A Profit Far From Home

[Poetra]

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This quest is complete, so please do not post here unless you are one of the original posters reposting. ~Poetra
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"Good night..."

Exhausted from the day's travels, the young cleric settled into her bedroll and almost instantly fell asleep. Trust came easily to the girl raised in a monestary, and her bodyguard was no exception: She trusted him with her life. Over the weeks and months, they had visited few temples, as the Goddess was apparently less worshipped than Ren originally thought, and none of them had the information that she needed. Frustrated, she had insisted on speeding up the search, which had thus far yielded even less results and more sleeping.

Some time in the night, a rustling came from the woods. Deeply asleep, Ren did not notice the sounds of a scuffle, or that she was lifted and carried into a wagon. It wasn't until morning that she realized that she was enveloped in some kind of rough, black cloth bag. Confusion washed over her as she reached up to touch her makeshift prison. How in the name of the Goddess...? Alarm crept up inside her, gradually turning into a cold, hard knot of fear.

The cart began to slow, and voices filled the air, their accents thick to her ears. Other voices joined in, their tones more authoritative, and Ren decided to try for help. Taking a deep breath, she ignored the dust in her lungs and cried out, "Help me! I'm in here! Please!" Silence fell on the voices for a moment, and then laughter blanketed her in despair. No help would come.

A moment later, the wagon resumed its motion, carrying the girl toward an uncertain destiny. Feeling hopeless for the first time in her life, Ren curled up inside the sack and simply sobbed, hot tears flowing freely over her cheeks, hands, and knees. Please, Great Goddess, free me! How can I serve you in bondage? Please!

Again the cart halted, only this time hands lifted her, placing her on the ground in such a way that she was forced to stand or be dropped. Suddenly, the cleric was blinded by the sun as they removed her opaque shroud. Blinking, she wiped the tears from her face and hands. Too stunned to continue her pained sobbing, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the brightness, and tried to focus on whatever she could that could indicate her whereabouts.

The air was heavy with heat, and filled with various smells that reminded her of her days at the marketplace. Okay, so a marketplace, but why? The voices around her spoke quickly, but their accents obscured their words far too much for her to understand. Finally, her vision cleared enough that she was able to make out the people around her. Various skin shades, from nearly black to simply tanned, were gathered around, staring intently at Ren. Confusion was quickly replaced with self-consciousness, and suddenly she felt naked even though she wore her armor. Shrinking back, she tried in vain to cover her bare stomach with her arms. She moved backwards only a step before hands from behind held her fast while someone else roughly brushed her hair. Ren winced, but was otherwise numb with fear. She couldn't even think!

More words were exchanged, particularly between two of the darker skinned men, and an order was barked at the person brushing her hair, which now lay in a satiny sheet along her shoulders. The one with the brush grasped her gently, but firmly, by the arm, and led her to a wooden cage filled with people of varying ages and appearances. Their eyes were haunting, filled with despair and resignation, some with impotent rage. Safely inside the cage, the door was closed and barred, and guards posted.

What now?

Nervous about all of the strange people, the fearful cleric found an empty corner and claimed it, settling into a sitting position where her knees served as a chin rest. She could feel the eyes of others on her, but she ignored them, preferring to be alone as much as she could be. I have to figure this out. I need to know what's going to happen to me. But how?

[Malagen]

It was one of maybe a handful of truly hot days in the usually frozen land of Salvar, but Malagen still wore his trademark attire; a massive heavy hooded coat that made him look like somebody not to be trifled with. And in a way that trademark look was the very thing that got him his current job, working as a guard for a pack of worthless slave traders. Because they were looking for the meanest most dangerous tough guy around when they hired the newest batch of mercs to guard their wares. They found Malagen, his cold, emotionless, unfazed expression “winning” them over at first glance. He had the eyes of a merciless killer, of somebody to whom life was a currency just like any other and as such was expendable. Simply put, they needed somebody who couldn’t care less about the whining and the sobbing inside of the cage. Needless to say, they knocked to the right door.

It was true, however, that this recent employment was far beneath somebody like Malagen. Because, after all, he was Malagen, Dram Messiah, a man-god in the land of Ferioh, somebody underneath whose feet people, regardless of the land and race, should crumble to their knees. But while his pride and his reputation (that failed to follow him from his native land) could do a lot of things – mostly stroking his already colossal ego – they couldn’t put something much more essential and basic. They couldn’t put food on his table and unlike back in Ferioh, here, in this brave new world, he had to take care of himself.

He needed money and only with this necessity something became apparent to the dark man; he wasn’t really capable of doing pretty much anything save for the killing. He was a killing machine, his every move honed and aimed for the heat of battle, but aside from that partially trained and partially inborn instinct he was pretty much no better then a random peasant that he discarded as fodder. He couldn’t farm (nor would he fall so low to tile the earth), he couldn’t do blacksmithing, couldn’t even read. After all, none of those were needed in a fight, where the most important thing was how to thrust his sword with efficiency.

It was because of that rather unfortunate development that mercenary work was pretty much the only job he could do and get paid for. It was a dreadfully annoying job, babysitting a bunch of helpless weaklings from an occasional “righteous” that got up on the wrong side of the bed and decided that slavery wasn’t a particularly good idea. Most of them backed away when Malagen would stand in front of them, some of them went a step further and actually wanted to make their stand. Most of those never lived to tell the tale of the cold heartless demon that slept beneath the heavy black coat. In the beginning the slave master, an agonizingly annoying scrawny man somewhere in his middle forties with a rare greasy gray hair and a hissing high pitched voice, disapproved of his rather... harsh manner in which he dealt with people that wanted to make a stand against slavery. But after a couple of interventions of the dark man, his reputation as an iron firm slave driver spread across the land and he found this most appealing. Suffice to say, Malagen got enough coin to stick around.

The most recent pack of slaves rolled in on the uncannily hot Salvar day and they meant nothing to the Dram mercenary. A fistful of weak women, three or four able men that could cause some trouble until he would slap then around and some older folk that probably wouldn’t catch too great of a price on the market. “Just another working day...” his usually clear and placid mind commented as the slaves were tended to, cleaned up and thrown into what he liked to call a “display cage” that was then taken to the marketplace. There the slaves were no better then apples or pears, stacked into a cramped area and waiting for somebody to pluck them from the bunch before they got spoiled or redundant.

“Malagen. I want you at the cage today. It is bound to be a busy day and I don’t want nobody messing with my merchandise. Got it?” the hissing annoying voice of the slave master spoke to the dark man that sat on a wooden bench, tending to his blades. Malagen simply nodded phlegmatically, adding the last layer of oil onto his saber before placing it back into the scabbards. Throwing his heavy coat around himself, the man made his way in his usual measured, clinically precise stride towards the market where the morning bustle was already reaching it’s peak.

“Ah, the marketplace... The usual cesspool of unworthy, unable and feebleminded that move around like ants in their little anthill, moving in the same pattern every day.” a thought passed through his mind as his black figure passed through the crowd that moved away from his path even at the sight of him. Truth was Malagen didn’t used to have this inner monologues back in Ferioh. Back then his mind was perfectly tuned machine for killing, discarding every needless thought and leaving a perfectly calm mind. But Ferioh was far away and his usual state of mind seemed to be going the same route. More and more he started to think of things he didn’t even consider before. More and more he started to do what he hasn’t done before. He started to feel. Dharnia was at the beginning of that change, Teenah did her share back in Scara Brae when he killed her father in front of her very eyes, and this degradation seemed only to get worse. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to feel. Feelings carried their own weights and he wanted none of it.

In such state of mind Malagen arrived to the display cage that he was supposed to guard. The slaves were miserable as always, their woeful disbelieving eyes asking questions how in the world they got in a situation such as this one. The hooded man passed by those looks unfazed, unscathed by the torn souls behind his back as he leant onto the cage and surveyed the crowd in front of him.

[Storm Veritas]

Salvar was a terrible place; it was cold and dark and miserable. It would also serve as a perfect sanctuary for the traveler, who was known for his hedonistic ways and desire to serve self first. Storm Veritas was well known for seeking the finer climates; his business, should one call it that, had brought him to Radasanth and Concordia. They were sunny, and warm, where his face was never wont for warmth. His typical scams and schemes had escalated, and while it would be a stretch to call him a victim of circumstance, his crimes were not altogether intentional.

Today was a better day; the sun warm and soothing, a smile on the faces of all the town patrons who would come out and spend their earnings on dumb endeavors. Today, Salvar was ripe for the picking. A few hours of running a ball-and-cup, some slight of hand and a quick, sour mouth carrying him to quite a little stockpile of gold. It would be enough to fetch him food for several days, and he would earn a better racket here soon enough. Ironically, the con looked the part of a diplomat, roaming the streets in fine clothing as his long, slick hair was pulled back taut against his head. He was tall, lithe, and had grown quite handsome, a crooked smile earning the trust of the foolish more often than not. Here today, he sought only a sandwich, a spirit, and sex.

…And let’s see what fine ladies roam the streets of Salvar this evening. Nothing like Radasanth here, I haven’t seen a half decent whore in days. This place is seriously hurting for some talent… a pitiful display.

His crooked smile, a result of his own, twisted logic and self amusement, remained on his face until he turned another corner, another nondescript sunny street. To his left, ahead, several people locked in a cage, of all things. The people inside grasped at the cage pars, their eyes wide and fearful and terrified. The destiny that lay before them was likely very much unknown, and their destinies undoubtedly dire. Outside, a large, grim figure, one standing about in a large coat, used a menacing sneer to steer others away from the slavery of those within the cage. It was a bizarre scene, and a disquieting one at that. Storm was no hero; he had always served himself first and foremost, yet this type of abuse was not acceptable, even to the scoundrel.

He watched from a distance, his long, slender fingers deftly rifling an apple from a market stand. Unfazed by the display of human ownership, the grateful, portly cart owner smiled as he took two small coins in hand. From fifty feet away, Storm could turn his frame slightly from the corner and eye the cage. The people of Salvar knew nothing of him; they were aware of neither his electrical proclivity nor his fast hands and lethal daggerwork. Here; he was a nobody; a blissfully anonymous face in the crowd.

Slavery? What type of vile pieces of sh*t would condone this type of business? Who the hell could run such an operation? This is an abomination. How can these people stand by and do nothing?

Storm was no hero. He had done many things in his life that were downright despicable. Many of his scams and games and tricks had ruined lives, yet he was able to look past the terrible acts and cast them aside as fools being mercifully parted from their money. Today, there was something terrible before him, and he had become a man of action. In this new land, he had a fresh start. He had an opportunity to step up and be the man he knew damned well that he should have been. Today he would have to stand tall and do the right thing. Today, he would have to be the hero.

[Zerith]

Why did I even want to come to Salvar in the first place?

That was the question Zerith was asking himself. He had just arrived earlier today and he was already beginning to regret coming here. It was cold and misery just seemed to loom over everyone. Of course things didn’t change in the marketplace either. Zerith didn’t see any warm greetings or genuine smiles being given or received. In his eyes the only things he was witnessing were business deal. Merchants stood with their goods selling to consumers who just wanted what they came for so they could go on with their lives. Did these customers even bother to wonder what the quality of what they were buying was? Chances were they weren’t too concerned for something like quality. Perhaps they just wanted finish their shopping as soon as possible so they could leave the marketplace. Who could blame them for wanting something like that?

Zerith would have probably done the same thing too if it wasn’t for one thing. His curiosity kept him here when something caught his attention. It wasn’t anything special really, just a wooden cage. The people inside it were what interested him. Various shades of skin filled the cage. Some poor souls looked out from behind bars hoping to escape their prison. Others looked to the people that surrounded them wondering just how they got there and why they were stuck with all those other people. They didn’t look like criminals, just normal people who were lost. Thrust into a new world that they didn’t know how they entered and hoped that it was all just a big nightmare. Unfortunately this wasn’t a bad dream. This was reality.

“Excuse me sir?� Zerith asked a random stranger that as walking by him. He pointed to wooden prison, “Would you mind telling the reason why that cage is there?�

The stranger looked at the cage and then back to Zerith. “You telling me you’ve never seen a slave auction boy? Just stick around, watch and then you’ll find out why that cage is here. Just don’t get too close to the guards and if you’re lucky you’ll find yourself a pretty girl to purchase,� He said grinning. Before Zerith could ask the man what he meant the stranger left him and went on his business.

A Slave Auction? What kind of people would want to bid in an auction like that? Do people here in Salvar enjoying this kind of business? That’s sick! I hope the bastards that think they can get away with this get what they deserve. As for the people here that think there’s nothing wrong with this, They should be the ones being sold to the highest bidder. Yet that’s only if someone would bother to waste his or her gold on such trash.

What could Zerith do now anyways? He couldn’t exactly rush up to the cage and set all those poor souls free. If he tried to do that the guards would most likely kill him without question. That and by looking at the guards, especially the large hooded man, didn’t raise the youth’s hopes either. If he were going to try and do something then he would have to wait to see what he could do. Using his halberd as a walking stick in his right hand Zerith continued to look around the various stands around the wooden cage. All the while he would brainstorm ideas on what he could do. Even if it would only help one person get free.

[Daedalus]

Banazîr walked uneasily down the chilly street, alone and unnoticed, his grey eyes dim and introspective. Though it was an unusually warm day for Salvar, it was too cold for him, a native of Antioch, far to the south. Why did I ever come to this place? he wondered. But that was a futile question: that was like asking why he had wandered so far and wide in the first place, and why he continued to roam, though he took no pleasure from it. It was because of his past, a past he cared not to remember, no more than he cared remember all the many trials and troubles that had brought him to this place. But while he lived he could not forget it; his father's sword, a grim reminder, swung always at his side.

But now that he was here, the black-haired youth felt that there was something that he must do. He did not know what, exactly, but the feeling was familiar—and unwelcome. Banazîr had felt compulsions of this kind before, and they had, without exception, brought him nothing but trouble. In that respect, they were almost like his damned ability to sense the emotions of others: useful, even necessary, but terribly frightening at the same time.

At this moment, both his physical compulsion and his empathic talent lead him to the same place. That place was here, a busy market street, filled with vendors hawking their various wares. But over all the hustle and bustle of the street, over the sounds and smells and sights of a thousand and one pieces of food, clothing, tools, weapons, ornaments, herbs, and charms, Banazîr found his eyes drawn to one particular group of vendors, and their gruesome product. Muscled guards surrounded a wooden cage containing a parcel of people. In their eyes was despair—and in their hearts, too, he could feel it, like emotional nausea.

It took Banazîr a few seconds to recognize what was going on. The sight—indeed, the concept itself—was so unfamiliar to him that it seemed surreal, like something out of another world. He walked slowly up to the bars of the cage. These people are... slaves? As the thought entered his mind, he knew, without a doubt, that this was the object of his compulsion. He had been driven here by the inscrutable hand of Fate.

But he sure as hell wasn't going any further. Not unless he had to. He was no hero. He could feel the anguish of these people in his very soul, being an empath as he was; but as much as shutting off his own feelings had become second nature to him, so too could he ignore those of others. As he stared, the guards became uneasy. They had expected a potential customer; but seeing now that he had no intention of buying, one of them gruffly told him to shove off. He did so, obligingly, but his eyes soon strayed back to the cage. His compulsion was fulfilled: he was here, and had witnessed the slavery. But there was something that had yet to happen here. He would wait, and see.

[Poetra]

Lost in a pool of doubt and fear, Ren prayed to her goddess, hoping to be lifted from the dark depths. Though her eyes were closed, she suddenly noticed the world darkening. Ending her prayer, she looked up, and her eyes fixed upon the cause of the eclipse. Tall and broad, the imposing figure of a guard was impossible to mistake. The cleric considered her plight carefully, though what exactly her fate was to be, she had no idea. I might be a prisoner, but what for? I have done no wrong! This train of thought was helping nothing, so she put aside her worries, stood up, and walked a few feet to where the guard stood.

As she moved forward, her eyes darted through the crowd, searching for answers. Pity, disgust, and disinterest filled the eyes of passerbyes, though even the most intense emotions did not move them to action. A few stopped to gawk openly at the cage, their greedy eyes devouring the scantily clad female in such a way that she flushed with embarrassment. Wrenching her eyes away, she closed them for a moment in a futile attempt to forget the intent in their expressions. Don't let them get to you... Though she could feel her body tremble and her lip quivering, she forced herself to press onward, to speak to the guard. Wooden bars stood between them, but the girl hoped he would listen nonetheless.

"Excuse me..." Frowning at her mousy, nearly inaudible voice, she tried again, this time loud enough to be heard above the din of the bustling market. "Excuse me, sir, could you please tell me why I'm here? I don't recall committing a crime..." Her voice trailed again, but this time she did not continue, instead waited for an answer. I hope he can help me... Glancing around the marketplace, her eyes passed over a group of men who appeared to be setting up a stage of sorts.

The crowd was beginning to thicken around the pen, making the caged occupants more self-conscious and restless. It was at that moment she saw a sign a young man was hammering into the ground, which read "Slave Auction: Come one, Come all!" A dull roaring, like a distant waterfall, rushed in her ears, and her vision darkened at the edges until blackness overtook her, her limp body slipping toward the cage floor...

[Malagen]

“Get out of here! This isn’t a goddamn theatre!” Malagen raised his usually deathly placid voice at a black haired youthful man that peered into the cage with the kind of interest that more often then not brought little or no money. The teenager looked like a runt that had no coin, but liked to browse nonetheless and Malagen was not in a mood for being an intermediate in a deal that brought no money. The young man obeyed. They all obey one way or the other, getting out of the way either on their own two feet or on a wooden cart that takes them to the cemetery. Which one they picked made no difference to the Dram. Returning his eyes to the bustle in front of him, the dark man regained his focus as he surveyed the crowd. They were all functions to him, moving at a certain velocity and following a certain path with an easily determinable pattern of behavior. When looked like that, it was easy to understand that threat came from those the struck out of the pattern. When looked like that, the world was a much simpler place.

And then she spoke, and her frail voice was the harbinger of the very destruction of his soothing simplicity.

She was a pretty little thing, if pretty could be defined in a mind of a man who was raised and trained with the distinct and clear idea; emotions were futile. Her glassy eyes looked up at him with a look of an angel on her knees, her fair face surrounded by a pitch-black hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders. She spoke in a weak fearful voice, her lips quivering even as she did so and her visage was painted with disbelief. She was beauty in every sense of a word, her perfect body dressed in a rather skimpy outfit serving as a steaming seal at the end of that statement. The first thought that passed through Malagen’s mind once he turned around and loomed over the girl, his expressionless face just emerging from the thick shadow of his oversized hood, was a rather crude one.

“This one will fetch quite a price...”

But before he even got a chance to answer her question (his mind still battling between silence and the good old “You’re here because you were weak enough to get caught”), the girl found got her answer and it knocked her off her feet. Literary. The realization that she was now a mere slave and that she was about to be sold like any common good (placing her in pretty much same position as a bag of potatoes) was too much for the black-haired beauty to handle. Her eyes went out, her eyelids shutting out the innocent fear in her azure eyes as her body fell to the ground as lifeless as a sack of wet hay.

He should have turned his back right then and there, letting her to sleep over the fact that she was about to spend the rest of her life in servitude, allowing the whole matter to settle in. And yet he didn’t... couldn’t. There was something unnerving about the girl, something that made his insides churn and twist, that made his chest ache for just a fraction of a second. Could it be... remorse? Sympathy? No, those were emotions, and emotions were for the weak. But then why this rotten feeling? Why is looking at her, all caged up and hopeless just like so many before her, why is it disturbing... disquieting? His hand reached for the rusty padlock.

“What are you doing, man?” one of the guards asked him, looking at the dark man with a perplexed and profoundly surprised look.

“She fainted.” he simply said, proceeding to unlock the door, his tone truly unbothered by the annoying guard. They were all below him anyways, and the explanation that was given was more then they deserved.

“So? Who gives a damn? She’s neither the first nor will she be the last. You know the rules; the cage stays shut until the auction.” the guard continued, approaching Malagen and protruding his hand to stop the unlocking and take the key away from the dark man. But before he even got halfway, Malagen’s fist came in a backhand motion, throwing the blonde haired man to one knee and breaking his lip. It was a controlled punch, the kind that was weak enough not to do any serious damage, but strong enough to make it absolutely clear he meant business. “Alright.” the burly man replied, his tongue rummaging through his mouth in search of a loose tooth. Luckily his search was in vain and all his teeth were still in place. “But the boss will hear about this.”

Malagen couldn’t care less. The man wasn’t his boss, he merely had something that Malagen needed; money. He worked here because he could do things his way, not because he was dancing at the tune the slave master played. With a quick jerk and a rapid twist of the key, the padlock gave out a satisfying click and the man entered the cage. Most of the slaves knew him. Those that didn’t heard enough to know that it was time to pull back in their own little corner, shifting their eyes away from the empty blue eyes of a murderer. He gave them a quick look, issuing a hands-off warning before he knelt on one knee beside the girl. His mind justified this act, or at least desperately tried to justify it by saying it was not mercy, but rather an investment. Nobody wanted to buy a weak fainting slave. Well, that was what he tried to assure himself in at least.

His hand moved in for a slap, but less then an inch from her face the hasty motion was stopped and for some reason he couldn’t find it in him to hit her like that. Coming from a man that killed countless in whose midst there were both women and children, this occurrence was something that uncanny couldn’t even encompass. Was he growing soft in these lands and together with the unnerving mellowing, did he somehow manage to grow a consciousness? Or was it just that piece of fish last night that made him feel weird? There was no use on dwelling on it though. Instead of a brisk slap that would for certain tear her away from whatever realm she escaped to, his large hand grabbed her by her shoulder resolutely, giving her a firm shake.

“Come on, get up. Nobody’s going to buy you if you just lay around. And trust me, you want to be bought.” he spoke with no warmth in his voice, his tone business-like and frighteningly cold. But it wasn’t that Malagen wanted to speak in that tone to the woman. It was the only tone he knew, the voice of a man that was raised to be cold and emotionless and merciless. He was grown into what he was today and on his own he could never change. Picking out a shiny tin flask from the insides of his cumbersome thick coat, he opened it up and offered it to the girl. “Drink.”

The guards, four of them in total, couldn’t believe what their eyes were looking at. The most ruthless and relentless amongst them in a role that by no means fitted him. A murderer offering help to a slave.

[Storm Veritas]

He who hesitates is lost…

And yet there was little Storm Veritas felt empowered to do or capable of doing. He watched a window of opportunity slid open, the largest of the guards opening the gate, leaving it ajar, and fetching something for one of the enslaved to drink. The others in the cage scrambled back, seeking sanctuary near the perimeter of the cage, away from the man. Yet the girl, tender and weak, took the drink from him. She was different; doe eyed and beautiful. And far too young to be enslaved in such a place.

But what the hell can I do about it? Rush the cage, kill the guards, save the day? F*ck no. The whole town rains down on me, and I’m on the lam again.

He began to move closer, almost oblivious to the drifting of his lithe figure towards the cage. There were a handful of guards around the cage, all staring in disbelief. It would only take one powerful charge, for the wooden cage was still rimmed with metal reinforcement, and their hands were all clasped to the bars, peering in. One strong volt would send them all flying. Of course, anyone else touching the cage would likely be shocked in the process, but it appeared both the surprisingly sweet head guard and the girl herself were clear of the metal, solidly grounded by wood.

Not here. Not in the wide open. Not too many people here can do what you do, and if word gets out that some overblown electrician is killing people again, your days in Salvar will be short.

Still dressed the part of a gentleman, Storm strolled about the outside of the cage, and inquisitive look on his face as he eyed the human wares inside. A gentle nod to the guards, and he continued about to the rear of the cage, where several of the prisoners sat, dejected, fearful of the guard who had entered. The back of the cage was a cleared area, short-cut crabgrass lined with a few short evergreens.

It will be perfect…

The pleading, helpless eyes of those inside were pathetic, yet he felt little for those strong enough to resist yet unwilling to help themselves. His hands were folded behind his back as his athletic frame stretched out his fine linen shirt admirably. His eyes scuttled; assessing the situation. Indeed, all four of the guards looking on had rested themselves against metal filaments around the cage. Their hands, or faces, or shoulders were leaned strong into the frame, lazy postures used to pass a slow day.

“Some of your weaker looking subjects, I’m afraid” Storm began, making idle chatter to justify his presence. A man of his stature, wearing clothes so proper could easily be mistaken for a trader, and there was little doubt he would garner the faith of the masses by showing some interest. “Yet maybe we can work something out.”

As he spoke, a soft sizzle behind him. A few wafts of ozone drifted to his nose, his right hand buzzing a soft powder blue, very extraordinary yet out of view. The electrical energy in him had grown, had magnified, had developed into an enormous weapon, yet finding the right times to use it was difficult. Here, he could use it without detection, and he lavished the opportunity to extol his wrath. A smile snaked across his face again as the sizzle became louder, his buzzing hand coming into view and taking hold of the metal corner to the cage.

[Daedalus]

And so the plot thickens.

As Banazîr watched, his prediction was fulfilled; though on the surface, the events taking place in the cage were baffling, they were but the manifestation of Fate, whose promptings he had been privy to for a brief moment. He had known something strange would happen here; else, why had he been compelled to come here against his will? Some outside force must have arranged these circumstances—or so he fervently hoped. The only other explanation was one he was unwilling to accept: that he was insane, the compulsions driving him were the byproducts of a mind under siege, and what he perceived as Fate was merely the projection of his own delusions onto everyday occurrences.

But whatever the truth was, Banazîr could not deny the evidence of his own senses. The very guard who had gruffly shooed him away from the cage now proffered water to a fallen slave, having left the cage door open. Why? The question haunted his mind, only one among countless unanswered others raised by his talent, his conscience, his desires—and his past. But the past was forever gone, the present forever flowing; this question had an immediacy that the others did not.

For an answer, he delved into himself, and so into the minds of those around him. His empathic talent, suppressed when he had ignored the caged slaves' bleak despair, now sprang to life with unusual vigor. His awareness showed that most of the crowd was apathetic, waiting for the auction to begin, but here and there were pockets of strong emotion. He felt himself awash in a sea of sensations. Greed was most common, a sickly reflected light, as moonlight upon gold that, fickle to its true nature, has imitated copper and tarnished; hot, sweet-smelling desire followed next, aroused perhaps by the beauty of the slave being helped. In a few places he felt anger, chafing his mind as the scent of brimstone assaults an open nostril. The guards oozed disdain and callousness, like stale carcasses stewed in mud and marshwater, while fear emanated from the caged slaves in an endless, wordless, soundless scream.

But the guard Banazîr was interested in was like none of these. A barrier, hard and impenetrable, guarded his emotions—or was it merely that he had no emotions to show? But if so, then why would he help the slave girl? He must have a weakness, somewhere, a soft underbelly to match his tortoise's shell. But even as Banazîr searched for such a weakness, his talent began to fade. For a few moments, he had glimpsed the world in ways unimaginable to anyone but him, and more powerfully than anything he had hitherto experienced; but now, fickle as the will o' the wisps, his talent vanished. His last empathic sensation, curiously out of place, was a rumble—as of thunder in the far distance. But what that could mean, he had no idea—at least until the meaning became blindingly obvious.

No warning preceded the electrical discharge that assaulted the guards grasping the metal bars of the cage; they were caught unawares, jolted forcefully from the bars they held and flung to the ground. They sprawled there, stunned, as if struck by the wrath of some angry deity—not dead, but shocked and badly bruised. For the briefest of moments, there was nothing but utter incredulity from the crowd. Then chaos erupted. Many in the crowd tried to run, instinctively afraid of an inexplicable act of destruction. Probably some thought that the guards were indeed dead. Others, however, were slower to act, or were even curious or bold enough to want to stay or investigate. Some saw a chance for thievery, either of slaves or from the guards. The ensuing pushing and shoving quickly spread through the assembled masses.

Quickly appraising the situation, Banazîr sprinted towards the back of the cart to get away from the crowd surrounding him. He didn't know how all this would end up, but he could at least avoid being bruised in the chaos. He also suspected that if he tried to get out through the encircling mass of people, he would emerge without a wallet. Stepping carefully over the body of a guard concussed on the hard cobblestones, he reached the rear of the cart only to find another man already there—and four guards, three still sprawled and one now getting to his feet, all of whom looked even worse-off than those around the front of the cart.

His abilities diminished, Banazîr had no idea that it was the very man who stood in front of him that had caused the chaos that surrounded them. But as he looked at the scene in front of him, he couldn't help but feel déjÃ* vu. Perhaps an unconscious segment of him recognized this man as the source of the ominous thunder his talent had sensed; perhaps not. Mostly, though, he got the familiar feeling that he was in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

[Zerith]

“Just how long am I going to have to wait for this auction to start?� Zerith asked himself. The truth was that he would rather not the auction start at all, or ever again. However he couldn’t exactly say that out loud when surrounded by a crowd that was eager to see what was being offered today. While the few around him may have heard someone asking when the auction started the youth was actually asking just how long he would have to wait until he could do something to help the slaves. Of course nobody but Zerith knew the inner meaning behind the sentence that came out of his mouth.

Then he saw her, a young girl that seemed to be about his age stuck in the cage with the others. She was lovely, her black hair gently covered her shoulders and her blue eyes looked around the crowd as she probably wondered where she was and what was going on. She may not have realized it but chances were that most of the men in the crowd were keeping an eye on her and hoping they had enough gold with them to be able to take her to their home. There they would be able to do whatever they wanted this beautiful girl to do and Zerith didn’t even want to know the possibilities were, every single one would probably disgust him. Even though she didn’t know it, Zerith too now had his eye on her. The difference was that he didn’t look at her as something to be bought and made to do whatever he wanted but instead he looked at her and saw the one person in the entire cage that he would try to get out. Of course he was also hoping to free others in the process, she had just become the most important one in the wooden prison.

Something that was unexpected was when the girl fainted. What was even more surprising was that it wasn’t Zerith who acted first but the large hooded guard. He walked to the door of the cage, punched a fellow guard and then not only opened the cage but also left the door open for people to enter and others to escape. As he entered the other slaves backed up against the wooden bars until they were a far from the man as possible. Yet that didn’t seem to matter to him, from what Zerith could see all that matter to the guard was the girl. While the hooded man was tending to her the other four guard did nothing but watch what was going on inside of the cage. Somehow this event distracted all the guards and gave Zerith one thing, his chance to actually do something worthwhile.

As Zerith approached the cage another beat him in the race to be the first to act. He wasn’t able to see exactly what this new stranger who dressed like trader did. As Zerith finally pushes past the last person all he could manage to catch a glimpse of was this person reach his hand out and holding onto the metal corner of the cage. It wouldn’t have meant anything if it weren’t the fact that it looked like the man’s hand buzzed with electricity. Whatever his reason was for doing such a thing was it did manage to do something. It would help Zerith greatly.

The electricity traveled out of the stranger, through the metal until and into the guards in an instant. The four guards wouldn’t know what hit them until it was too late. They couldn’t have expected to feel the sudden jolt of electricity until they were flung to the ground stunned. “You know buddy I have no clue who you are or what you’re trying to do,� Zerith thought to himself as he looked towards the stranger that was the cause for the shocking surprise. “But if we’re trying to do the same thing, I’m really happy you’re on my side.� Of course not everyone had the same reaction that Zerith did. Before the youth knew what was going on around him the crowd burst into chaos and people were scattering in everything direction. Customers left to find safety followed my merchants who left most of their goods behind. The slaves didn’t need anymore of an invitation to know what was going on so now many of them were flooding out of the cage and out to freedom. They would disappear into the chaos and from there they would get to choose what they did from there. They were their own masters were free to live their own lives.

Yet not everyone was running away. Some were staying behind to see just what was going on while others were stealing some of the merchandise left behind. Zerith also stayed behind and raced around to the back of the cart. There he saw one guard already climbing to his feet. He would have managed to stand up too if it wasn’t for the fact that Zerith didn’t want him to. The youth acted quickly and swung his halberd so the shaft connected the guard’s face and knocked the unfortunate man unconscious. He saw another youth that ran to the back of the cart as well, however this person wasn’t dressed like one of the guards. Was he trying to help out the slaves too or did he come here for other reasons? Whatever his reason to come back here was didn’t really matter to Zerith. For now he would just assume the youth was one his side. He would have introduced himself to the youth and the man that had helped greatly but he suddenly realized something. The girl was still in the cage.

Passing the youth Zerith made his way to the door of the cage where slaves were still climbing out of and had to force his way through the remaining numbers that were desperately wanting out of their prison cell. Finally when he did manage to climb into the cage the only thing still remaining in there were the few slaves that were just leaving, the girl that was still laying on the ground and the large hooded guard that knelt down by her side with his back to Zerith. Taking a deep breath the youth gripped his polearm tightly with both hands. “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing any help with tending to her now would you?� Zerith asked loud enough to be heard by both the large guard and the girl, if she could even hear him in the first place.

Maybe if he were lucky enough this guard would see that there really wasn’t a point in keeping this girl as a slave anymore. Or if Zerith were really lucky maybe this man would help him. Either one would be better than having to go through the trouble fighting this guard. Where things really necessary to have to come to that anyways?