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Youngbuffdumbledore
Planetoid
- Joined
- May 8, 2023
Anyone here able to provide some advice for the dialogue in this chapter I wrote? I feel like my dialogue is very clunky and wooden.
II
The slave ship rocked gently as it sped northwards through the deep waters of the Shamshir coast. Salt smelling wind pierced through the catholes and deck hatch, bringing much needed relief from the heat to the broken slaves in the hold below. Light broke the darkness in long columns, highlighted by the straw dust milling about in the air, from the various cracks and holes in the hull and deck, casting the hold in a perpetual gloom. She sat, her back against the cold steel bars of the neighbouring cell, on the straw that made her bed, resigned to the irritation the stiff ends caused to her exposed right thigh and bottom, one of the several tears in her white linen tunic and one that had progressed from the hem to her low back, looking about the different cages of the hold.
Three days ago she stood in line by the harbour master's office. The line began at a collapsible table where sat the purser and slave master of the lanteen rigged Wealth and Riches. The purser was a portly man, his fingers stained black from pen ink, with a ledger and reading glass on the table. Accustomed to as much comfort life aboard a ship could provide, which compared to the city scribes still left him a rugged individual. The slave master was another sort altogether, tall, thin and greasy, but with an intense and and appraising stare from merciless green eyes. As each manacled slave stepped forward the process was the same; Those eyes would take in the new livestock from head to toe, and he would call out a number and a hold which the purser would dutifully scrible in his ledger with a silver tipped feather quill, and a surly deck hand would lead the slave down the gangplank into the hold. The slave master's words took on the air of a chant; twenty three Hold Four *scritch scritch* twenty three Hold Four *scritch scritch* seven Hold Eight *scritch scritch* one twenty three Hold Two *scritch scritch* four Hold Eight *scritch scritch*. Only twice was the chant interrupted as shuffles broke out among the waiting deckhands, the hierarchical battles to determine those would be escorting one of the woman slaves into the ship. An escort that involved a fair bit of light groping. Soon she stood before the slave master. His eyes, bright in contrast to his black beard and turban scanned her dirty and sunburnt body. His eyes briefly rested on her breasts and rear, but there was no lust in those eyes. Those eyes were calculating the price each one of her assets would be worth in the markets of Xaros, as though weighing each breast on an imaginary scale balanced out with gold coins. Seventy Two Hold Three he eventually shouted and a large deck hand grabbed her arm and marched her away. *scritch scritch*.
It was in that very Hold Three that she now sat along with seven others. After all the slaves had been brought into their cells, the slave master came, counted, and a half dozen individuals were shuffled into other holds to balance the numbers. The different holds made a very clear hierarchy and told each of the prisoners what their captors thought of their market value. Holds One and Two, near the bow of the ship, held only four a piece each with its own porthole to allow the fresh sea breeze to clear the musty air and chase away the ever present heat. Three and four held eight each. Seven and Eight were the worst with over a score of prisoners per hold. Many of whom were older or maimed. Otherwise the holds were very similar, musty hay for bedding, steel bars, hint of rust at the joins, and ever damp oak timber floors, walls, and low lying ceiling.
The bars against her back were the ones that divided Holds three and five. A low groan and the shuffling of hay alerted her to the waking of the man who had been sleeping on the other side of the divide. The man was young, fit, muscular, and covered in dried blood. When he finally sat up, even though dried blood obscured much of his face, she recognized him as one of the high post sentries. They made eye contact, he turned his gaze away in shame. She stuck a dirtied hand through the bars and rubbed his unbloodied left shoulder.
It wasn't your fault, her voice, quiet and soft, They were the Rakib Rak.
His eyes never leaving the soiled floor, They killed Fasir….I opened the tower door and there he was…his eyes were open… staring… looking at me…Then I saw the arrow through his head. I tried to reach the bell…to give the alarm. But one was waiting for me. He missed his first hit…I should have just ran to the bell, warned everyone, sacrificed myself, but I tried to fight him instead. I tackled him and then I saw the hilt of his scimitar before everything went black.
She looked at him tearily, the source of the wound on the right side of his head now evident. She squeezed his muscled shoulder. They knew you were coming, the fight was already lost before you stepped into the tower.
You counted them, he said looking up. Twelve, twelve men against a town of a hundred and ten and we had lost before it had even begun.
They knew everything about us, he continued, before we even knew we were there. They waited until the men had left to collect dates from the grove, as they did every morning, and the women left to collect water by the river, as they did every morning, they knew when the watchmen changed. They knew where we would be. Someone must have sold our village to them, when I escape, and I will, I will find them and kill them.
Do not be quick to cast fingers in our time of trial, she answered him calmly, My father spoke to me of the Rakib Rak. They are known for their patience, days they will spend, hidden in the desert, watching, observing before calling their brethren to strike. Calling only as many as they need. Like a pack, they split us, cut us off from escape, those that broke off to flee merely became a fresh target, until those remaining were captured wholesale. Were were divided and they prevailed.
Where is Prophet Mephis? The young man asked. I have not seen him.
Three Rakib Rak scaled the north wall while the other nine circled before the south, taunting us out of range of our bows. My father saw them come over the walls, he shouted and charged them…but he was cut down. That was when the village fell.
I am sure Mephis finds his rest in the Bosom of Alam, he replied sombrely. Listen I think we can can…
He was interrupted by one of the sailors banging on the bars offering one of the ever increasingly common deals. As time on the ship passed, more and more the slaves became more resigned to their fate and more desirous of small comforts. Meat, instead of the bland grain meal, alcohol, instead of the sour tasting water, honey sweet confectionery instead of nothing at all. The sailors and deckhands offered these luxuries for services from the slaves. In her own hold, one of the girls had accepted the offer, likely one of the pistachio confectioneries, and got on her knees. The crook legged sailor dropped his flowing white pants revealing a sizable member, which he proffered between the bars. The black haired girl wrapped her small hand around the darkly tanned shaft and, holding it, brought the tip of the cock to her mouth. She bobbed her head up and down on the sailors cock while he moaned words of encouragement. At some point, he whispered something to her, the content of which became clear as with her free hand, she pulled down her dirty blue tunic exposing a large pair of tanned breasts topped with large dark nipples. They watched the girl pleasuring the sailor for a while, both were aroused by the scene, his arousal more noticeable than hers, but eventually, realizing the sailor was much too distracted to listen to them, turned to her and spoke again.
I think we can get out of here. I remember sailing these waters with my father to negotiate a new price for our dates. In seven days' time, we should stop by a large island to resupply. That will be our chance. Remember seven days.
And with that, he trailed off, the exertion of talking finally being to much for him. He shimmied himself back down onto the dirty straw and fell back into a deep sleep. She watched him for a moment, the slurping sounds of the girl and sailor filling the small hold.
Three days later, he was dead.
A snake wound its way through the cracked clay desert. Nearly two hundred paces long from nose to tail, it slithered around rocky outcroppings and flood carved canyons. Instead of a hiss, the sounds the snake made were the harsh deep throated laughter of men, the snort of camels, and the scraping clink of chains dragging through the dust. The slave caravan was still a days out from Akkabad and the lanteen sailed ship which was waiting in the harbour to make the journey north to Xaros. A man, middle aged with muscle going to fat, rode near the front. Wearing a deep red robe topped with a striped kaffiyeh bound with wooden toggles marked him as the patron and proffitteer. Around him rode the Rakib Rak, the slave riders. They rode black kebad stallions instead of the noisier camels. In near matching fashion they wore black clothed riding gear; loose pants with wrapped claves, slit-thigh tunic, and full face turban. Only their eyes were visible and they never interacted with the slaves nor spoke a word to anyone. Legend held that they had their ears cut off so as they could not be swayed by the pleas of those they had ensnared. The only noise they made was the knocking of the bolas against the scimitars on their hip.
The others were a different story. Dressed in all manner of clothing and riding the camels. The hired Akkabadians. Brought in to do the menial work of chaining, watching, and watering the newly captured slaves. Along with the two chain leaders, they surrounded the double line of men and women with the cruelty and callousness of those paid a fixed rate. They carried wooden staves. The lead slave had seen the crulety those staves could be put to, and also the swiftness of the Rakib Rak to meet out punishment to those who damaged the goods.
Daughter of the village priest, her past two days had been nothing but the sight of the back of the hired chain leader and the ass end of a camel. Her work tunic ripped and torn from the initial attack hung loosely around her. Her skin was spackled with the clinging dust, a river delta of her true polished skin appeared on her chest carved out by the rivulets of sweat. Her wrists were just starting to redden as the manacles ground the sweat evaporated salt against her flesh.
She felt the hard wooden staff rise up between her legs and press into her groin as a passing hand, looking for some cruel fun, leered at her. A quick look from one of the Rakib Raks, along with the dried blood that dotted her tunic from the last hand to lose his hand, made the Akkabadian decide that there were more interesting things in the barren desert
The others were a different story. Dressed in all manner of clothing and riding the camels. The hired Akkabadians. Brought in to do the menial work of chaining, watching, and watering the newly captured slaves. Along with the two chain leaders, they surrounded the double line of men and women with the cruelty and callousness of those paid a fixed rate. They carried wooden staves. The lead slave had seen the crulety those staves could be put to, and also the swiftness of the Rakib Rak to meet out punishment to those who damaged the goods.
Daughter of the village priest, her past two days had been nothing but the sight of the back of the hired chain leader and the ass end of a camel. Her work tunic ripped and torn from the initial attack hung loosely around her. Her skin was spackled with the clinging dust, a river delta of her true polished skin appeared on her chest carved out by the rivulets of sweat. Her wrists were just starting to redden as the manacles ground the sweat evaporated salt against her flesh.
She felt the hard wooden staff rise up between her legs and press into her groin as a passing hand, looking for some cruel fun, leered at her. A quick look from one of the Rakib Raks, along with the dried blood that dotted her tunic from the last hand to lose his hand, made the Akkabadian decide that there were more interesting things in the barren desert
II
The slave ship rocked gently as it sped northwards through the deep waters of the Shamshir coast. Salt smelling wind pierced through the catholes and deck hatch, bringing much needed relief from the heat to the broken slaves in the hold below. Light broke the darkness in long columns, highlighted by the straw dust milling about in the air, from the various cracks and holes in the hull and deck, casting the hold in a perpetual gloom. She sat, her back against the cold steel bars of the neighbouring cell, on the straw that made her bed, resigned to the irritation the stiff ends caused to her exposed right thigh and bottom, one of the several tears in her white linen tunic and one that had progressed from the hem to her low back, looking about the different cages of the hold.
Three days ago she stood in line by the harbour master's office. The line began at a collapsible table where sat the purser and slave master of the lanteen rigged Wealth and Riches. The purser was a portly man, his fingers stained black from pen ink, with a ledger and reading glass on the table. Accustomed to as much comfort life aboard a ship could provide, which compared to the city scribes still left him a rugged individual. The slave master was another sort altogether, tall, thin and greasy, but with an intense and and appraising stare from merciless green eyes. As each manacled slave stepped forward the process was the same; Those eyes would take in the new livestock from head to toe, and he would call out a number and a hold which the purser would dutifully scrible in his ledger with a silver tipped feather quill, and a surly deck hand would lead the slave down the gangplank into the hold. The slave master's words took on the air of a chant; twenty three Hold Four *scritch scritch* twenty three Hold Four *scritch scritch* seven Hold Eight *scritch scritch* one twenty three Hold Two *scritch scritch* four Hold Eight *scritch scritch*. Only twice was the chant interrupted as shuffles broke out among the waiting deckhands, the hierarchical battles to determine those would be escorting one of the woman slaves into the ship. An escort that involved a fair bit of light groping. Soon she stood before the slave master. His eyes, bright in contrast to his black beard and turban scanned her dirty and sunburnt body. His eyes briefly rested on her breasts and rear, but there was no lust in those eyes. Those eyes were calculating the price each one of her assets would be worth in the markets of Xaros, as though weighing each breast on an imaginary scale balanced out with gold coins. Seventy Two Hold Three he eventually shouted and a large deck hand grabbed her arm and marched her away. *scritch scritch*.
It was in that very Hold Three that she now sat along with seven others. After all the slaves had been brought into their cells, the slave master came, counted, and a half dozen individuals were shuffled into other holds to balance the numbers. The different holds made a very clear hierarchy and told each of the prisoners what their captors thought of their market value. Holds One and Two, near the bow of the ship, held only four a piece each with its own porthole to allow the fresh sea breeze to clear the musty air and chase away the ever present heat. Three and four held eight each. Seven and Eight were the worst with over a score of prisoners per hold. Many of whom were older or maimed. Otherwise the holds were very similar, musty hay for bedding, steel bars, hint of rust at the joins, and ever damp oak timber floors, walls, and low lying ceiling.
The bars against her back were the ones that divided Holds three and five. A low groan and the shuffling of hay alerted her to the waking of the man who had been sleeping on the other side of the divide. The man was young, fit, muscular, and covered in dried blood. When he finally sat up, even though dried blood obscured much of his face, she recognized him as one of the high post sentries. They made eye contact, he turned his gaze away in shame. She stuck a dirtied hand through the bars and rubbed his unbloodied left shoulder.
It wasn't your fault, her voice, quiet and soft, They were the Rakib Rak.
His eyes never leaving the soiled floor, They killed Fasir….I opened the tower door and there he was…his eyes were open… staring… looking at me…Then I saw the arrow through his head. I tried to reach the bell…to give the alarm. But one was waiting for me. He missed his first hit…I should have just ran to the bell, warned everyone, sacrificed myself, but I tried to fight him instead. I tackled him and then I saw the hilt of his scimitar before everything went black.
She looked at him tearily, the source of the wound on the right side of his head now evident. She squeezed his muscled shoulder. They knew you were coming, the fight was already lost before you stepped into the tower.
You counted them, he said looking up. Twelve, twelve men against a town of a hundred and ten and we had lost before it had even begun.
They knew everything about us, he continued, before we even knew we were there. They waited until the men had left to collect dates from the grove, as they did every morning, and the women left to collect water by the river, as they did every morning, they knew when the watchmen changed. They knew where we would be. Someone must have sold our village to them, when I escape, and I will, I will find them and kill them.
Do not be quick to cast fingers in our time of trial, she answered him calmly, My father spoke to me of the Rakib Rak. They are known for their patience, days they will spend, hidden in the desert, watching, observing before calling their brethren to strike. Calling only as many as they need. Like a pack, they split us, cut us off from escape, those that broke off to flee merely became a fresh target, until those remaining were captured wholesale. Were were divided and they prevailed.
Where is Prophet Mephis? The young man asked. I have not seen him.
Three Rakib Rak scaled the north wall while the other nine circled before the south, taunting us out of range of our bows. My father saw them come over the walls, he shouted and charged them…but he was cut down. That was when the village fell.
I am sure Mephis finds his rest in the Bosom of Alam, he replied sombrely. Listen I think we can can…
He was interrupted by one of the sailors banging on the bars offering one of the ever increasingly common deals. As time on the ship passed, more and more the slaves became more resigned to their fate and more desirous of small comforts. Meat, instead of the bland grain meal, alcohol, instead of the sour tasting water, honey sweet confectionery instead of nothing at all. The sailors and deckhands offered these luxuries for services from the slaves. In her own hold, one of the girls had accepted the offer, likely one of the pistachio confectioneries, and got on her knees. The crook legged sailor dropped his flowing white pants revealing a sizable member, which he proffered between the bars. The black haired girl wrapped her small hand around the darkly tanned shaft and, holding it, brought the tip of the cock to her mouth. She bobbed her head up and down on the sailors cock while he moaned words of encouragement. At some point, he whispered something to her, the content of which became clear as with her free hand, she pulled down her dirty blue tunic exposing a large pair of tanned breasts topped with large dark nipples. They watched the girl pleasuring the sailor for a while, both were aroused by the scene, his arousal more noticeable than hers, but eventually, realizing the sailor was much too distracted to listen to them, turned to her and spoke again.
I think we can get out of here. I remember sailing these waters with my father to negotiate a new price for our dates. In seven days' time, we should stop by a large island to resupply. That will be our chance. Remember seven days.
And with that, he trailed off, the exertion of talking finally being to much for him. He shimmied himself back down onto the dirty straw and fell back into a deep sleep. She watched him for a moment, the slurping sounds of the girl and sailor filling the small hold.
Three days later, he was dead.
