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Youngbuffdumbledore
Planetoid
- Joined
- May 8, 2023
Part of the Tales of Slavery world
Hotaru stepped cautiously onto the gangplank, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. The salty tang of the sea mingled with the humid tropical air, a scent unfamiliar to her northern dwelling senses. The sun beat down upon her, its warmth contrasting sharply with the colder climes of her homeland.
As her sandaled feet touched the weathered wooden planks, her gaze was drawn to the bustling city that lay before her. Leutheros was a spectacle of grandeur and stark inequality that clashed violently in tight crowded confines. Tall, imposing buildings adorned with intricate arabesque designs stood tall, their architecture evoking awe and intimidation. Minarets stretched towards the sky, their onion domes plated in shimmering gold that caught the afternoon sun in a radiant brilliance.
With clanking manacles rubbing roughly on their wrists, the rest of the party stepped down from slave ship, clothes tattered after six weeks of constant wear. They were clean at least, having had sea water sluiced into the holds to make themselves a modicum of presentable to potential buyers. The slaves were sectioned off into groups, mostly by age or beauty. About three dozen young Hirohe were manacled together, the youngest and the most beautiful, except for a half dozen choice specimens. With a yank of the chain, the group was led off down one of the many streets leading out of the harbour, leaving their countrymen behind.
The streets were a mosaic of cultures and peoples. Hotaru saw men with turbans and flowing robes, adorned in vibrant colors, bustling about their business. Their voices echoed in a medley of tongues and dialects, a cacophony that overwhelmed her. The air was thick with the scent of spices and foreign foods, a pungent mixture that made her senses reel after weeks of bland porridge and pork fat.
The slaves were led along the bustling thoroughfare, their shackled feet dragging reluctantly on the cobbled streets. The market square was a whirlwind of activity, a chaotic dance of cultures, scents, and colors that assaulted their senses. As they moved past, Michiru 's eyes fell upon a mesmerizing sight - a Kabbadian spice stall that seemed to exude a brilliance of its own.
The air around the spice stall was a heady mixture of exotic fragrances. Piles of spices, like spring rainbows, adorned the stall—a breathtaking display of colors ranging from fire reds to sunshine yellows and earthy browns. Each spice was carefully arranged, showcasing the careful craftsmanship of the Kabbadians in their trade.
Michiru's gaze lingered on the spices, she had never seen such an array of flavors in her Shogunate, where simpler, more subtle spices were the norm. She imagined the mouth watering meals she could make just from the scents that filled the air. Here, the spices held a promise of culinary delights, though one's she quickly realized, that she was unlikely to partake.
She watched mournfully as the Kabbadian merchant, draped in opulent fabrics that shimmered under the sun, greeted passersby with a warm, welcoming smile. His subtle hands expertly scooped spices into ornate pouches, deftly negotiating with customers, and occasionally left his thumb on the scale when customers paid to lax attention. The rattle of coins, the haggling of prices, and the laughter of (mostly) satisfied customers created a lively symphony that seemed to drown the sorrows of those in bondage.
Reiko Kirishima followed behind Michiru. Her gaze was drawn to the approach of a foreboding procession. The Rakkib Rak, the dreaded slave hunters of Kabbadian lore, emerged from the bustling street ahead. Cloaked in garments as dark as the abyss, their robes bore intricate gold trim that glinted ominously in the harsh light of the sun. The contrast of their attire against the vibrant tapestry of the city only served to emphasize the malevolent aura that surrounded them. A storm cloud on an otherwise clear day.
The group moved with a calculated precision, their steps echoing authority and a bone-chilling cruelty. Their eyes, the only visible feature beneath the shadows of their hoods, gleamed with a cold determination that sent shivers down the spines of any who dared to meet their gaze. These were men who had made a dark art out of capturing and subduing the innocent, a skill they wielded with a cold, unfeeling mastery. As Reiko watched the silent group, she could not help but admire the fellow warriors. Their hands were relaxed, but never strayed more than a few inches from their scimitars. Even in what must have been a friendly city, and without saying a word, they seemed to position themselves as though expecting an ambush. Always on alert, always a show of quiet mastery.
Amidst the clinking of chains and the whispers of the crowd, a young Hirohe girl from the group, frail and wide-eyed, suddenly shivered and nearly collapsed at the sight of the Rakkib Rak, before the manacles taughtened and she was dragged back upright. Several of the group had been victims of the ruthless efficiency of the seemingly unstoppable slave hunters. Reliving the nightmares of their failed resistance and the presence of the Rakkib Rak brought it all back, vivid and raw
With the Rakkib Rak fading off into the distance behind them, the noises returned around the marching group. Ayane and Kasumi brought up the back of the group, occasionally looking at each other in support. Both of their heads turned to the left as a distant roar of the crowd reached her ears, carried on the stifling breeze. As they emerged from the maze-like streets to a large piazza along the canal, they saw a small coliseum, rickety wooden benches extended around the old stonework, where cheers erupted like a tempest.
As the group neared, they found themselves in the heart of the Dulae Quarter. Togas and tunics in various shades adorned both men and women, the fabrics ranging from vibrant hues to more subdued tones. Intricate jewelry graced their necks and wrists, adding a touch of opulence to their attire.
The coliseum's entrance was flanked by tall pillars, their weathered stone bearing the marks of time and use. Beyond them, the event had captivated the audience, who cheered and jeered with fervor. The clamor of the crowd echoed in the air, creating a feverish atmosphere that made Ayane's skin prickle with unease.
Outside the coliseum, a chain of slaves stood, their faces etched with pain and defeat. They were the unfortunate ones, the maimed and the failed—slaves who were no longer useful for the gladiatorial matches. Kasumi's heart ached at the sight. The chained men were all Cersans, their striking red hair and fair skin would have made Kasumi stare in wonder if she was not starring in pity. Their bodies bore the marks of their struggle, limbs missing, scars of twisted flesh, limps and other deformities of battle.
The overseers herded the failed slaves away. They were to be repurposed, destined for the harsh confines of the mines. Kasumi shuddered at the prospect, though she did not know where, she realized that a brutal fate awaited those who were not deemed fit for the coliseum.
She averted her gaze only to stumble upon an even more horrific sight—the lifeless bodies of slaves being callously tossed into the canal. Some slaves didn't make it out of the coliseum at all. The bodies stained the waters red as they floated down the water out towards the nearby harbour.
The Hirohe slaves, hearts heavy with the indignity they had witnessed, were forced to pause on the bustling street to make way for a procession of Brigantian nobles returning from a safari with their cruel trophies. As the procession passed, Rei couldn't avert her eyes from the sight.
The Brigantian nobles sat astride magnificently adorned horses, their expressions of triumph and entitlement evident. But it was what was behind them that caught her sight. Eight Malan girls, the unfortunate captives of their safari, walked a somber line, chains and manacles binding their necks. The Malan girls, bone white hair with ebony skin gleaming under the sun, were forced to walk with their large, naked breasts exposed. Their black nipples bounced invitingly with each step. Their wide hips and round ass were shamelessly on display, bared erotically for all to see. A simple loin cloth barely covered their front. Rei starred at the departing procession, watching their bare asses as they swayed the hint of lips underneath.
As the procession passed the slave masters yanked on the chains and the group began walking once more. In the distance they could see a crowded square, filled with shouts and raised hands. It became clear that their destination awaited. At the corner of the square, the group passed an open door. Ai and Mai turned their heads to look inside.
In the dim, flickering light of lanterns, they saw the Trovian sea masters seated on rough-hewn wooden benches, surrounded by an aura of boisterous revelry. The scent of ale spilled out the door, mixed with the fragrant aroma of roasted meats and burning wood. Many of the toasting and roaring men had concubines sitting on their laps.
The two girls observed the concubines as they sipped wine with their masters. Some of the concubines seemed resigned, trepidated by what there future might hold, finding solace in the numbness of the wine. Mai gazed longingly at the warmth and camaraderie within the den. Even on the confines of the ship, rumours had spread of the possible options available to the slaves. The Trovian concubines were offered a level of intimacy and relative freedom that almost no other slave possessed. It was an escape from the relentless toil and dehumanization that awaited many. For Mai, it almost seemed like a guiltless way out from her celibate lifestyle. For Ai, tales of Trovian concubines being cherished, educated, and often even treated as family gave her a precarious hope of a return to normalcy that was her life in the monastery. Though as they continued to watch, they both remembered what the trade off of such a future held. They watched a Kabbadian girl, sitting on a blonde giant's lap, his strong muscled arm reaching down into her shirt to fondle her chest. For her part she seemed to be enjoying the attention, one hand grasped a beaded flagon of cool ale, the other was in his pants eagerly stroking him. Mai and Ai reacted oppositely to the sight.
As they continued their march towards the looming slave auction, the door of the Trovian den swung shut behind them. The brief glimpse into that world of duality, of Masters and concubines, faded from view.
Setsuna was first in line as they approached the open-air slave auction, the heart-wrenching sight of the raised wooden platform pierced through the core of Setsuna's being. It stood like a stage, a bleak theatre of human misery. The auction square was a sea of faces—some impassive, some leering with a twisted sense of desire. Setsuna's heart pounded in her chest.
Auctioneers, clad in ornate garments and wielding mallets, stood ready to conduct the sale. The platform bore the weight of countless victims, the wood stained with the tears and blood. On one side of the square, there were merchants assessing the merchandise—slaves like cattle, examined for their strength, health, and appearance. The most disturbing sight was a man squeezing the breasts of a women without an ounce of lust in his eyes. As though she really was just an animal to be weighed and measured.
A man stepped forward with a set of keys, he unlocked Setsune's shackles. The relief was soon replaced with dread as she realised she was next.
Hotaru stepped cautiously onto the gangplank, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. The salty tang of the sea mingled with the humid tropical air, a scent unfamiliar to her northern dwelling senses. The sun beat down upon her, its warmth contrasting sharply with the colder climes of her homeland.
As her sandaled feet touched the weathered wooden planks, her gaze was drawn to the bustling city that lay before her. Leutheros was a spectacle of grandeur and stark inequality that clashed violently in tight crowded confines. Tall, imposing buildings adorned with intricate arabesque designs stood tall, their architecture evoking awe and intimidation. Minarets stretched towards the sky, their onion domes plated in shimmering gold that caught the afternoon sun in a radiant brilliance.
With clanking manacles rubbing roughly on their wrists, the rest of the party stepped down from slave ship, clothes tattered after six weeks of constant wear. They were clean at least, having had sea water sluiced into the holds to make themselves a modicum of presentable to potential buyers. The slaves were sectioned off into groups, mostly by age or beauty. About three dozen young Hirohe were manacled together, the youngest and the most beautiful, except for a half dozen choice specimens. With a yank of the chain, the group was led off down one of the many streets leading out of the harbour, leaving their countrymen behind.
The streets were a mosaic of cultures and peoples. Hotaru saw men with turbans and flowing robes, adorned in vibrant colors, bustling about their business. Their voices echoed in a medley of tongues and dialects, a cacophony that overwhelmed her. The air was thick with the scent of spices and foreign foods, a pungent mixture that made her senses reel after weeks of bland porridge and pork fat.
The slaves were led along the bustling thoroughfare, their shackled feet dragging reluctantly on the cobbled streets. The market square was a whirlwind of activity, a chaotic dance of cultures, scents, and colors that assaulted their senses. As they moved past, Michiru 's eyes fell upon a mesmerizing sight - a Kabbadian spice stall that seemed to exude a brilliance of its own.
The air around the spice stall was a heady mixture of exotic fragrances. Piles of spices, like spring rainbows, adorned the stall—a breathtaking display of colors ranging from fire reds to sunshine yellows and earthy browns. Each spice was carefully arranged, showcasing the careful craftsmanship of the Kabbadians in their trade.
Michiru's gaze lingered on the spices, she had never seen such an array of flavors in her Shogunate, where simpler, more subtle spices were the norm. She imagined the mouth watering meals she could make just from the scents that filled the air. Here, the spices held a promise of culinary delights, though one's she quickly realized, that she was unlikely to partake.
She watched mournfully as the Kabbadian merchant, draped in opulent fabrics that shimmered under the sun, greeted passersby with a warm, welcoming smile. His subtle hands expertly scooped spices into ornate pouches, deftly negotiating with customers, and occasionally left his thumb on the scale when customers paid to lax attention. The rattle of coins, the haggling of prices, and the laughter of (mostly) satisfied customers created a lively symphony that seemed to drown the sorrows of those in bondage.
Reiko Kirishima followed behind Michiru. Her gaze was drawn to the approach of a foreboding procession. The Rakkib Rak, the dreaded slave hunters of Kabbadian lore, emerged from the bustling street ahead. Cloaked in garments as dark as the abyss, their robes bore intricate gold trim that glinted ominously in the harsh light of the sun. The contrast of their attire against the vibrant tapestry of the city only served to emphasize the malevolent aura that surrounded them. A storm cloud on an otherwise clear day.
The group moved with a calculated precision, their steps echoing authority and a bone-chilling cruelty. Their eyes, the only visible feature beneath the shadows of their hoods, gleamed with a cold determination that sent shivers down the spines of any who dared to meet their gaze. These were men who had made a dark art out of capturing and subduing the innocent, a skill they wielded with a cold, unfeeling mastery. As Reiko watched the silent group, she could not help but admire the fellow warriors. Their hands were relaxed, but never strayed more than a few inches from their scimitars. Even in what must have been a friendly city, and without saying a word, they seemed to position themselves as though expecting an ambush. Always on alert, always a show of quiet mastery.
Amidst the clinking of chains and the whispers of the crowd, a young Hirohe girl from the group, frail and wide-eyed, suddenly shivered and nearly collapsed at the sight of the Rakkib Rak, before the manacles taughtened and she was dragged back upright. Several of the group had been victims of the ruthless efficiency of the seemingly unstoppable slave hunters. Reliving the nightmares of their failed resistance and the presence of the Rakkib Rak brought it all back, vivid and raw
With the Rakkib Rak fading off into the distance behind them, the noises returned around the marching group. Ayane and Kasumi brought up the back of the group, occasionally looking at each other in support. Both of their heads turned to the left as a distant roar of the crowd reached her ears, carried on the stifling breeze. As they emerged from the maze-like streets to a large piazza along the canal, they saw a small coliseum, rickety wooden benches extended around the old stonework, where cheers erupted like a tempest.
As the group neared, they found themselves in the heart of the Dulae Quarter. Togas and tunics in various shades adorned both men and women, the fabrics ranging from vibrant hues to more subdued tones. Intricate jewelry graced their necks and wrists, adding a touch of opulence to their attire.
The coliseum's entrance was flanked by tall pillars, their weathered stone bearing the marks of time and use. Beyond them, the event had captivated the audience, who cheered and jeered with fervor. The clamor of the crowd echoed in the air, creating a feverish atmosphere that made Ayane's skin prickle with unease.
Outside the coliseum, a chain of slaves stood, their faces etched with pain and defeat. They were the unfortunate ones, the maimed and the failed—slaves who were no longer useful for the gladiatorial matches. Kasumi's heart ached at the sight. The chained men were all Cersans, their striking red hair and fair skin would have made Kasumi stare in wonder if she was not starring in pity. Their bodies bore the marks of their struggle, limbs missing, scars of twisted flesh, limps and other deformities of battle.
The overseers herded the failed slaves away. They were to be repurposed, destined for the harsh confines of the mines. Kasumi shuddered at the prospect, though she did not know where, she realized that a brutal fate awaited those who were not deemed fit for the coliseum.
She averted her gaze only to stumble upon an even more horrific sight—the lifeless bodies of slaves being callously tossed into the canal. Some slaves didn't make it out of the coliseum at all. The bodies stained the waters red as they floated down the water out towards the nearby harbour.
The Hirohe slaves, hearts heavy with the indignity they had witnessed, were forced to pause on the bustling street to make way for a procession of Brigantian nobles returning from a safari with their cruel trophies. As the procession passed, Rei couldn't avert her eyes from the sight.
The Brigantian nobles sat astride magnificently adorned horses, their expressions of triumph and entitlement evident. But it was what was behind them that caught her sight. Eight Malan girls, the unfortunate captives of their safari, walked a somber line, chains and manacles binding their necks. The Malan girls, bone white hair with ebony skin gleaming under the sun, were forced to walk with their large, naked breasts exposed. Their black nipples bounced invitingly with each step. Their wide hips and round ass were shamelessly on display, bared erotically for all to see. A simple loin cloth barely covered their front. Rei starred at the departing procession, watching their bare asses as they swayed the hint of lips underneath.
As the procession passed the slave masters yanked on the chains and the group began walking once more. In the distance they could see a crowded square, filled with shouts and raised hands. It became clear that their destination awaited. At the corner of the square, the group passed an open door. Ai and Mai turned their heads to look inside.
In the dim, flickering light of lanterns, they saw the Trovian sea masters seated on rough-hewn wooden benches, surrounded by an aura of boisterous revelry. The scent of ale spilled out the door, mixed with the fragrant aroma of roasted meats and burning wood. Many of the toasting and roaring men had concubines sitting on their laps.
The two girls observed the concubines as they sipped wine with their masters. Some of the concubines seemed resigned, trepidated by what there future might hold, finding solace in the numbness of the wine. Mai gazed longingly at the warmth and camaraderie within the den. Even on the confines of the ship, rumours had spread of the possible options available to the slaves. The Trovian concubines were offered a level of intimacy and relative freedom that almost no other slave possessed. It was an escape from the relentless toil and dehumanization that awaited many. For Mai, it almost seemed like a guiltless way out from her celibate lifestyle. For Ai, tales of Trovian concubines being cherished, educated, and often even treated as family gave her a precarious hope of a return to normalcy that was her life in the monastery. Though as they continued to watch, they both remembered what the trade off of such a future held. They watched a Kabbadian girl, sitting on a blonde giant's lap, his strong muscled arm reaching down into her shirt to fondle her chest. For her part she seemed to be enjoying the attention, one hand grasped a beaded flagon of cool ale, the other was in his pants eagerly stroking him. Mai and Ai reacted oppositely to the sight.
As they continued their march towards the looming slave auction, the door of the Trovian den swung shut behind them. The brief glimpse into that world of duality, of Masters and concubines, faded from view.
Setsuna was first in line as they approached the open-air slave auction, the heart-wrenching sight of the raised wooden platform pierced through the core of Setsuna's being. It stood like a stage, a bleak theatre of human misery. The auction square was a sea of faces—some impassive, some leering with a twisted sense of desire. Setsuna's heart pounded in her chest.
Auctioneers, clad in ornate garments and wielding mallets, stood ready to conduct the sale. The platform bore the weight of countless victims, the wood stained with the tears and blood. On one side of the square, there were merchants assessing the merchandise—slaves like cattle, examined for their strength, health, and appearance. The most disturbing sight was a man squeezing the breasts of a women without an ounce of lust in his eyes. As though she really was just an animal to be weighed and measured.
A man stepped forward with a set of keys, he unlocked Setsune's shackles. The relief was soon replaced with dread as she realised she was next.