformed remnants of a human - sprawled out onto the ground, likely worked to death. Stepping over the body with care, Rune finds himself sucked into a mob of slaves at work.
Unable to see past the unending horde of damned mortals, he can only each labor for their poor lives. Some mine, smashing the stone with poorly managed tools, others carrying off the smashed stone. However, it does not take long for them to realize the black sheep in their sick, weakened and miserable herd. Stopping their tasks at hand, they surround Rune, looking at him as something unreal in their realm.
One slave, emphatically decorated with more markings than the rest, parts the crowd as he looks Rune over himself. Before speaking, a series of coughs rattle his body. “You are not a thin-limb,” he states, “and you’re not a whipper. Introduce not yourself, but your reason for being here.”
“I--”
“You’re here for someone, are you not?” the slave asks, tilting his head.
Rune can only nod.
“I see.” The slave turns around, raising a hand to wave dismissively. “You shall not find them. Go away, thick-limb. They belong to this place now, as my people have. You’re still a free man. Your friends are no longer.”
“It’s my brother--”
“Go away! I am the chieftain, and you will not disobey my word!” Standing triumphantly as an enslaved man could, the chieftain glares at Rune as his voice grows louder. “Your brother is doomed to become a thin-limb, one of us. The fates have removed control of this from your hands; you can do nothing more.”
The tension rising between him and the chieftain adding onto his current troubles, Rune moves his main-hand onto Gwynt’s hilt. “My brother, along with my friends, will be leaving this place. With or against my efforts, that is your choice. But, know that standing against me will be standing against the edge of my blade.” His voice becomes louder as he states it more plainly. “Move aside, or I’ll cut a path through you.”
Silence plants itself into the bewildered mob with little warning before it infects all of them, spare Rune and the chieftain. “You come into our repurposed lives,” he begins, taking a step towards Rune, “and threaten us if we do not aid you in achieving our freedom from this misery.” Folding his arms over his chest, he exhales sharply through his nose. “Prove you’re worthy of our trust, that you can achieve that freedom, and you will have our answer.”
“Very well.” Letting go of Gwynt, Rune glances at the wretched slaves around him. “So, how am I to prove this to you?”
The chieftain offers a simple shrug. “There is no precise path through the fog of uncertainty; only a destination. Do what you will, find your way to rejuvenate our morale, thick-limb. My advice for you is to start by striking fear into the hearts of our overseers. Remind them that they, too, are mortal.”
“I can-” A heavy force crashing down on Rune from above knocks the assuring words out of his mouth, and the wind from his lungs. Falling to the ground, he lays still for an instant before rolling whatever had landed on him off his back. Lifting his head, his eyes meet the barren pair of a slaver, his throat a gory mess, the flesh divided by a single laceration.
The slaves erupt in a mixed chorus of cheers, murmurs, gasps, and even a few screams. “Silence!” the chieftain bellows, the slaves immediately complying to the curt order. “Thick-limb, get up. Who is this woman?”
“This woman,” says Leina as she helps Rune onto his feet, “is as capable of saving you the trouble of this Ar’taian swine reporting a possible rebellion as she is introducing herself.”
Regaining his breath, Rune looks up at her. “There’s plenty of ways you could have made an entrance without dropping a corpse on my head. But, this body could help disrupt the sense of security the overseers have.”
Nodding, the chieftain adds, “They will be discontent to find one of their own--”
“The ring!” one of the slaves cries out, “she has the ring, look!” Approaching Leina, he raises her right hand up to reveal a silver band wrapped loosely around her index finger. A single, golden stripe rungs through the center of the band.
“Hey!” Leina pulls her hand away, glaring at the slave. “It’s a nice ring, not like the bastard needed it in death.”
“...You killed the Dreadsman?” the chieftain inquires. “There is no other way you could have obtained it from him.”
“Oh, no. Not me.” Leina places a hand on Rune’s shoulder. “It is this one who felled this ‘Dreadsman’ of yours. Watched him do it myself.”
Gasps and murmurs revive through the mob of captive-workers. Sinking down onto one knee, the chieftain bows his head. “This alone is extraordinarily difficult task. For defeating one who has claimed the lives of many of my people, I owe you my thanks, as do the rest of us. Please tell us your name, Dreadnought; you shall not be forgotten.”
“Well, I.. uh..” Rune looks at Leina, for some sort of guidance.
Shaking her head, Leina interjects. “Fame is poison for a Reaper.” She turns her focus to the chieftain. “I believe that, judging from this sudden gratitude, you’re willing to aid us in resolving our crisis?”
“I will offer what assistance my people and I are capable of,” the chieftain responds. “On one condition, of course.”
Leina folds her arms over her chest, raising a brow at the chieftain. “You have a lot of demands. What do you want now?”
“We want--”
“Freedom.” Rune turns his gaze to the chieftain, who nods in approval.
“My people used to dream,” says the chieftain. “Before our captivity, we had shamans. The people would tell these shamans of their dreams, for some form of guidance. When the slavers took us away from our home, they executed all of our shamans. It was to crush our spirit, leave us without guidance. My people lost their fighting spirit, and their ability to dream.”
“Then you shall dream once more,” Rune says, wielding Gwynt in his main hand. “You shall be free, either in life or in death.”
“Dream?” one of the slaves repeats.
“Yes.” The chieftain turns to face the majority of his slaves, raising his voice. “Dream! Rediscover your fighting spirit, and let us use it to shatter the shackles binding us to the oppression!”
Without warning, an inspired chorus of roars, cheers and chanting bursts through the air. The cries carry into the night air, surely halting the painful lashings of the overseers’ whips and the orders being barked at the slaves. Using their picks and stones, the slaves break the chains holding them to the site - setting themselves free - one by one.
“The newer slaves will be dumped deeper into this damnable mine, to carry resources the farthest,” the chieftain informs Rune and Leina. “We will work our way down. My people’s bodies may be weakened, but our spirits are indefatigable. Be it with our shoddy tools, or our bare hands, we will bring down every overseer who dared looked down upon us, and take our right to dream again by force!”
Standing in place - awestruck by the eruption of passion from the slaves, who seemed only moments ago eager only to die off - Rune watches the freed slaves flood further into the mines. “Will they stand a chance?” he asks the chieftain.
“I know many will perish before the moon’s passing.” The chieftain kneels down, wrapping his bony fingers around a large stone. “But, their deaths will give way to more dreamers. We will grow back. Like the trees here, our roots are dug deep into the earth, and it will take a more than a few swings with an axe to fell us. We will grow back, our wounds will close, our flesh and bone renewed.” With a brief grunt, he brings the stones over one of his various chains binding him. As fragments of stone scatter, so do broken chain links. “Go on, Dreadsman. My people would be honored to fight alongside you, as I will once I am free.”
“You don’t have to order us twice,” says Leina, “I’m itching to find our friends.” With one more firm tug on Rune’s shoulder, she walks down a wooden ramp leading into the conflict initiating below.
“May your blade bite deep,” the chieftain says to Rune, “into the flesh and bone of your foes.”
“It shall. Your people will be free souls by dawn.” Rune moves down the ramp after Leina. Already, the ground is painted with splotches of blood. The bodies of slaves are strewn about, the slavers a little harder to make out since their corpses are stripped. Wasting no further time, Rune steps over the bodies, his focus set on a large, wooden structure - and the battle engulfing it.
A shrill cry of pain rises above the rest of the noise, as one of the ex-slaves crumples to the ground. A saber’s thin, curved blade running through her back, the woman lets out one last agonized groan before she is silent and motionless altogether.
“I knew this day would come,” mutters a disdainful voice, “and it’s about time. I was growing tired of their screams, and the stench helped little.” Ripping the saber out of the body, a man - given away by his muscular physique and voice - turns his head towards Rune. Facial features concealed by sinister shadows harbored underneath a cowl, his eyes are the only things visible as their sapphire irises blares its own unnatural luminescence. “You should feel honored,” he says, stepping closer to Rune, “it’s not every day you get to look Death straight in the eyes.”
“You seem arrogant already,” retorts Rune. “If you drop your weapons now and plead for it, I’ll make your death quick and painless.”
The threat is only met with laughter. The man proclaiming himself as death lunges at Rune, his saber coming downward.
Raising Gwynt to parry the blow, an icy chill slithers along his lower torso, coming up and across his chest. When the chill is replaced with a searing pain, Rune grits his teeth, staggering backwards from the wound. Before he can recover, the man advances and slams his boot against Rune’s ribcage.
“You don’t stand a chance,” says the male. In his other hand is another saber, almost identical to the first, aside from Rune’s blood dressing its blade. “If you give up now, there will be no shame; you could never defeat the Wolf of the West.”
The laceration across his torso dulling down to a throbbing pain, Rune pushes himself back onto his feet. Something feels…. different. His heart is pounding harder and faster, cold sweat beading and gliding down his flesh. “The Wolf of the West has met his match this evening,” he declares, “you will not kill me off, after all that I have done.” Regaining his composure, Rune swings Gwynt at the Wolf. As one of the sabers moves to parry the oncoming blow, he pulls back, narrowly avoiding the same counter before attacking again. Thrusting Gwynt into the wolf’s abdomen, the sensation of the sabers piercing into his torso brings Rune mind-numbing pain, before darkness, silence and the cold of a void envelops his body once more.
