Island of False Hopes (Dream and Findarato)

[Findarato]

The last two months had been a nightmare for Oliver. He had inherited his father's business of shoe-making, making little profit as he was heavily taxed by his kingdom. In despair and realizing he would never amount to anything, he forsook his business and entered a tournament. The winner of this tournament was promised to have a free, carefree life on an unheard of island. Having a natural ability as an athlete, Oliver was able to come out on top in the obstacle course and win it all.

He left immediately the next day on a ship. There were many other people on the ship and Oliver wondered why, and after asking around he had learned they were various winners of other tournaments in different lands. This was hardly reassuringly as it led him to suspect that there was only to be another tournament to see the winner of the winners, however the crew of the ship assured him that it was not so- they would be apart of the island together. Oliver had his doubts, but they were removed quickly when the passengers started to discuss what they would do on this island, most of the males eying up the female winners and considering to take them as their wives.

The weather around them started to get colder and colder, and Oliver's doubts returned. There was no possible way that this island would be any enjoyable if it was this cold. The crew reassured the passengers once again saying that it was a seasonal thing, and they kept their silence. Oliver remained doubtful, and when they arrived on the pitiful island, he realized it was not a paradise but a prison. There was a half erected fortress with numerous humans working on constructing it. Before Oliver could even consider the possibilities of escape, he found himself being pushed off the boat onto the dock, only to be manhandled by a man supremely larger than him and stripped of his clothes as well as the other 'winners' he was with. Just as he thought his life was going to get better, it turned out significantly worse than his life as a shoe-maker. He suddenly found himself as a slave of constructing this fortress and none of the slaves he knew had no idea why it was being built.

He found himself working on digging to create a moat in front of the walls of the fortress, unable to realize why as the fortress already had the biggest moat of all surrounding it- an entire ocean. It only added to his anger and despair. He had lost the will to live and seemed to survive day by day barely with an empty stomach constantly. He had been a joyful, blonde hair and blue eyed young man when he had got on the island, and two months later he found himself with an unshaven face to help with the cold, his blue eyes losing their tone of life and appearing dead and empty. He was a tall man, nearly six feet in size but his lust for light fading, he constantly stooped to appear shorter than he was in attempt to not gather guard's attention. He had been strong, healthy before - now he was just a fragment of his former self, the hunger had made him more frail than before and while he built new muscles from his heavy labor, his body constantly ate at them from the lack of food.

For the first time in two months, he saw a new boat coming to the dock. "Hope they know what's coming to them," he muttered to a fellow slave who did not respond, standing up straight and resting his hands on his shovel with his chin plopping down on top of them. His small break was short lived as a guard immediately noticed him ceasing to work- Oliver was rewarded with a sharp whip across his back that made him cry out before he started to dig once more into the seemingly rock hard earth.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  The warped, somewhat moist wooden planks proved as a poultice to the women's bruises. Her sandy, somewhat bronzed flesh was riddled with tumid, purplish colored blotches, the result of several broken blood vessels. The instant she discovered the true motives behind her escorters, she grew wild. Her ecru-colored eyes went white with rage though she seemed visually nonchalant. She had not fought the guards though they felt threatened by her complaisance and, in return, beat her. Halfway to their destination they began questioning her though she did not reply. Seldom did even a peep flee from her full lips even when they were driving their boots against her backside. She recalled several of the guards mentioning that her clothing wasn't the typical garb one would adorn in this particular climate. They came to a conclusion and confiscated her apparel which included a woolen cardigan and a shawl with a foreign pattern on it. As she stood before them half-naked, one guard extended a shaky finger choppily point at her brands.
  
  They were tribalistic, something he had never seen before in his life, or so he had claimed. They twisted around her shoulder blades in intricate detail then wrapped around her biceps and forearms, even going so far as to paint her long fingers. "Those are a curse," one man spat as he grabbed her, "She is a curse! She's from the desert. They're foul people ... dark and ritualistic. She'll cast a spell on us all and sink this ship!" The men regarded each other and belted out with laughter. "No such things exist!" claimed one of the men, a guard who seemingly had higher authority. "The desert people were purged years and years ago because of the hubris of people such as yourself; you're paranoid. Everyone else was, too. That's why these beautiful ... beautiful people don't exist anymore." He approached the desert woman with a lustful grin on his lips then lifted her chin with his calloused fingers. "We are so very fortunate to have found you. The Architect will be rather pleased that we've discovered such a rare gem."
  
  The following afternoon the woman, already fingered as a desert remnant, was thrust into the frigid outdoors with nothing more then a make-shift spade and the scowl on her exotic face. "Don't sneer at me like that, precious," the guard chortled. He was a rather sizable man for one his age, young but spry with thin, probing eyes. He could tell that the nameless desert woman was not deterred by her working conditions. Undoubtedly, years of walking through sand would have developed callouses on her feet which would make her job much easier. She stood in silence and watched him, peering into his soul with her fervent light eyes. "What the fuck are you looking at!? Get to work!" He furled his tight fists around her forearms then thrust her into the mud. Slaves with longevity laughed though they were thwarted by the guard's piercing cry. "Get back to work! All of you!" His booming tone broke the hawkish air. He could all do but mock the woman as she stood, her shapely frame littered in blotches of wet earth and grime.

 

[Findarato]

Oliver knew better than to look up after receiving the sharp lash of a whip against his back. He gritted his teeth together, keeping his eyes on the ground as his shovel attempted to pummel at the ground- a task that he decided at this rate would take a year to complete unless if they devised a better method. The area was filled with the grunts of men and woman and the sound of iron hitting into the hard earth until laughter broke out amongst the slaves only to be silenced by a screaming, nearly maniac guard. Oliver hadn't seen what was going on, but he glanced up subtly between shovelfuls, watching a woman who had just gotten up from being thrown into the ground.

He cringed at the sound of the guard, inwardly speaking to himself, "Start digging you stupid girl before he goes berserk."

Looking back down didn't do much good for Oliver, there was something about the woman that drew him in. He kept stealing glances at her- she seemed exotic and totally out of place in the harsh climate, but not at the same time. There was something different to her, it was more than the climate was out of place and did not belong in her presence, even despite her body covered in dirt and her obviously already bruised body. Oliver had to hold his breath to admire her briefly, slowing down his work dramatically but not enough to gain anyone's attention, for most of it was on the woman. He busily sped up again, not wanting to receive the whip again.

"Start digging," he repeated, hoping she would soon before there was more trouble.

"What are you looking at, stupid bitch?!" The guard cried out. "Don't you know how to dig?!" He seemed more afraid of her than she was of him, though he quickly decided to change that as he signaled to his comrade behind the woman, who proceeded to lash his whip out at her back.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  Like a fierce, howling desert storm the women cried out in rage and agony. The guard seemed almost pleased with the fact that he was able to provoke emotion from her and shortly thereafter skulked away with an egotistical grin twisting from ear to ear. This scenario painfully reminded her of what things were like in the desert just as the purge was commenced. Whips cracked like lightening would rip across the shrouded sky; brother would be pitted against brother for the prize of potentially being exempt from the purge; people would point and cry out, beckoning for one to slaughter the other, watching, not putting an end to the madness as she had attempted to on several accounts. But, at the time, her will was useless if not broken.
  
  For an instant, she turned her head to scorn those mocking her. There was a moment where she eyed a man who had a very kind aura, but his back was turned and he seemed very determined to complete the task at hand. She lifted her hand and wiped away the mud from her face, smearing it further over her eyelashes and cheekbones. Her hair was slick, wet against her face with mud and water while her clothing was heavy and laden with caked on earth and globules of freshly churned grime. She gripped the shovel's hilt. It was a slow, drawn out process; she swore to herself that she could feel the untreated wood splintering into her hands. But she said nothing. For an hour she dug alongside the stranger, a silent man, but one who had earned the attention of the guards on several ocassions. They would pace by with their gilded weapons while snacking on what seemed to be the leftover remnants of cold mutton. From time to time she contemplated stealing it, but her rational mind had said otherwise.
  
  When night fell - and her hands were throbbing with protest - the guards swarmed in and grunted. It was the Architect's command to let the slaves rest every night or they would be "useless" and "incapable of completing his masterpiece". Each one was escorted into the barracks. It was a large, underground chamber already constructed. From the looks of things, it had been carved from obsidian; the walls were jagged like diamond in some places, smooth in others. "You're all done for the night," grunted one of the guards. He waved about his mutton tauntingly then took an unesscarily large bite. Though the slaves were treated horribly while on duty, their living conditions could be considered luxurious. There were hard, gaudy cots littered about in chambers that divided the cell. The walls were draped in low-lit torches embedded within the obsidian and tables spotted certain areas next to the cells.
  
  As the men and women swarmed in, the woman took a particular interest in an untouched cell near the far end of the chamber. Though the blanket on the cot was disturbed - and there was flecks of mud everywhere - she felt she could rest. She reached to her back to gauge the severity of her wound; it was still wet, but from blood or mud she could not tell. From time to time she found herself glancing back to the stranger. She waltzed over and parted her lips only to turn her back and slide down the seeming of her bandeau with her thumb. A red gash ran up and down her back; split flesh, revealing tumid muscle underneath. "How ..." she stopped. It was difficult speaking common language. "How bad ... how bad is it?"

 

[Findarato]

The cry that resounded in the air was heard by everyone. Oliver's eyes closed to try to block it out of his mind but his ears were too alert, and he felt the cracking of the whip across his own back in his mind as if it hurt him as well. I can't stand this place... he thought to himself for the numerous time today.

He felt the woman's eyes on him briefly. He did not return the gesture as he would much rather prefer not to receive another whip to his back. Before long, the woman was near him, her inexperienced hands trying to dig out the earth beneath them. It was painful to hear her dig- he could tell that she was going to be inefficient for quite some time and the guards would notice, so he himself deliberately slowed down to her pace. Known as a good worker amongst the guards, they took note of Oliver's slowed progress and barked at him. Oliver, in fear of getting whipped, immediately sped up as he hoped it was enough to keep their eyes off of the new female.

Oliver's body had become accustomed to the work schedule and he knew it wasn't long before they would be told to stop. He didn't feel liberated as the command came, merely set his shovel near a wall where they all piled theirs' up and proceeded to go back to the barracks as if nothing happened.

He found himself laying on his own cot, his hand folded upon his chest as he stared up in the poorly lit chamber. Before long, the woman had ventured in, and looking seemingly lost, decided that she preferred the cot across from him. He tilted his head to watch her before glancing upwards. It was one of the things he hated most about those keeping them in slavery, they did not force the women and men to separate but if there was a woman caught pregnant, she would be killed on the spot. He sighed to himself as he thought about it, and before long the new comer was looking at him and asking in a forced attempt in a language that clearly wasn't her native how her wound was.

"Well," he said, sitting up slowly. He offered her a forced, friendly smile instead of using too many words to compensate for the language barrier. He stood up and took a knee in front of her, motioning for her to turn with the movement of his hand and finger. "Let me have a look." His voice was well rehearsed in the language they were using, and despite his rather ghostlike appearance, his voice was strong and almost encouraging in a place like this.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  Even with the strong, welcoming tone of his voice, she still felt at unease. Her eyes were sullen, riddled with grief, but still held their original passionate, wild valor. She briefly wondered if the wound severed one of the tattoos she had been sporting, but the notion was quick to wane. She wished her pain had done the same. Her whole body was trembling but it took all of her willpower to stop it from doing so. She ached; her stomach was empty, back burning and legs buzzing like some insect's insufferable existence. She held still as a guard paced by, his eyes stony though apparent through the low light. Another slave caught his attention so he passed by the pair without much further interest.
  
  "How long have you been on this island for?" she questioned dully. With each word that passed through her full lips, her foreign twang seemed to disappear. Her voice itself was deep and low; rich, if anything, and teeming with power. Within the desert mesa she was considered a tyrant. Now she was nothing but an insignificant slave. During the silence she raised her head and glanced at an opening in the stone - outside snow began to fall. It glowed in the darkness, resting on bare edges outdoors and creating a thick blanket. Already she began pining for the deserts warm embrace. Slaves had huddled together for warmth. Here, even those that were too proud or too coy couldn't resist.
  
  "It's pulsating," she commented. Her eyes scanned the floor, toes unintentionally curling. "Can you feel it? The ground ... like drums of war ... humming." For a moment she was foolhardy enough to believe this fortress in progress was alive.

 

[Findarato]

The guard stopped briefly to look at them, Oliver wished he wasn't on his knees in front of the woman as he felt the guard's eyes tearing into his back like a whip. He breathed with relief as soon as he heard the heavy boots proceeding to go down the stony hallway.

"Two months," he said, leaning away from her to give her room and appear to not intrude. His eyes stared at her in wonder, her voice seemed to change on the spot though very gradually, and it left Oliver confused. He decided best not to ask, she seemed to be from a completely different world from his own. "Listen," Oliver said, trying to snap out of the trance that was the result of the effect her voice had on him, "Do whatever the guards ask. It's the best way to survive. Don't get too much attention and do what they say, alright?" He asked. It was one thing to see a man whipped and it was a completely different matter to see a woman whipped. "And," he said quickly before she could respond, taking her hands and reaching into his person, pulling out a small bundle of cloth. "Your hands are soft," he explained as he wrapped the fabric around her palms, "put these on whenever we are forced to work, they will keep you warmer and save your hands from this." He showed her his own palms, that were agitated with redness as well as calloused heavily, the texture of them appearing rough to touch.

"What?" He asked, staring down at the floor briefly, only to find her toes curling far more interesting. "I have not.." his blue eyes raised up to meet her own, "noticed such a thing before."