Campaign Old Lords and New Blood: I

[Revenchent]

900 ABY
Zygerria
Music


It was a time unlike any other, and yet so terribly similar to the dull drudgery of perpetuity as to be indistinguishable from what had come before.

This was the graveyard of empires. The final resting place of the ambitions of men and women one might have considered great, were they not endowed with the curse of perspective. The wheel had turned in the direction of order, and so too had it whirled into the realm of chaos. To live now, in the ashes of what once was, is to be a single life in a sea of unremembered trillions. The age of heroes and kings is long past now. Not even the masters of the long dark remain - all is forgotten, all is dust, and amidst the ashes rage the perpetual forces of anarchy.

Once, this realm was washed clean in the radiance of the Light. The Ashla, they called her, the holy goddess. Her warm embrace extended across the stars, smothering the flame of the Sith until it was naught but embers. Yet, her realm was a mortal one, and upon the untimely death of its emperor, mortal quandaries made themselves known.

The church has shattered, its grip on thousands of systems slipping away as the seeds of doubt began to take root. Little remains of the once stalwart kingdom, save for scattered churches, local nobles, and warlords claiming their will to power through faith. In the absence of a higher authority, those shadows which the Ashlans sought to cast out too have slowly begun to crawl out of their hiding places.

Of all the malignant creatures, the Zygerrians are both the proudest and worst of them. Renowned slavers whose entire society revolves around the concept of dominating other living beings, when the Kaiser died, they wasted little time in returning to their ancient ways. Dozens of systems were plundered. hundreds of thousands thrown into bonds. Nearly as many were slaughtered with wanton abandon. for the Zygerrians had stifled their innate need for cruelty for nearly two decades, and when it was unleashed, they indulged it with a hedonism the likes of which the Wyl Sector had not seen in centuries.

These are the beings that have captured you. These are the creatures that would call themselves your lords, who demand your submission and gift you with the edges of blades and the crack of the whip should you so much as dare to look them in the eye. They ready themselves now, rebuilding their ancient empire off the backs of you and your fellow slaves, the terribly beautiful spires that stretch toward the heavens from atop their flat mesas built upon the bones of thousands of your compatriots.

They house you in ramshackle camps just beyond the boundaries of the capital city. Here, you have toiled for weeks on end, sweating and bleeding until the twin moons grow high and your overseers grow too drunk on their wine to care that you might be sleeping. The days are long and sweltering, the air caked with dust, sweat, and the scent of hundreds of bodies rotting under an apathetic sun. You have no home or any true semblance of shelter, for you are the lowest of the low, a replaceable dreg provided with only enough rations to keep your body from eating itself until it has been worn of its use. You sleep in the open, rain or shine, utilizing old parchments of clothing and whatever soft trash you might find to serve as blankets and pillows.

The days are long. The work begins as soon as the sun rises and ends only when the overseers grow bored. Any that leave the camp are shot, and those unlucky enough to be caught alive now linger over the camp on great wooden pillars, their skin flayed to expose reddened muscle and the bone beneath until they inevitably die of infection or hypothermia, screaming all the while. The overseers think them to be good motivators and take great pleasure in preparing their warnings. You are not even certain what you are building - some grand structure of massive obsidian pillars and sandstone foundations.

The twin moons are high in the sky now. Your overseers have gone to bed with their chosen wenches, so sloshed on their drinks that they pay no mind as the slaves begin to gather to tell stories and sing quiet songs. This is a rare opportunity to socialize and barter - use it well while you have it.

 

[Zoffe]

"You are a beast. A madclaw with no honor or hope to be redeemed. Fall forever from the great embrace of Mother Kashyyyk, never to return. Only death and shadow will greet you here, from this day on. Begone now Zoffe, son of Harwhul, may your life end far from here." - Chieftain Arrrgrur of the Wartaki Islands
​

These were the last words he'd heard in his mother tongue. That had been nearly half a galactic standard year ago. Zoffe was cast from his homeworld of Kashyyyk for the crime of being a Madclaw. It was a harsh sentence for any being, to be thrown from the place they had called home and sent into the plagued, unforgiving galaxy. It was a punishment that begged death and despair. It was a hell of a galaxy, but for his people it was even worse. They were not seen as people in the rest of the galaxy, they were beasts, primitive apes to be gaped at or pack mules to be herded and sold.

He hated the greater galaxy. Now it was guarantied to be his tomb. He mused on the irony. There was nothing larger than the galaxy, known and unknown, yet the freedom to travel it was nothing compared to the longing for his home, his wife and children, and all the familiarity of their island.

Now he was far from that life. He had found himself on a cesspool the native species called Zygerria. More specifically he had been transported to one of the hundreds of slave camps that coursed over the world. The day's work had just come to an end and it meant nothing. There was no reprieve or comfort that came from the end of their toils. They traded a day of labor for a night of discomfort and the potential to be harassed by those who declared themselves their masters. The walk from the construction grounds back to their "quarters" was a brief one, but for the slave laborers who have been working for hours on end it may as well have been miles. The first few weeks of labor had not been so bad, but it was endless without break or pause and in time even those aliens with the strongest of bodies found themselves worn to ragged shells.

They drug into their sleeping grounds and Zoffe was among those who did not immediately collapse onto the ground for a rest. No, he made his way towards the opposite side of the camp, where rations for the week were being distributed. The large gray-furred wookie had noticed it was best to get in line early. The overseers grew bored of passing out the food quickly and those who lagged behind either suffered abuse or a hastily picked and lacking portion were thrown to them. Mostly so the overseers could get on with their evenings, but also to see who were stupid enough to complain. There was always one or two dumb enough to try.

Zoffe had not complained. He was quiet, even among his people he did not care to speak more than necessary. So it was to no surprise when he stood in line in silence, received his small handful of ration packets, and turned to leave the line.

"Please, gods please I need more!"

Zoffe huffed softly, turning back to see the display in the line. His green-brown eyes turned to see a young Twi'lek. A boy perhaps eighteen moons old, maybe less. He fell to his knees as the overseer raised a cane. "You miserable slug! You dare speak to me?! Make demands of me?!" The cane came down hard on the boy's shoulder, but it was merely a tactic to pull the man's arms from over his head. When his head was freed, another hard blow came down on the crown of his head, causing the Twi'leks blue skin to split open, crimson blood flowing freely down the side of his head. "Please!" He begged.

The beating ceased, but not from any concept of compassion. Beatings took time, time that the overseer could put into the ration line and pull him from this miserable company. "Go!" The Zygerrian slaver growled at the boy. The boy stood up, collecting his portion of rations and hurriedly turning away from the man who'd beat him. As Zoffe turned from the scene, the young boy made eye contact with him. For whatever reason, the twi'lek took this as some kind of invitation. He came oddly close to the Wookie, speaking lowly. "A little trick." The boy muttered, showing the portion he'd swept up from the dirt. It was noticeably larger than the original allotment he'd been given, yet he quickly stuffed it in the brown pouch on his waist. "Cost me a few lashes but it could have been worse, y'know?"

Zoffe's silence spoke volumes as he continued away from the line. Turning past those who came into the camp, he made his way further from the masses, closer to where his own bed area was. Still, the boy chattered.

"Not so bad here, y'know. I come from a camp on the other side of the Capitol. Overseers there make these ones seem like kittens." The boy had an all too cheerful chuckle to follow his words. "Over here? I know i could lift plenty of rations from the stores...definitely enough for myself. Thing is I'm pretty weak, if the others see me with this many rations they'll know I am easy pickings...but with a big ol' wookie like you around..." He trailed off and Zoffe's steps came to a halt, he glanced down to the boy for a moment before letting out a small huff.

"Do you...know what I'm saying? Do you understand basic?" The boy spoke slower, annunciating clearer. The only response this elicited was a slow, deliberate nod from Zoffe.

"Ah! Great! So whaddya say? I'll be able to get you a lot more rations then-"

A massive grey hand rose up, sliding around the twi'leks throat. Zoffe's grip was as iron, months toiling had done little to relieve him of his unnatural strength. The moment his hand clasped around the boy's throat, he squeezed tight, cutting off all air and with it that infernal chattering that came from his lips. He did still try, but to no avail. No more words came from his lips. It was quiet, save for the few hushed gasps coming from the man caught in Zoffe's grip. His other hand grabbed at the boy's pouch, sliding a claw over the strap to free it from his body. A soft growl escaped Zoffe, barely a whisper. A warning in his native tongue that any would understand.

Leave me alone.

He threw the boy back towards the path they had walked down. Desperate gulps of breath came from him while Zoffe turned back towards his bedroll. He had his food and now he wanted to eat and rest. More than that...

he wanted silence.

Revenchent

 

[Lothaire]

The days of toil were starting to wear at his soul.

At first, the once-prince had been a proud thing, resisting the threats and lashings as any proud man of Ession should. His people had been enslaved before, and he would not be broken so easily by savages such as these.

That had been his thought, anyway, but the days grew long, and any hope of rescue slowly petered out with the passing of time. It was a foolish notion to cling to in the first place, really. The nobles had sold him out, drugging his drink and sending him off to the Zygerrians in hopes of securing their own power on the homeworld while his father's empire crumbled around them. They did not care for the old man's vision, or for any notion of preserving his work and all the good it had brought to the Stygian Caldera. They sought power, and Lothaire had been foolish enough to think that their faith and their idealism bore greater weight than their greed.

Now he paid for that naivete with the sweat of his brow and the aching of his back. A full year had passed since then, each waking hour spent toiling in the fields or working to build some morose monument to the alien's glory. With each bite of the whip, every muttered insult, Lothaire's bitterness grew. As the reality set in that he'd truly been sent here to die, he'd begun to stop praying. The Ashla did not much care for him, he decided. She never really had in the first place.

His had been an inconvenient birth and his existence considered a mistake by his own father. The light of the goddess had ever eluded him, even as he'd prostrated himself to her and begged her forgiveness. He received naught but cold silence in return, and the steady gnashing of the Zygerrian's teeth as they prepared another lashing for his slacking work ethic.

He'd taken some refuge in one of the women. She did not speak basic, nor had they the time to do much beyond the simple things men and women did when alone. That too had been taken from him tonight. The Overseer had found her desirable, marked out his intentions, and swiftly removed one of Lothaire's fingers when the youth attempted to resist.

The woman was gone, and he was left alone, rewrapping the bloodied stub that had once been his pinky for the fifth time that night and watching as Zoffe drew his massive paws about the throat of some unfortunate alien. In times past, Lothaire would have involved himself in that situation. As things were, he only sat back on his haunches and watched, swallowing what little remained of his rations.

"Poor idiot," he grunted, his voice hoarse and dry from lack of use. The stout man let his green eyes linger on the hulking Wookie, just long enough to make eye contact, before he turned his attention toward the tents of the overseers, his mind recoiling in disgust as it imagined the debauched horrors that might be taking place just beyond his vision.

"You should reserve your fury for the overseers brute." He spoke again, his deep baritone carrying just over the din of activity. "It is they who are most deserving." His gaze never left the tents, nor the shadows that danced within them. His good hand coiled around a lump of stone, feeling its weight as he fantasized bringing it down onto the skull of that alien degenerate that had taken his finger.

Zoffe

 

[Alethea Hesper]

The pungent stench of sweat both stale and fresh mingling with traces of other body fluids she would rather not name was almost tolerable now. That's how she knew she'd been here too long. Not long enough to lose the last crumbs of hope that she harbored. Not even long enough to feel the soul-crushing exhaustion permanently fix itself within her bones...but long enough. Sooner or later, it would claim her as it inevitably did everyone who suffered the endless days of monotonous labor and the short periods of 'rest' in between. The restless nights attempting to sleep on a hard surface, covered in literal scraps of garbage and the shredded clothing left behind by the deceased for some semblance of warmth and comfort.

Pale blue-green eyes fixated on nothing as the blur of shifting bodies passed before and around her. Miserable drones either collapsing into their little dirt beds, or rising from them on aching joints to limp through the maze of stinking flesh to get in line for their weekly rations. Alethea had already claimed hers, yet her lap was empty as she sat cross-legged. For the third week in a row, the same man had liberated her of the meager portions she'd earned. That didn't mean she didn't find other ways to eat. Clever ways. Naturally unfair ways...but what was fair about their existence now? It was survival of the fittest.

But in this slum, the fittest were rewarded with extended misery, while the malnourished found a quicker escape. Who was the real winner?

As she waited patiently in what appeared to be a melancholic daze, she wondered if this was anything like the slavery her mother endured, long ago. She never had the chance to ask. The woman abandoned her long before she could form a coherent sentence, and getting her father to open up about their past was a crapshoot on a good day. Intuition whispered 'no'. This was a special kind of hell. Nevertheless, for the first time in her life, Alethea was beginning to empathize on the decision she made.

A boisterous laugh snagged her attention. Boisterous was a bit of an exaggeration. It was closer to a conniving, gutteral sound of amusement. The recognition was what made it so sharp for her. Her gaze followed the source to the bearded, middle-aged man lumbering through the rows of beaten and exhausted slaves. Shaggy salt and pepper hair hung down his face and mingled in the greasy, unkempt facial hair. The generous portions he was doing a half-assed job at hiding on his person hinted at his greed. Or was it desperation? Hard to tell in a place like this, but Alethea knew one thing for certain. He was not keeping her share.

She let him play the bully for a while. She bided her time. Pushing her around and threatening her had come all to naturally for him, but while he reveled in his spoils, she watched and she waited. The man might have been a vulture throwing his weight around, but there was always a bigger fish in the sea. His luck would run out.

And it did, just as he was making his way past a small group of men sitting in a circle. Haggard and beaten as any other, but with the strength and fiery resentment still burning hot in their bloodstream. She didn't know their names, nor anything about their histories, but she knew their temperament. They hadn't been here long. She could feel the hatred brimming under the surface. Waiting for the final straw that would break their forced passivity. It was only a matter of time before they acted out and likely got themselves killed, and she was more than willing to utilize their pent up rage for her own benefit.

Eyes narrowing slightly, as if lost in thought, she focused silently on her thief. Honing in on one of his ankles. With a subtle twitch of two of her fingers, his foot inexplicably shot out from under him mid-stride and sent him careening down onto the huddled group. Like a match licking the fumes of gasoline, the shouts and curses that followed were what she expected. The flailing fists and boots in between heated accusations on both sides unraveled into a blur of impassioned violence that was a bit more than expected.

A small cloud of dust plumed into the air. Blood and spittle flicked as a tooth was cracked from its socket. The thief was quickly outnumbered and lost beneath the punishing violence that descended on him. He managed to roll out of their reach and stagger forward. Barreling, in his clumsiness, right into Zoffe and falling yet again over another body. Albeit a much more furry one. During the raucous, the rations he hoarded spilled and danced around the pairs' of feet lashing into his sides. In the distance, Zygerrian guards roared their own expletives and promises of pain and torment if they didn't break up their fighting immediately.

Alethea crouched down and crept closer to the traveling cloud of dust. Leery gaze snapping quickly to the approaching Zygerrians, and gauging their distance. Pale hand shot out from her ragged brown robes, streaky with dried, dirty sweat. In the height of the commotion, the carelessly displaced rations skated across the ground as if they were yanked by invisible fish hooks. Right into her waiting hands, which promptly stuffed them down the front of her robes and out of sight.

Lothaire

 

[Euric Shadowwalker]

Life in the slaveworks of Zygerria was hard. Euric had endured servitude as he had endured everything that had happened to him since his village had burned to the ground with his parents and siblings bodies among the ruins. He hated the guards, he hated the overseers, and he hated most of the other slaves; those that had broken. Euric walked as he ate, pausing occasionally to throw away detritus. Other slaves fought over the scraps. Euric ignored them. They were broken. They'd die soon, as happened to all slaves who broke.

As observed in his wanderings about the slave camps, A few among them had not. The Wook Zoffe was chief among those who served only for a chance to escape, to rip and tear the throats of their enslavers. They'd locked eyes more than once, and in that glance, much understanding had passed between them. Euric respected that one. If the time came, the Wook would undoubtedly fight hard.

Size wasn't everything, nor strength. It was the mind that broke, and Euric recognized cunning in the small lithe form of Alethea Hesper Brains counted for more than brutishness, and she was quick witted indeed. This earned Euric's respect as much as the Wook's strength. Both of them hadn't broken inside, where it mattered. They'd jump at a chance to get out of this hellhole.

Euric was carefully watched whenever he was near one of the guards, they all knew he had been a fighting slave, and he liked to intimidate them by getting close whenever possible. As long as it went no further they didn't punish him. And it gave him an easy way to appraise the guards, knowing which were sharp, which were alert, which were cowards. Prison gave you a lot of time to observe everyone else, he had found. He hadn't killed anyone for a week and he was in a foul temper. Killing a guard was out of the question, unless he was prepared to kill all of them.

Lothaire 's words carried to Euric's careful ear, and he moved in that direction, crouching down nearby. "I like the sound of that." He said, growling quietly and shielding his mouth with his hand in case the guards had macrobinoculars on them. Euric hated the overseers and would leap at a half chance to do some damage and get the hell out of this place. He wasn't going to damn well die here. Anything was better. "But if you call him names he's liable to rip your arms off. Im Euric. I rip arms off too, when it's called for." He smiled, not unfriendly in tone, but with the barest hint that he meant exactly what he was saying. In prison you spoke plainly.

Revenchent

 

[Shakhad Shahmo]

The debauched wasteland Zygerria had stagnated into was a breeding ground for monsters of all kinds, evils both lesser and greater. Born out of necessity, desire and outright cruelty alike. Which Shahkad had become, he could no longer say. At one time during the start of his capture the depths he had been driven to so he could merely cling to life, the acts he had been forced to commit in the name of survival, felt forced upon him. As though preying upon the weak was a mere fact of life in this place, that there was but no other option. Now, as he stared into the pleading eyes of another slave like himself, he wondered what if anything even seperated him from the monsters that had bought him here. But such contemplation was fleeting. A whining voice bought him back from his thoughts, to the here and now.

"L-listen," The sickly, emaciated, boil-covered wretch of a man stammered, his voice fraught with dread. "I-I wasn't able to get in line early enough this time, but I pro-- AHGK!" Shahkad's jagged metal shiv fell upon his splayed out fingers before he could even finish his pitiful excuse, ripping several of them away from his knuckles in a ragged slash that left the mutilated stubs squirting fresh crimson onto the dust. The dreg shook and heaved with laboured, shocked breaths. Scarcely able to look upon him any longer, Shahkad kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling out of the crude tent and into the dirt outside.

"Terms we gave you were clear, you really think we'd settle for this crap? This is a joke, you're lucky I don't slit your throat right here!" He asserted in a raspy voice thick in the rugged accent of a distant land, it spoke the common cant of the slaves with an apparent, broken lack of familiarity. Grasping the wholly alien tongue used by the dregs of this vile place proved an ever-elusive task, so distinct was it from anything he had once known. Only a handful of its words were known to him, yet still he remained determined to survive the trials of this labourous hell the same way he had prevailed in the sands of his homeland: by remaining strong, ruthless and forming ties only with those he deemed of some merit or use to his endurance. So far he had met few he could trust and virtually none he dared call a friend-- placing one's faith in the wrong man could easily be their undoing.

Thus he had clung closely to the side of the only kinsman and true companion he had left, another-- possibly the last beside himself --of his Clansmen who had been wisped off to this wretched hell alongside him, Salic Shahmo, a valiant yet wisened Tuskan Shaman he had confided in many times as a youth through trials thick and thin. The bond the two of them had shared was strong even before the Zygerrians had laid waste to their Clan and slaughtered their people, but since their capture it had grown virtually unbreakable. The last of their kind as far as either knew, each saw it as their duty to protect the other at any cost. Even if it came at the expense of their fellow slaves.

"These scraps aren't what we agreed, bring more rations next time. Or you shall loose more than a few fingers." Salic piped up as the two Tuskan emerged from the tent, looming over the wretch as he cradled his wound. With that he motioned for the dreg to run and watched as he wordlessly struggled to his feet and darted off into the camp. Shahkad could not help but contemplate, as he watched the man flee, how far the two marauders had fallen. Reduced from valiant warriors by their servitude to mere thugs with nothing to their name, least of all honour, shaking down the weakest of prey for what few morsels they had.

A mere few years ago, both had been valued and respected members of a renowned people known far and wide throughout the Raider Clans of Tatooine. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. Now their damnable captors had degraded them to rats, nothing more nothing less. Skulking through the shadows, preying on those they could and desperately avoiding those they could not. And there was no real purpose and no real reason left for any of it. Both liked to belive that, in surviving, they were carrying on the memory of what their people once were. But deep down each knew that was a vain hope, their kin had been scattered to the stars and neither could even begin to guess how far away they were from home. All they had left was the desperate push to just live.

"Shahkad! Look over there," Shahkad's brooding was cut short as he followed his kinsman's gaze, looking toward a sudden scuffle that had errupted between a few nameless slaves near the ration line. From what the duo could discern it seemed like a scrap for scraps between a nameless bunch of dregs-- a wookie, human and twi'lek all making desperate grabs for whatever they could get their hands on. It was a pitiful sight, but far from an uncommon one. This what they had broken them down to.

"Another one. Just keep your head down, because of that useless fool we'll need extra rations. Don't get involved, looks like the guards are pretty rattled up." With a shared nod, they cautiously made their way over to the line and took up a spot somewhat close to where the other cluster of slaves had gathered. Despite his better instinct and the warning from his kinsman, Shakhad still found himself listening in on their conversation. The rumblings of dissent carried in the words of these strangers stirred his deep hatred of the oppressors. The urge to engage felt irrisitable to him.

"Be careful talking like that," The Tuskan warned quietly in broken common, "I'd gut one of these bastards just as readily as any of you," He murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he brushed back his ragged robe slightly to reveal the crude shank stashed beneath it.

"But they could easily hear you out here and they've shot people for less. That fighting spirit needs to be kept alive. Better off keeping that talk to the tents." Realising he had eagerly jumped in without so much as even an introduction, he briskly added: "Name's Shakhad, by the way-- don't worry about the guy staring daggers at us right now, that's Salic," He grunted with a nod to his Tuskan companion "He's with me."

 

[Revenchent]

Overseer Hargen was having an unpleasant evening.

He'd never been keen on this sort of work. In his youth, during the days when he passed the time buried in holochronicles and leatherbacked books, he'd hoped to become a scholar. That dream had died with the rebirth of Zygerria's traditional industries. His family, notable enough to own property but nowhere near enough to have a proper say, jumped at the opportunity for advancement within the new regime. Hargen had not much cared for the prospect, but his mother, the matriarch of the family, had insisted he bear the 'noble title' of overseer so that his children might find a better place in their burgeoning empire.

Hargen had begrudgingly agreed. That had been nearly three years ago, and the remains of the ideals Hargen had once clung to were tattered and neglected things now. He'd grown accustomed to the weight of the whip in his hands, and where once the cries of the slaves had pulled at his heartstrings, he now regarded them in the same way a farmer might listen to his pigs snorting in displeasure. Minor annoyances at the best of times, and something to be silenced otherwise.

Hargen didn't like the work. Hated it, really. He would do his duty as it was required of him, but he'd grown rather well known for his hedonistic tendencies. The portly Zygerrian would indulge any desire so long as it took him from this constant drudgery of herding sentient beings. He was in the midst of doing just that when one of the guards came thudding up to his tent.

"Overseer Hargen we have an-" the young Zygerrian's words died in his throat as he peeled back the flap and froze at what he beheld.

Hargen's lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing long pointed fangs as he whirled on the guard and pulled his pants back up from where they hung at his knees. The slave girl, some blue skinned humanoid alien thing Hargen did not care to learn the name of, cowered from the both of them, shielding herself under the sheets of his cot.

"There had better be a riot going on out there Pilt." Hargen snarled at the younger Zygerrian.

"As a matter of fact sir, there is." Pilt's ears pulled back in a show of annoyance. The youth was a rising star amidst the slaver's guild - wholly dedicated, unflinching in his discipline, and more than eager to judge his superiors for perceived failings. The look in Pilt's orange, feline eyes told Hargen enough about what the star of Labor Camp Seven thought of him.

"What the hell are you botherin' me for then?" Hargen snarled as he reached for his sidearm and stuffed it drunkenly into his holster. "Fix it!"


-----

Fucking animals. Every last one of them. They couldn't stay still for a single night, and Pilt knew it was all the Overseer's fault. The old man was soft, his heart bleeding for lesser beings. Hargen would reap all the benefits of his position, but when things became difficult, it was always Pilt solving the problem.

A fight here. A minor uprising there. All things that could be easily quelled, if Hargen could let go of his effeminate sentimentality. Lashings weren't enough. Pilt glanced up to one of the bloodied, skinned corpses that now rotted on a wooden pillar just on the outskirts of camp. If he had his way, the entire rim of the camp would be decorated with such cadavers. They'd never hear a word of resistance ever again.

"If any of these animals so much as look at me, shoot them." Pilt snapped off to his compatriots, ten men of similar rank that paid him obedience out of respect rather than any decorum of title. It took little time to reach the ration line. Pilt uncurled his favored whip, a long metal thing affixed with edged blaces at its ends, and promptly brought it snapping onto the back of one of the men tussling over lost rations. The human collapsed immediately, howling like the pig that he was as Pilt brought the whip down again, tearing bloody fissures through the man's back.

One of the human's companions whirled on him, rage flashing in his eyes. Pilt raised his blaster pistol from its holster and poured five shots into the man's chest without so much as a twitch of his lips, his expression that of stone.

"Prostrate yourselves if you wish to live." He snapped in heavily accented basic. those still within the line did so or were whipped until they fell to their knees.

Pilt glanced over those nearby. His gaze settled on the wookie Zoffe , his fingers tightening about the whip in his hand. One of the slaves had tumbled over the beast, and Pilt was considering dishing out punishment for his involvement. Staring at the beast stirred something within him though, the slightest kernel of fear. Pilt's feline features pressed into a scowl as he whirled then, gaze settling on the retreating form of Alethea Hesper .

For no reason other than needing an object upon which to vent his rage, Pilt pointed a clawed finger at the woman. "Bind that one." He ordered, two of his men hurrying off to subdue her, rifles in hand. "And you," he whirled once again on Zoffe. "Animal. Partake in this again and I'll use your pelt as my newest coat." The fear was veiled in threat, but unlike the woman, Pilt did not dare order action against the intimidating beast.

No, instead he took notice of the two Tuskens that had taken care not to get too close to the proceedings. Pilt had little reason to suspect those two beyond their mongrel genes, but then mongrel genes were so often enough. The humans were well beneath his own people on the evolutionary scale, even the Wookie-thing somewhat respectable in it savagery, but these creatures were utterly useless wastes of genetic material. They did not even have pleasant women to offer, only their guttural honking tongue and their disgusting scent.

Surely righteous targets for a whipping. "You two," Pilt snapped his fingers at Shakhad Shahmo like he was calling over a dog. "Over here, now." He glanced to his guards. "Bind them."

Pilt offered one last glance around, his gaze settling then on Euric Shadowwalker and Lothaire . "What are you talking about?" He recognized the both of them. The former was a combat slave, the latter an uppity runt of a thing that had lost one of his fingers for getting in Hargen's way. The other guards feared Euric, Pilt could only offer the man disgust.

"You!" Another snap of the fingers. "You come here and tell me what you were discussing."

 

[Euric Shadowwalker]

I will remember to wait my turn.
I will remember to wait my turn.
I will remember to wait my turn.

 

[Zoffe]

The evening was going to slip away fast and before they knew it their masters would look for this camp to rise back to work. Zoffe could not waste anymore time. He had wasted more than enough with the young Twi'lek. Although there had been a generous portion of rations for the trouble, it was still not equal to the sleep which the large Wookie was desperately in need of. Food was rare but moments to recover your strength were even more so. A full nights sleep may have been five hours if they were lucky and none of the Zygerrians decided to wake them.

Zygerrians. He looked to the short-furred creatures with a certain disgust. Slavers. Useless slugs who clung to an archaic method of economy. Too weak to build it on their backs, too stupid to devise a better way. He hated them, incompetent slavers.

While keeping his thoughts on the rest to come, he found himself troubled again by another human's outburst. He did not have the energetic, even petulant, tone that the tail-head had, but it was an unwelcomed breach all the same. His steps came to a stop again as he heard Lothaire speak out to him. Zoffe did not care for the way this human spoke to him. There was a kind of familiarity that his kind were automatically prone to. Humans, although they were not as disgusting as the Zygerrian, their pride was equal. In the end he chose to ignore him. At least he intended to before the man spoke of where best Zoffe's rage should be placed. He followed the human's eyes to the huddle of tents in the distance.

Zoffe did not speak more than a simple statement, not these days, not among these men. Yet for this moment he did. He let out a low growl that rose into a sharp bark. It was distinctly different from Shyriiwook for those who knew the tongue, however to any ignorant of the Wookie languages it would seem exactly the same.

"What do you know of my fury? I have enough for each and every slug in this camp." His growl ended as he turned his eyes from the tents.

He did try to make way to his bedding area. As occurred often the uproar of a conflict became louder and louder. Zoffe ignored the flame growing behind him. Instead he took a step forward to open the distance between him and the brawl occurring nearby. The guards would hear of it soon enough and all involved would be placed under the lash. Zoffe's steps were cut short as he felt a hard push into the back of his rear leg. Instinct took over and he let out a harsh, piercing roar while turning back to the man who had been driven under him. He grabbed the man's shoulders, growling menacingly. Ration portions fell freely from him while his eyes opened wide to the beast before him. Zoffe's hands tightened around the man's shoulders as he brought him higher and higher from the ground. With each inch he rose from the soiled earth, the man's shoulders felt the strain and pressure of an angered Wookie. Zoffe was slow and deliberate, being certain not to pull too hard and rush the pain that the man felt.

He let the man's low cries turn to harsh screams and for a single moment he felt a wave flow over him. It felt like the warmth of a fire on a cool day, washing the hellish day away from the Wookie and filling him with something, something else. It was a feeling he often felt when he granted great pain onto someone. He had never understood it, yet he knew it felt good.

There was a sharp pop that came from one of the shoulders as he pulled it from it's socket. A second pop and Zoffe let out a guttural sound in-between a snarl and a chuckle.

He paused for a moment. His eyes peered Alethea Hesper below him. She was a fast one, smart too. He'd just barely notice her sweep the spare rations into her robes while the Wookie made a spectacle of his brutality. Zoffe looked back to the brawl. Those closest to him watched with a mixture of awe and fear while the rest worked hard to turn faces into wet pulp.

They wanted a show? He'd give them one then.

He prepared to rip the man's arms from their sockets when he heard the entitled, oppressive commands of a Zygerrian. Only this gave him pause. When Zoffe looked past the man in his arms he could see there several guards here now. The man leading them commanded that the brawl come to an end and for a moment Zoffe considered ignoring this warning. He could take the lashes. The Zygerrians would not kill him, not over this. His kind were known to work ten times harder than most others, no they would lash his pelt and skin bloody and perhaps forgo rations for a day, but they would not kill him.

Still, as the man known as Pilt looked to Zoffe with his command, the Wookie did relent.

He was only wasting time.

The thief fell from Zoffe's grip, screaming out as he cradled his arms. As the Zygerrian gave another threat, a hollow threat, the Wookie said nothing and simply turned to depart this group. Already they had been enough trouble to him and even he was not keen to earning too much ire from the guards on duty. If he wanted any sleep this night, it would end here. Zoffe made his way towards his bedding without another word, walking past the two tuskens who the guard was calling out to. Zoffe's bedding was close enough that he could still see and hear a bit of the spectacle, yet he preferred to seem uninterested as he bit into a portion of the dried rations. He laid his back against a rough wooden slab, discarded wood from a tent that was recently renovated.

He ate his rations, yet kept an eye on the events as they unfolded.

Lothaire Euric Shadowwalker Alethea Hesper Shakhad Shahmo Revenchent

 

[Lothaire]

He'd never been one for social niceties. Not in his days in the academy, not when he strode the courts making his claim to emperorship, and most certainly not here among the dregs. Euric Shadowwalker approached and came to rest nearby, Lothaire only quirking a brow as the Wookie opted to ignore his warning. The youth ran a hand over the thin braid that ran down the center of his scalp as he listened to the stranger, his lips pressing into a thin line while he allowed himself to ruminate on the possibilities.

"I don't think he will." Lothaire muttered wistfully, watching as the hulking mass of fur and muscle moved to take its leave. "Not unless I get close, anyway. He's strong, but he's slow to move." Just another facet of the slaves that Lothaire had come to observe. He didn't have much else to do other than these days, and there was much to be seen by patient eyes.

"Hello Euric." He grunted, settling back on his haunches as he watched the ration line quickly devolve into chaos and stupidity. His finger was still throbbing steadily with pain, and he made sure to keep the wounded hand close to his chest. "I would prefer if you didn't rip my arms off. I've need of them still." The fire that burned within Lothaire was a dull thing now. He lacked the physical prowess of the Wookie, or the guile of the young woman stuffing fallen rations into her sleeves, an act which the bastard prince watched with a glimmer of amusement.

"How many do you think they're going to kill this time?" He asked as the two tuskens meandered up the craggy hill to join them. Lothaire neither welcomed them nor waved them off. He had one fit in reality and one in the fortress of his mind, the last refuge offered to him. "Really? You'd kill us so easily?" Faux sarcasm dripped from his tone like poisoned honey. "And here I was thinking I'd come across the only two civilized Tuskens in the galaxy." Lothaire mused, a brow quirked in surprise as Shakhad Shahmo spoke to him in basic. He'd never been to Tatooine, but most folk heard the stories on the holonet well enough.

"Hello Shakhad," the slave grunted. "And hello Salic. I-" Lothaire's words died in his throat as Pilt rumbled onto the scene. His stomach turned in time with the Zygerrian's arrival - Pilt was a cruel and arrogant creature, and moreover was the one that had taken one of his fingers. Anytime that bastard showed his face, people died.

And then Pilt turned his attentions toward the four of them, and that pit in Lothaire's chest deepened. Four guardsmen armed with long rifles came sauntering up the hill, two training weapons on the group, and two brandishing handcuffs for the Tuskens. It seemed the Zygerrians shared as much prejudice toward the Sand People as the folk from Tatooine did.

"We were just watching the shit show down there." Lothaire snapped, his brow creasing into a deep furrow as one of the Zygerrians poked the barrel of a rifle into the small of his back. "We've not done anything! I already lost one of my fingers today, why the hell would I-"

"Sounds like probable cause to me slave." One of the helmeted Zygerrians hissed as he began to lead Lothaire down to into the ravine where the ration line had been just moments earlier. The other Zygerrians moved to similarly restrain his erstwhile companions, all the while ignoring the hulking form of Zoffe , the rest of their compatriots moving to secure Alethea Hesper before she could disappear into the shadows.

 

[Alethea Hesper]

The cascading dominos of misfortune rapidly picked up speed for the thief. One minor, well-placed tug of his ankle careened him into a savage beating, but that was merely the appetizer. The finale of his punishment delivered him into the unsympathetic hands of Zoffe himself. A Wookie who clearly demonstrated his thinning patience only moments prior with a young Twi'lek who perhaps possessed more bravery than common sense.

Alethea paused as soon as the last ration disappeared down the front of her robes, and stared up at the tower of fur from her hunched position. He lifted the thief, a grown man who weighed almost twice as much as she did, into the air effortlessly. The sounds of rending flesh and bone followed--but not too quickly. The sockets of his shoulders released with wet pops, and the grinding and ripping of sinew and flesh began. Drowned soon after by the panicked shrieks of pain and horror as the man realized what was happening. The front of his dusty rags darkened as the smell of concentrated urine filled the air.

She stared unblinking, unable to take her eyes off the display of raw power and brutality. Only snapping her attention elsewhere once the shouts from the Zygerrians drew close enough to set her on edge. The spectacle did more than sate her thirst for revenge, but now was not the time to drop her guard. Her eyes flit to each of the lankier furry bodies honing in on them. Even if she was not directly caught in an act of mischief, her safety was not guaranteed. Justice did not exist in a place like this. Thus, the gears of her mind turned as quickly as her eyes while she took stock of all the pieces on their chaotic chess board.

Shakhad Shahmo and Salic, two Tuskens who stuck together and devised their own ruthless tactics of ensuring survival. She'd given them just as wide of a berth as she had the Wookie, until now. For obvious reasons. Unless she had something valuable to bait them into cooperation, she was safer keeping her head down, but she kept tabs on them. They were clever, and they would not hesitate to maim.

Euric Shadowwalker , a man whose continued existence pleasantly surprised Alethea. Given his restlessness and tendency to subtly challenge the guards themselves, she expected to have found his flayed corpse hanging for all to see by now. Yet it seemed he knew precisely where the line was, and managed to merely brush the edges of it with his toes. Nevertheless, he was one who lived dangerously. A valuable instrument, in the right hands...or a means of self-destruction, in carless ones.

And then there was Lothaire . The man she knew better than any other slave in this wretched dust bowl, though not voluntarily. Echoes of his past haunted the alleyways of her busy mind. Memories and emotions that never belonged to her were now a permanent, unwelcomed fixture in her psyche. The consequence of a strange Force-connection that quite literally shocked her in every sense of the word, the night they briefly brawled over the rations she almost managed to steal from him. She had avoided him like a plague since it happened, though the events replayed regularly whenever her eyes closed.

As the guards honed in, one truth affixed itself like durasteel in her mind. If any of them was going to survive this living nightmare, they weren't going to manage alone. Their freedom would never be granted willingly. They would need to take it for themselves, and that means working cohesively for a chance go get off this planet.

"We've barely the time to sleep, let alone plot in secret. If we waste much more of it, we'll all be too weak to do anything at all." The small woman seemed to pop into existence next to the Tuskens and the human men. She moved quick, and she had to. The Zygerrians would be there before long. "It's all designed to wear us down, and it's working. We trust no one. We fight amongst ourselves. We have enough food and rest to coast for a time, but our bodies and minds will break and we will be discarded. They want us divided and exhausted, because together, we can overpower them."

Her voice was quiet enough to hopefully avoid detection by the Zyggerians, and she was careful to face away from them as they moved through the crowd. But it was stern, along with the gaze that held each of them for a meaningful few seconds as they stood in their loose circle. Even Lothaire, though she saved him for last. Eyes betraying nothing of what she felt beyond determination.

"Your stump is oozing." She muttered under her breath. The looming presence of the Zygerrians sent the hairs rising up the back of her neck, and she made a split-second decision to swipe his injured hand. She held it between hers without bothering to unwrap whatever meager bandage he put together, and dared to use what little time she had left to flood the raw wound with healing energy. A short burst of rejuvenation that would take the edge off the throbbing pain, and seal shut the more troublesome blood vessels.

Force-healing wasn't her strongest skill. Anything critical or complex would present a challenge, but she could manage smaller wounds. It was something she started taking more seriously months before her capture, but she had a long way to go to be proficient.

And now, time was up.

Lothaire's hand was freed before the Zyggerians wrangled their small group apart. and Alethea let them jerk and move her around like a pliable doll. Resistance would be futile...at least for now. Falling into the role of a quiet, fearful slave, she lowered her head and waited patiently as her arms were bound. Restraints wouldn't stop her from using the Force, but she would need to be prudent in how she used it, and when. If the guards knew what she was capable of, they wouldn't have been so lax. Keeping the element of surprise was crucial.

 

[Euric Shadowwalker]

Well well well, here was a volunteer for Euric to release some of the tension of the past week. Pilt was one of the worst, and even the other guards and the overseer probably hated him as the slaves did. He was a small being, made smaller by his overcompensation for his smallness. Euric hated him. Hated his voice, hated the way he abused for the sake of abusing. Hated that he mouthed off to his betters, like Zoffe with no worry for the consequences.

Euric savoured the thought of that word. Consequences. Scum like Pilt never thought of the consequences until it was too late. And here he was, snapping his fingers at the former gladiator like he was something other than a pile of poodoo. Euric mumbled to Lothaire as he got up. "You can keep your arms, brother. This one though..."

Euric stood and walked across as he was ordered, smiling, his face dripping with scorn, amusement and disrespect. He made every movement another insubordinate and disrespectful gauntlet thrown into Pilt's face. A hundred snarky retorts flowed through the Reaper's mind, most of them crude and laced with colourful metaphors. He didn't leave the scum waiting long. Whatever happened after this, would be worth it. There weren't enough guards. Euric had a feeling even if he didn't start trouble, the Wookiee probably would.

Pitching his voice low so that it didn't carry to the other guards, who would only see an obedient prisoner, Euric growled into the Zygerrian's muzzle, his amused and cocky eyes boring into Pilt's. "I was just wondering how surprised your mother would look when she recieves the death holo of you bent over and broken with that whip shoved up your back passage. Prick." Euric savoured the bulge in Pilt's eyes as he registered the insult and the threat. Euric's posture was relaxed, slightly laid back, not aggressive; a pose to fool the other guards, who were distracted with their own work carrying out Pilt's other orders.

The scum was exposed, and he'd let Euric within arm's reach. Fool. Too stupid to be afraid. Two guards were hardly enough to deal with Alethea Hesper if she didn't want to be dealt with. The ignorant and cocksure Pilt didn't know that. He should have known better than to pick trouble with Zoffe.

Euric waited for Lothaire and Shakhad Shahmo to join them. He knew Tuskens were tough, hardy people, and hoped they would fight when it came. Euric wouldn't let the Wookiee fight alone, some of that was self preservation, he knew their best chance for escape lay in cooperation, and hoped everyone else remembered that when it all kicked off. The tension rose as the insulting threat lay between Euric and Pilt.

The Reaper was already considering how to strike. Coiled like a striking snake, he waited for the right moment to release his will upon the slaver. The words of a training master, now long dead, but much revered and fondly remembered, came into his mind.

When facing your enemy, you have to aim for his weakest point.
Use the Buddha finger accurately and you'll find you will win, whatever he should try to do.​

Revenchent