The Northern continent of Vraeta was deep in the middle of one the harshest winters in recent memory. The wind, at best, would only threaten to blow one off one’s feet, or send one crashing into a snow covered rock faces, or deceptively hard snow. At worst, it would completely ignore whatever protection a person was wearing, and as if it was alive and doing so deliberately, it would form small cone shaped twisters around one or more people, and while said formation would only last a few moments, it would rend armour, clothing, skin – anything that was caught within. This insane, and often times deadly wind, coupled with the severe snow storms meant that it had become an extremely dangerous feat to attempt to travel across the Vraetan landscape. Yet, a medium sized caravan seemed to be doing just that, as it made its way from the Western border.

It consisted of a multi-carriage setup that was being dragged by two horned, large, wooly creatures that looked like large, hefty Oxen. The sound of the heavy, wooden wheels being forced through the ridiculously dense snow was so loud that it was audible all throughout the surrounding areas. The occasional grunt and wail from either or both beasts would cause the carriages to all rumble about and shake. Walking on either side of the carriages was a multitude of heavily armed and armoured guards, who were wrapped up so tightly in furs, cloaks, face wraps and hoods, that simply being able to move seemed to be quite the feat. While there were a fair number of similarly dressed guards, there were a few who were wearing furs of finer make than the rest, with the armour heavier and mixed with metal of some sort. Their cloaks were also different colours from the rest. This group of five or so was right at the front, leading the caravan. One of those people, a large man in impressive looking heavy armour and wielding a large axe stepped closer to a smaller, slight man who was wearing a cloak with the hood up.

“Ingolf.” The man boomed in a virtual roar, trying to speak above the sound of the wheels and footsteps of the beasts in the snow. “Ingolf, I don’t know how much longer we can carry on!”

“I would have to agree with you, Thorvald.” Ingolf replied in a much softer voice, yet his words effortlessly reached Thorvald’s ears. “The Oxae are becoming more and more fatigued. We’ll stop and set up camp once we find a suitable area.”

The larger man nodded, and moved away from Ingolf, until he reached one of the regularly clothed men who was standing close to the lead group. He leaned in close and whispered something into the ear of the man, who nodded and turned to face the man nearest to him. He reached behind his back with one hand and grabbed his shield. After bringing it around to his chest, he raised his free hand and banged his gloved fist against the shield three times. The man who was on the receiving end of this message nodded, and did the same thing for the benefit of the one behind him. One after the other, each of the men accompanying the caravan did this did the signal until it had made its way all the way around, and back to Thorvald. Due to the seemingly perpetual noise that constantly assaulted the ears of those who would regularly travel in caravans during the winter, a type of sign language which consisted of simple signals was developed in order to quickly and effectively get messages across. This particular hand sign informed everybody of the intention to set up camp at a suitable location.

The group continued to move forward for a little over an hour; before they entered a large enough clearing that they could comfortably set up camp for a while. Ingolf looked over at Thorvald, who a fair distance away, before once again speaking as if there was nothing he had to speak over.

“This place seems about as good as any to set up camp. We’re stopping.”

Thorvald nodded, and turned to the person behind him, before banging his clenched fist against his chest, opening his hand and rubbing the spot he punched twice, before clenching his fist and punching his chest once more. The signal was met with a nod, and quickly repeated for the benefit of the rest of the guards. Meanwhile, Ingolf had turned to face the Oxae, and after a few moments, reached inside his cloak and pulled out a small steel rod which was adorned with what appeared to be pebbles that were glossy and some form of writing spiraling its way up the rod. The rod was raised to Ingolf’s mouth and started to glow, with the writing and pebbles glowed a fairly dull brown and shortly afterwards, he began to speak in an unintelligible language which consisted of grunts, roars and wails. As he did, the writing on the rod began to move, sliding up the rod like a water snake slithering through a river. They slithered off of the rod, and through the air towards the Oxae. There was something of a sparkle that was produced by these flying words, and they split into two different ‘snakes’, before going off in different directions and sliding directly into an ear of each Oxae. The massive beasts suddenly let out a rather loud roar that sounded suspiciously like a moo, and after taking a few more strides forward, they stopped moving. The carriages all shook rather violently due to the slightly abrupt halt, and after a few moments, the door of the carriage immediately behind the Magical Beasts responsible for pulling everybody along suddenly burst open, having been kicked with quite a bit of force. Smoke that had been locked within the insulated carriage suddenly poured out as if it had been seeking freedom and moments later, a rather heavyset man dressed in what could only be described as extremely lavish and elaborately decorated clothes could be seen. While he was dressed in a brightly coloured robe like garment, with complicated embroidery and designs, his face was exposed. He had a small hat that was circular in shape right on the top of his head, and his tanned face and long, black hair and beard were exposed, and the beard rustled slightly as a cold breeze suddenly kicked up. The handle of what appeared to be a whip was visible dangling from his hip, and it too was extremely fancy and expensive looking.

“Ragnar!” He barked in a heavily accented voice as more smoke flowed out from behind him. “Ragnar, you son of a whore!! How many times have we told you to send us some form of warning when you decide to stop those damned cows of yours!?”

Ingolf looked up at the fat man who had just come bursting out from the carriage.

“How many times have I told you that my name is Ingolf Saheed, you fat desert donkey cock sucker!”

“Silence!” Saheed barked in response as he pointed at Ingolf. “Why have we stopped?!”

“Two Cycles have passed already, you Fat Fuck. The Oxae and the men need a rest, but you wouldn’t know that because you and yours have been sitting in that carriage, smoking, eating and entertaining yourselves the whole time.”

Saheed looked at Ingolf with a deep, intense scowl, before looking up at the gradually darkening sky. He scoffed and turned around, before heading back inside the carriage. As he did that, the Oxae both decided to lay down at the same time; an act that was staggered, and caused the ground to shake quite violently. Everybody heard Saheed let out a yelp before the sound of him hitting the floor caused the guards who were close enough to hear it to all burst into rapturous laughter. Even the beasts seemed to enjoy it, as the flicked their ears and seemed to snort in derision at Saheed. After a few minutes, Ingolf and the leadership of the guards got together, and started discussing camping plans and the like.

“Alright, if memory serves, Ola, you’re on hunting duty this time.” Ingolf said while looking at a guard who was bigger than him, but smaller than Thorvald.

Ola nodded, and without another word being spoken, walked off and made his way towards the carriage behind the one Saheed was in. The guards who had been walking alongside the carriages had all grouped together in front of the carriage, which was slightly smaller than the one ahead of it. Ola quickly opened the door and walked in, and after a few moments, led a group of people out who were armed with bows on their backs and short swords on their waists. After they had all walked out, a similar number of guards armed like those who had been on duty walked out as the rotation changed.

At the front of the caravan, Ingolf had pulled a large staff off from his back, and was holding it in his right hand. It was a rather gnarled looking thing, and had a large, bulbous head. He took a deep breath, and started speaking, once again speaking in a different language to the one he had been using with everybody else, yet also different to the one he used to communicate with the Oxae. It sounded like he was chanting somewhat, the head of the staff starting to glow blue as he spoke. The more he chanted, the brighter the head would glow, and it eventually started shaking, with the shaking becoming more pronounced as Ingolf spoke. After close to half a minute of this, the staff was shaking pretty violently, and Ingolf raised the staff high above his head, before bringing it down, stabbing it into the ground as if it were a sword of some kind, completing his chant as he did. Immediately after stabbing the bottom of the staff into the snow, a bright and near blinding flash of blue energy pulsed out from the point of impact, and grew in size within the blink of an eye. It looked like a massive blue wave that wouldn’t be out of place in the ocean during a violent storm flowed out from where Ingolf was standing, and spread out around him, and eventually the entire clearing they had decided to set up camp in. The layers of thick, dense snow suddenly moved and shifted as if it were alive and conscious of what it was doing. The snow followed the wave of energy, thinning and eventually disappearing from beneath the feet of the men and women of the caravan, revealing the wet grass below. As the giant energy wave crashed into the ground, the snow, which had somehow become fluid as it followed the wave suddenly shot up, and froze as it did; forming a sort of wall of jagged ice that surrounded the caravan, creating a camp. After a few moments, and after everything had settled somewhat, Ingolf began to walk, pointing his staff in random directions; an action that would manipulate the ice in the area the staff head was pointed at. He was essentially checking to see if there were weak points in his barrier of ice, and fixing them

Meanwhile, Thorvald and the remaining leadership were standing and watching Ingolf.

“No matter how many times I see him do that, it floors me. Ingolf just uses Languages like it’s nothing; whether it’s the Language of Beasts, or of Magic.” Thorvald said as he shook his head.

There were a few grunts of agreement that came from those who were standing next to him, and the trio stood and waited for Ingolf to conclude his inspection. Once he was done, he made his way back to where Thorvald was, with Ola and the group of Hunters quickly joining them.

“Alright.” Ingolf said as he looked at the group, as he slid the staff onto his back. “Ola, you and the Hunters get going, and see if you can find anything worth hunting. We may as well stock up on meat, as well as have something fresh to prepare. Hurry up though, because the winds will pick up soon.”

Ola nodded, while the Hunters banged their fists against their chests in some form of salute, before nodding as well and they all started walking towards the wall. Ingolf nodded in the direction they were headed, and something that looked like a doorway suddenly opened up, allowing the group to leave and quickly dart off. The landscape of the area they were in was extremely varied, with the Frylk Timberland nearby, as well as the Heights of Yhm; a collection of giant mountains, accessible and visible from any point of Vraeta.

“Oi, Saheed! Get out here! Your people need to help us set up!” Ingolf barked.

After an almost unnecessarily long period of silence and waiting, the carriage opened, and a bunch of men walked out. Unlike Saheed, they were dressed in black, armoured clothing, made from a combination of cloth and leather plates. It was extremely lightweight, and was the complete opposite of the armour worn by Ingolf and his troops, as it was meant to keep the wearer cool in the intense heat of the desert continent of the Dunes of Izdur. Most of them had dual scimitars on their backs, what looked like whips or lashes of some kind on their waists and some rather impressive scowls on their faces. Saheed followed the men, and looked at Ingolf with a scowl, before walking over alongside the third carriage, which was at least two times larger than the luxury carriages that Saheed and Ingolf’s respective charges resided in. He stood in front of the carriage, and began muttering something under his breath in his native tongue, and as he spoke, three orange glyphs lit up on the side of the carriage. They were only visible for a few moments, before the loud and heavy sound of something being unlocked could be heard. He then looked at his men and gestured to them with his head, prompting them to quickly move. They moved to the back of the carriage and slowly opened the rather heavy door, which creaked and made a fierce noise as it did. It swung open to reveal tens, if not hundreds of people; of various races, from the different continents. They were mostly emaciated and sporting bruises, welts, and other signs of extreme abuse and ill treatment. Many flinched and huddled together when they saw their captors and tormentors standing at the entrance. Of course, they knew through brutal experience not to stand around on ceremony and before a word was spoken, they forced themselves to get up and make their way out from the stuffy, windowless vessel they were being transported in. The smell of body odor, piss and shit forced its way from within as the many, many people scurried out as best they could. Some were more beat up than others, and all of their clothes, which were almost all ethnic outfits from whatever native continents and countries they originated from, were caked with crusty, dry blood, sweat and whatever else that was contributing to the smell.

Ingolf, who along with Thorvald, Rasmus, Henrik and Brynhild, was watching the people flowing out like cattle, shook his head slowly.

“These useless Izdur slavers… they can’t even keep their own product clean. How are these slaves supposed to fetch any money if they stink, and are on the verge of keeling over and dying?”

“That’s none of our business, Ingolf. They just pay us to guide and protect them, nothing more.”

“Besides,” Brynhild interrupted. “They let us have our way with slaves of our choosing, so we can ensure that those who serve to be our play things are clean and well taken care of… if we so choose, of course.”

“Yeah, well if I had a slave to have my way with, I certainly wouldn’t be happy if I would have to wash the smell of shit off of them every single time.”

Saheed then approached Ingolf from the side and stood next to him, seemingly joining the group and the discussion without an invitation.

“The treatment of slaves is none of your concern, Ragnar.”

Ingolf looked at Saheed and shrugged dismissively.

“You’re right about that, but we keep the food in a sealed partition of the same carriage. What if the magic used to keep it good enough to eat suddenly fails? Eating food contaminated with slave shit doesn’t sound all too appealing, now does it Fatty?”

Saheed just snorted before walking towards the slaves who were busy pulling out the necessary materials to begin erecting large tents which would be used over the next two Cycles. He began whipping slaves at random, for no apparent reason other than to display his dominion over them. The sound of the cracking whip was brutal, as were the resulting shrieks and cries of pain. Ingolf and his crew walked off and made their way towards the rest of the guards, with those who were on duty and off duty hanging out and having conversations about various things as they waited for both the Hunters to return, and the slaves to finish putting their tent up. The brass of the group then engaged in conversations of their own. As the conversation flowed, Ingolf continued to look towards the slaves and after a while, Thorvald spoke.

“Why do you keep looking over there, Ingolf? Is there finally a slave you’ve taken a shine to?”

“…that slave is still not being forced to work or anything.”

Thorvald suddenly went quiet for a moment as he thought about the slave Ingolf was referring to. He then looked over at the slaves as well, and the two of them found themselves staring, but for two different reasons. The Izdurian Overseers were making sure that the slaves were working quickly, as they not only set up the tents, but looked to be building three large fires as they piled up logs and such. When the slaves who were assigned to set up the wood had finished with that, they would join those who were putting up the tents. A few of Saheed’s men put their whips down, moved to the first pile and raised their hands. They stood with their feet together, arms at chest level, and their hands open.

“Izdur, grant us power.” They all said together, in their native language.

Their hands started glowing with an orange hue, and they repeated this simple phrase over and over again, which unlike Ingolf’s Language of Magic, seemed more like a prayer. The more they repeated the prayer, the brighter their hands glowed, and eventually, balls of fire formed in their respective palms. The balls of swirling and dancing fire grew somewhat larger in the palms of the men, before shooting forth from said palms into the wood, bursting with bright orange light, and immediately engulfing the entire pile in bright, hot flames. The flames grew taller and taller with each passing second, not only providing the camp with heat, but also light as darkness continued to become more and more prevalent.

“Izdur be praised!” The crew of fire starters, as well as the rest of the Izdur Slavers all said this in unison as the fire crackled and grew.

The men then moved on to light the remaining fires, repeating the process. The task setting up of the camp continued, and after a little under and hour, Ola returned with Hunters. There was a large floating carcass directly above Ola, and after Ingolf had let them into the camp, he set it down with a deep thud. The creature was large, muscled, and had long, wooly fur similar to that of the Oxae from earlier. It, however, had an absolutely incredible set of antlers that seemed to branch out into hundreds of off shoots, all black and glossy. The creature also had massive black wings, with feathers that were not only long, but flexible yet incredibly hard. Ingolf looked at it for an instant before his head shot up in the direction of Ola.

“O… Ola, this is… a Grand Winged Elk… these things are at the very least, Saint Level Magical beasts… how did you manage to take it down?!”

Ingolf sounded absolutely flabbergasted by the fact that such a powerful Magical Beast was not only in their camp, but had been brought back by his Hunters with the intention of being eaten. Old, who had been catching his breath since coming back, looked up at Ingolf and shrugged.

“It was injured or something, so I put it down. I thought it would make a great tasting meal.”

“Great tasting meal?” Ingolf said as he shook his head and looked down at the Elk. “The meat from Saint Level Beasts contains almost unfathomable restorative properties. Eating this will not only taste good, but it would most likely do the world of good for our fatigue. Good catch, Ola.”

Ola once again simply shrugged, before instructing the Hunters to get to work skinning and butchering the Beast. The slaves who had been designated as the cooks of the caravan began pulling all manner of ingredients and pots from the partition of the third carriage that was dedicated to food storage. It had a few other partitions between it and the cramped slave’s partition, so despite Ingolf’s earlier jibe, it was safe. By the time the Elk was ready for skinning, the numerous fires had sufficiently warmed the area within the camp enough that the Hunters actually removed their fur armour prior to getting started. They were all fair skinned, with some of them fairer than others, with almost exclusively long hair, which ranged from wispy, pale blondes, to thick and dark browns and black. They got to work after having washed their hands and tools. Ingolf’s Magic was keeping the fortress like ice barrier solid and cold, despite the fires that were raging within, and after a bit of time, and effort, the Beast had been skinned, and butchered into portions for immediate cooking, while the rest was going into storage.

The chef slaves were busy chopping, dicing and slicing vegetables, grinding grains, making and kneading all manner of dough, and in general, preparing the ethnic foods from their various native lands. Those from areas that spoke the same or even vaguely similar languages tended to group together, and this meant that the morale amongst those who were cooking wasn’t as bleak as the rest – at least while preparing food, that is. The portions of meat that were to be grilled were dropped off to be spiced and seasoned, while the others that were to be cooked in stews and the like were set aside to be used when needed. The food preparation was going along without a hitch, and that prompted Ingolf to bring out the liquor. There was a rather impressive collection of local Vraetan beers, as well as foreign spirits as well. After listening to suggestions from virtually everybody and after those suggestions turned into a robust debate, Ingolf quickly pulled out some foreign liquor and instructed some regular guards to bring a few barrels out. The tents had been successfully erected, and the main tent was where the high ranking members from both camps would dine and drink, with the second tent being there for the regular soldiers, as well as a third, raggedy tent for the slaves. The barrels were first brought to the main tent, then the second. In a surprising move, the usually stingy and disagreeable Saheed ordered one of his Slavers to bring out a few of their Hookahs to be placed in both tents for the use of those within them.

The mood in the camp was surprisingly upbeat amongst the free, while the slaves who weren’t busy assisting with the cooking were sitting in their tent, chattering among themselves. The conversations were mostly about what they missed from their homelands, wondering when they would reach their destination, and hoping that the Deities that their people worshipped would come and free them. Ingolf, Thorvald and the rest of them had also change out of their armour and such, and were sitting in the main tent. Ingolf was an almost sickly thin wisp of a man, with gaunt cheeks and long, light brown hair. He was slightly below average height, and had his arms and hands exposed due to his quilted garment being sleeveless. His arms and hands were tightly wrapped in bandages however, and his skin wasn’t exposed from his neck down. He wore traditional Ice Binder Mage robes, which hung somewhat loose from the waist down, while supposed to be form fitting from the waist up, yet due to his pathetic physique, they were pretty loose as well. Thorvald was tall, muscular and handsome, with his flowing blonde hair, blue eyes and friendly demeanor and smile. He was dressed in just a shirt, trousers, and boots, and kept his axe on his person at all times. Rasmus, Henrik and Brynhild were busy fraternizing with the lower ranked members, while Ingolf and Thorvald were seated on some lavish and comfortable Izdurian cushions. Saheed and his right hand Fekir approached and sat down at their table, opposite them. Fekir had one of their men bring over Saheed’s personal Hookah, and after a brief period of silent smoking, an attempt at conversation was made.

“You Demon Tooth Mercenaries might be a little more capable than I initially thought, Ragnar.” Saheed said.

“What makes you say that, Fatty?” Ingolf replied.

“That snow deer your Hunters caught is very impressive.”

“That’s certainly true…” Ingolf said as he exhaled some smoke.

“Might I have the fur, horns and wings to sell?”

“Fuck no.” Ingolf said dismissively. “Demon kill, Demon property.”

“Hmph.” Saheed snorted, before looking at the nozzle of them in his hand. “How much longer before we reach that town, Ragnar?”

“We aren’t too far, if I’m being honest. Six travel friendly Cycles, at worst. This ridiculous winter has really fucked with our schedule.”

“Agreed.” Thorvald said as he politely declined the offer to smoke. “Being unable to move during Night Cycles really hurts progress. Twenty-eight odd hours of stagnation really is a disadvantage.

“Especially considering how your winter Night Cycles are longer than your Light Cycles.” Fekir added before inhaling some smoke.

“Yeah… considering I have to maintain the fucking barrier the entire time is fucking taxing. I really hate fucking winter.” Ingolf said with a bitter shake of his head.

“Yeah, well at least we have some Saint Level Beast meat available. That should help you recover, as well as put some meat back on your bones. Thorvald said.

“We can only hope, Thorvy.”

The conversation, smoking, and liquor continued to flow in the tent, with the remainder of the Demon Tooth hierarchy entering, already somewhat tipsy, and joined the leaders at the table. Something about food, drink and fire made them put their differences aside for the night, and just behave in a civil manner towards each other. A few hours passed, with snacks being provided for the Mercs and the Slavers to nibble on while waiting for the food. When the food was actually ready, a large cheer boomed out and preparations to begin serving started. Aside from the Elk, regular, older meat had also been prepared, and this meat was to be consumed by the slaves exclusively. Such rare and high quality meat like that of the Winged Elk was not to be wasted on slaves. Those slaves who were to act as servers were about to be busy, delivering plates of food to the two tents. The alcohol seemed to flow much more as the first plates of food were delivered, consisting of a little bit of everything, as well as a hunk of grilled meat. Conversation and laughs were rife, as well as the odd drunken scuffle and argument. In the Leadership tent, all of Saheed’s and Ingolf’s top followers had joined their leaders, and continued the festivities. As plates were brought to them, placed on old, broken shields that had been improvised into individual serving tables of sorts. There was something of a wait as everybody received their little table, and once everybody had been served, the Izdur Slavers suddenly bellowed out a prayer of thanks to Izdur; their God. Those Demon Tooth Mercenaries who worshiped and followed a Vraetan Deity of their own also offered up their own prayers, whether elaborate, or subdued. Those who didn’t believe in or worship any Deity at all just waited for a brief period for everybody else to at least begin their prayers, before digging into their food.

Soon after giving thanks, the sounds of eating filled both tents as almost everybody started gorging themselves on the Elk meat almost immediately. Comments about how good and surprisingly tender the meat tasted could be heard coming from both tents, while in the slave tent, everybody was left wondering how good it tasted compared to what they were about to eat. Everybody had huddled close together as they ate, however there was a spot towards the back of the tent, central and against the tent wall that had quite a few of the shield tables arranged in a circular shape. There was nobody sitting in the spot, however the food that was there was some of the best tasting dishes from each of the ethnic groups represented in the slave group. The slaves all exchanged looks as they waited, without having touched their food. Their limited understanding of each other’s languages seemed to be getting in the way somewhat, but it didn’t for much longer as one of the older male slaves pointed to the spot in the tent, before pointing at the carriage and glancing at everybody quizzically. They all shook their heads, naturally assuming that he was asking if anybody had alerted whoever it was that was supposed to be in that spot that the food was ready. The older male sighed, and stood up gingerly, about to head on over to call the person they were waiting for when the air around the open door suddenly thickened, and whatever smoke that was wafting around it suddenly began to twist into odd shapes, before being blown away. Moments later, a foot poked out, before a dark silhouette stepped into view and then leapt out from the slave carriage, the sound of his bare feet squelching somewhat on the wet ground below. The entire atmosphere in the camp seemed to change as the figure began to walk slowly towards the slave tent.

It didn’t take long before the silhouette came into the light produced by the ever burning Flames of Izdur, and he became quite visible. He was tall, taller than most as he stood at 6’5. The flickering light of the dancing flames illuminating his dark skin, heavily muscled skin. He was clad simply in what looked like a leopard skin loin skin garment that hung above his knees. His hands were tightly bound at the wrists, with his bindings occasionally pulsing with light, hinting at them having been strengthened with a spell or enchantment. His fists were clenched, and his head was looking towards the ground. He eventually looked up as he inhaled deeply, before suddenly stopping and looking to his left; where the fire that was grilling the meat was. He sniffed the air a few times, before turning and beginning to walk towards it. The entire camp had quieted down and was looking at him, watching and waiting. Many of the warriors and slavers present were somewhat inebriated, but had their weapons close by in the event something was to happen. This man’s steps were still slow and laboured, yet the sound each step produced was deep and loud; as if somebody or something much bigger and heavier than the man in question was taking them. His eyes were fixated on the fire, and his face, intense and concentrated, was scowling somewhat. His walk over to the fire seemed to be taking absolutely forever to make, and each step seemed to be louder than the last. Those who were in the Leadership tent were nervously eyeing him while fondling their weapons. None of them blinked, or spoke, and a few had even developed something of a cold sweat. He finally reached the fire, and saw a few portions of meat being grilled for seconds, and bent down, leaning forward slightly. A few rather audible sniffs later, he stood up to his full height, and turned to look at those in the tents to his right.

“If you eat this meat, you will be inviting death to yourselves.”

The man said this in his native tongue that absolutely nobody in the camp understood, whether slave, Slaver or Mercenary. This wasn’t a threat at all, but was more of a statement, or a warning. He then turned around, and slowly made his way towards the slave tent. There was continued silence in the two tents as they waited for him to reach the slave tent. Once he did, and stepped inside, conversation seemed to start up again. The slaves all parted to allow this man space to walk, and he made his way toward the spot with all the food. He sat down slowly, crossed his legs, and sat with his back almost perfectly upright. Somebody brought him a bowl with some water in it for him to wash his hands, and after he did, the bowl was passed around. He then began to eat, before looking up at everybody, and then back down at his food. The slaves took this as a sign that they could eat, which they did. Back in the tent Ingolf and the rest were in, everybody had moved on from what had just happened, and was starting to talk and eat again. Ingolf however, had a pensive look on his face, before suddenly speaking in an older, less common dialect of Vraetan.

“Those of you, who have yet to eat the Elk, don’t.”

The Demon Tooth hierarchy all stopped, and looked at Ingolf. The severity of his expression and seriousness in his voice caused them to all look somewhat alarmed themselves.

“What? Why? Is there something wrong with it?” Thorvald asked.

“I don’t know.” Answered Ingolf.

“Then why?” Brynhild slurred slightly.

“Is it because of what that slave said?” Henrik asked.

“Yes.” Ingolf said curtly.

“Did you actually understand what he said?” Thorvald asked, somewhat surprised.

“Not one word.”

“Then whyyyy?!” Ola asked.

“I have no idea what that… slave said, but it was a warning. I don’t know what it was, or how severe or serious it was, but we will not eat the meat and find out.”

“Who cares what some slave says?!” Henrik boomed, feeling rather bullish.

“You say that, yet did you see anybody try and treat him like a slave? Did you see anybody tell him to shut up? Whip him? Tell to go to the fucking slave tent?”

“W-Well, no, but—”

“I have absolutely no idea who that slave is, or where he came from, but he is afforded freedoms and liberties purely for existing. Even that fucking fatty doesn’t say or do anything. I don’t know why, and I don’t need to find out. He said something about this fucking meat, and I’m not going to take the chance and try find out the hard way.”

The rest of the crew was silent as they listened to Ingolf, and took a second to process his words. That particular slave had already been a part of the group when they were hired, and even when all the slaves were being whipped or punished together, the slavers took special care not to injure him in any way. The entire group was deep in thought, thinking of instances when the Slavers tiptoed around him.

The minutes turned to hours, and the time that a lot of slaves were dreading was approaching, with the dinner finished – seconds and thirds included – and Slavers and Mercs were slowly winding down. As the cooking slaves and others were getting around to cleaning up and such, they heard the conversation that was rather loud start to die down. An expression of absolute fear washed over their faces, and Slavers and Mercenaries began exiting the respective tents, and making their way over to the slave tent, as well as over to those who were cleaning up. When a slave or slaves who temporarily ‘belonged’ to Mercenary or a Slaver was spotted by said ‘owner’, whatever they were busy doing was dropped, and they would have to go over to that owner. It didn’t take all that long for the sounds of boisterous conversation, to be replaced by chilling silence, and then soon after, something that could only be described as acquiesced sex. When everybody met at the border and during the first few sets of Night Cycles, the sounds of screaming, of fighting and of resistance filled the night sky as the Slavers and Mercenaries took what they wanted from who they wanted, as many times and as much as they wanted. Continued and vociferous resistance was met with brutal and often lengthy punishments that would result in death, or permanent damage and scars, so those who were chosen quickly made the decision to live, so while consent was never given, those who were chosen as sexual playthings, whether male or female, older or younger, their acquiescence meant that they were able to live long enough to see another sunrise.

The sounds made by the different kinds of sex, or varying degrees and severity played out into the night; the moans, groans and screams lasting well into the first Cycle. People ended up falling asleep where they lay, whether on a bedroll or the muck and filth of the muddy floor that had been repeatedly trodden on. Some went to sleep smiling and satisfied, while the rest cried themselves to sleep; self-loathing and shame piercing their very souls. Those who weren’t involved in any sexual activity either thanked their lucky stars, prayed, or took care of business by themselves. Once the sounds died down completely, and the snores of the sleeping filled the atmosphere, the tall slave who the other slaves treated like a monarch of some sort walked out of the tent. He stood in a clear perfectly still, and looked up into the night sky. The stars and the moons were all out, and despite his and the other slaves’ predicament, he was able to enjoy a brief moment of peace, while staring at the sky. He suddenly inhaled deeply, before exhaling and looking over to the still burning flames. All the Elk that had been prepared had been gobbled down completely, and the slave shook his head slowly, before speaking under his breath.

“…fools.”