Original Submissions
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Memoir #3 - The Conflicted Slave (Lao) by Rairen
Added on Mar 16, 2009Exiled and captured in the south, Aja awaits her fate in her make-shift, windowless cell aboard the Borsail argosy.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 20 years, 2 months, and 60 days old.
It is dusk on Ocandra, the 155th day of the Ascending Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
Servants' Quarters [E Quit Save]
In comparison with some of the other rooms onboard the wagon, this one would seem to have little in the way of accommodations. That comparison aside, these quarters are actually far from spartan. Ten moderately cushioned cots line the east wall, at the end of each is a simple wooden chest. Some wall-mounted torches flicker over two simple tables along the north wall. A thick gizhat-skin rug lines the middle of the floor, its crimson hue seeming darker in the torchlight.
The muscled man with a patchwork face looms here, features impassive.The ethereal, fair-haired woman sits up at the sound of the door, sliding out of the cot in a smooth motion.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman has half dropped into a bow before noticing the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
With a small smile, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Good morning, Aja."
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man looks down at you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman straightens, pulling down on the hem of your trim black linen vest as she inclines her head to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man with a polite smile.
You ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Good... morning, Lao. How do you do?"
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman clears her throat softly.
You think:
“Of all the underhanded ways to find out what time it is...”
As he looks about the room, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Hmm, thus far, thus good, I do suppose. And how about you?"
Regarding him with her quiet thoughtfulness, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Good, I suppose, as well. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
As he moves to one of the tables, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I said I would come to visit, did I not?"
Taking a step after him, a hint of a smile in her tone, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"You did, but that does not mean that you would."
As he pulls a chair out, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I've often found in life that false promises oft come back to bite you, in the end."
Settling on a chair, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man sits down.
Taking a seat opposite the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, you sit down.
As she crosses her legs, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Mm. I've been told many things for why people would seek my company, but... never... out of fear that I might bite them."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman casts the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man a mirthful glance.
You feel like screaming.
With a mournful shake of his head, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Never fun getting bitten."
With a soft click of her tongue, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"I can't say I've had the experi - Oh, wait. No. My sister did once. I believe you may be right."
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man drums fingers against a sold shape beneath his aba.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I've an answer, to a concern of yours."
Voice softening, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... Oh?"
With a light nod, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It would see that you have pleased the great Lady thus far. She has chosen for you to live."
With a hint of a smile, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"For now, at least. Thank you for looking into this for me."
Reaching into the folds of his aba, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"She has also decided to make you her own."
Brow creasing, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... I beg your pardon?"
Her gaze both thoughtful and appraising, you look at the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
A slender form wrapped in swarthy skin, this young man appears more frail than hearty. Standing a bit taller than most at around five cords, a bow of his rangy shoulders shortens him some. His thick auburn hair is kept tied back with a leather thong and falls to his shoulder blades. Sunken eyes of a deep blue shade stand in contrast of the otherwise angular features of his face and high forehead. The point of his chin can be made out beneath long beard that covers just his lower jaw, through the three braids it has been parted in to. Thin lines of dark red and blue whorl across his cheeks, dipping down to his neck and curling around to the small of his back.
Removing the ring from within his aba, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man sets it down atop the table. He looks down at it for a long moment, with a slight furrow of brow and purse of lips.
Running a finger along his slave's collar, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A personal slave, of the great Lady."
Watching the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's hands, with practiced calm, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"I... see."
Looking back up to him, you ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"Like you?"
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man stares at his slave's collar for a long moment, before slowly lifting his gaze, looking at you with that same small furrow of brow.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Like me."
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's gaze softens, just for a moment.
(And then he changes the subject, the conversation ranging from gardens to Tuluk to philosophy. They banter for hours, or what she guesses to be hours, with that ring of bone laying unmentioned between them, until, finally...)
In a smooth motion, her hip coming to rest against the side of the small table, you stand up.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man watches you with a touch of curiosity in his expression.
You notice: The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man frowns, just a bit, as his eyes float down to the collar set atop the table.
"Will you pardon me? Your... wit exhausts my mental reserves."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman trails off, as she glances down to the top of the table.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man takes in a slow breath, fingers closing around the collar as his gaze slowly lifts to you.
You ask the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... I suppose we should take care of that bit of business, hm?"
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's face seems to drain of expression as he nods slowly, his chair easing back.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances from the ring, up his hands to his face.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man stands up.
You contact the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man with the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man:
"Don't look so forlorn. It's... nothing. A triviality."
The collar held rather tightly in his right hand, the fingers of his left slowly flexing and relaxing, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man approaches you, then steps around you, turning to stand behind you.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman stands motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of her chest, head turned to one side to look over her shoulder at the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's jaw sets, the movents of his hand stiff as his thumb flips the catch, opening the collar.
(hemote) The fingers of one of the ethereal, fair-haired woman's hands press into the table enough to turn her skin white at the fingertips.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man avoids your eyes as he raises his slave's collar. With an efficiency of movements, he brings the collar to your neck, and with the faintest of flinches, snaps it shut.
You bow your head, placing your slave's collar about your neck.
Voice fragile, even soothing, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... See? No matter at all."
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man's hand lingers for a moment, palm brushing against your shoulder, before it lowers to his side.
The ethereal, fair-haired woman swallows, the soft skin of her throat rising and falling.
This collar is the type normally worn by a slave. It is made of heavy bone, to serve as a constant reminder to the slave of the weight of their responsibility to the master. It has a sturdy clasp on the rear of the collar, reminding the slave that they are in service until released.
His own voice somewhat hoarse, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"No matter at all."
Shifting her weight to no longer lean against the table, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... I thought you were the one who said we were all slaves."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman turns, looking up to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man.
"It's heavy. You've carried this for too long."
His voice brusk as he turns, still avoiding you gaze, the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"All all have weights that we must bare. I hope that your sleep is restful."
In her soft, crystal-like voice as she remains motionless, you say to the braid-bearded, auburn-haired man, in sirihish:
"... Let it go, Lao. And... enjoy a peaceful rest."
You notice: The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man stiffens at the gentleness of your tone.
(hemote) The ethereal, fair-haired woman's jaw is tensed, the rigidity extending down her neck and into her shoulders.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man starts to lift a hand, perhaps to your shoulder. But then, without a word, he finishes his turn, and crosses the room to the door, his abnormally jerky movements filled with tension.
The braid-bearded, auburn-haired man walks east.
You think:
"... Some mountains are harder to understand than others."
The ethereal, fair-haired woman glances to the door with a thoughtful tranquility.
You are Aja, of many people. (type 'tribes' to see your tribes).
Objective: To survive Allanak.
You are 20 years, 2 months, and 60 days old.
It is dusk on Ocandra, the 155th day of the Ascending Sun,
In the Year of Suk-Krath's Slumber, year 32 of the 21st Age.
Servants' Quarters [E...
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