Escape from Nurn RPG

[piosenniel]

Brinniel’s post

“Why do you do this to yourself, Desolyn? I know you like to be rebellious, but sometimes you go too far.”

Desolyn yawned lazily as she lay on her stomach inside the small hut and allowed her friend Meialath to tend to her raw and bleeding back. Desolyn knew Meialath bandaged her only as an excuse to find time to lecture the girl about running away. Meialath always worried for her; more than Desolyn worried for herself.

Meialath continued to scold. “This is the sixth time you’ve tried to escape, Desolyn. The sixth! Honestly, I-"
“But I was so close this time, Meia,” Desolyn interrupted. “So close! If I were just a few paces ahead of them, I would’ve been free!”
“Oh, free this and free that. That’s all you ever talk about!” Meialath sighed.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“When are you going to wake up, Des?!” the woman cried out. “And realize it’s not going to happen! We will never be free. Running away just gets us killed!”
“So what’s the difference then, Meia?” Desolyn argued, gritting her teeth. “In the fields, we can die just as easily from overwork as we can die from being caught escaping. So, in the end, it really doesn’t matter.”

By now Meialath had finished bandaging Desolyn. The girl sat up slowly, grimacing as pain lanced through her backside. Meialath sat down on the shoddy cot next to her and gave a loud sigh.
“Is it really worth all the beatings, Des?” she asked. “The pain? Just to search for freedom that you may never find?”
“Yes.”
Meialath shook her head to Desolyn’s response, none too happy. She put her hand to the Desolyn’s cheek and turned the girl’s head towards her. Desolyn looked at the woman straight in the eye.
“Please,” Meialath said, almost in a whisper. “Promise me you won’t run away again.”
Desolyn pushed her hand away and stood up. “Forget about it, Meia,” she said. “It no longer matters. I cannot hold your promise.”
“Why not?”
Desolyn smiled at the woman. “Tonight they choose slaves for the Hunt. It’s no question that I will be chosen. They’ve wanted to hunt me for years, and now it is finally my time. I will run away again, but this time it will be my last chance.”
Meialath gave Desolyn an astonished look, but said nothing.
“Don’t worry, Meia,” Desolyn added. “I will escape this time, I promise you.”
And with that, the girl left the woman alone in the hut.

As she walked through the slave quarters, Desolyn could see other slaves scrambling to get ready for work. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded. It was this sound that told the slaves they were to go to the fields immediately, and by now many slaves were running to get there, praying to Eru that they wouldn’t be last. Desolyn kept her pace. In the east, the sun was beginning to rise. The new day had begun.

[ March 30, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Frodess’ post

Dorlas Seregon gazed at his new wife. She looked at him quickly, then stared down at the floor. She was half his age, what a catch! Galéwyn, she was called. And it was their eve of marriage.

A shy thing was she, but she loved him, he thought. So, this hunt he would win for her. The glory of the capter, of the kill. It would be all in the name of his golden-haired wife. Though he liked the hunt much himself. . .

Ah, the slaves, thought he. He wondered if he could perhaps get an especially insolent wench for the Hunt. Maybe. It all depended on what happened before this evening.

"You will be there, will you not, my lady?" he asked his wife. She seemed a bit disgusted at the thought, but nodded in acquiescence. "There's a girl. My wife."
He embraced her fondly, then left the house, looking for rebellious slaves.

He sighed. He didn't get much insolence at his own house. Perhaps he was too strict. He shrugged his shoulders, and moved on.

[ March 31, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Arien’s post

Shivana lay back in her bed, light streamed through her window bathing her room. She could hear the morning call over the slave camp and then the continuing murmur of those dense slaves. She hated them with a passion, thinking they were all high and mighty. Ha! They weren’t so full of themselves now, now they could feel what it was like to dig in the dirt and be beat and punished. She couldn’t wait for the hunt, she loved it. Seeing the faces of those slaves when they were picked, it was priceless. And then actually hunting them gave her such a rush. Tricking them was easy, she was clever and they were mostly stupid. And when she ran after them they were so scared it was brilliant, they underestimated her speed all the time.

She got up out of her bed, got dressed and collected her daggers and whip and made her way down to where the slaves were. It was humid outside and the air hung, suspended in time. There was no breeze at all. As she looked over them a small child walked up to her and pulled on her boots.

“Drink?” it said quietly."Drink?" it said again but louder. It persisted to tug at her boot.

“NO!” Shivana screamed, she whipped the child who was now crying its eyes out. “Whos child is this?”, she waited, no- one came forward. "I said whos child is this?" All the slaves were silent, eyes fixed upon Shivana. "Right then, if no one owns it it has no use here!" she shouted. She bent down behind the child who was now playing happily with the sand on the ground. She place her dagger delicately across its throat. "Ant takers?" she said smiling at the horrified slaves.

"Shes mine" said a woman, crawling forward.

"Oh is she, shes beautiful!" exclaimed Shivana.

"Why thankyou stuttered the slave" as she cautiosly moved closer to her child.

"Shame really......" and with that Shivana cut the childs throat. Warm blood gushed over her hand. "Opps, my hand slipped." and she got up and walked back to her post.

"You monster", screamed the woman craddeling the dead child in her arms. Her clothes covered in blood.

Shivana turned round on her heels," What did you say?" She drew close to the woman holding her right dagger to her face. "Well...?"

"Nothing..." whispered the woman.

"Well, good", she said quietly and she whipped the woman across the face and walked away. The whole crowd of slaves just stared at her.

"Get back to work!" she shouted, "Unless you want to be picked for the hunt?" they quickly were back working. Shivana laughed to her self and took her post, next to Kavita her friend. They laughed together about the incedent. Shivana could not wait for tye night, she was sure she would get picked for the hunt

[piosenniel]

Aylwen’s post

As if two four-year old twins grabbing Haven’s hands wasn’t enough, the older slave women stuck Haven with seven other children as well today. They danced around her, calling out names and questions, tugged at her clothes, and sang children’s songs. Haven had just about had enough of all this chaos, with all the whining children and complaining toddlers.

‘Where’s my mommy?’ One little boy came forward and jumped on top of Haven, and his two brothers did the same. Haven fell to the ground, and all the children cheered, except for the twins. Haven stood up and brushed the children away, and took a deep breath, ready to scream at the top of her lungs.

‘Where Nahala? How come she isn’t watching me today?’ A seven-year old girl strode forward, and the rest followed her, as if they were one herd. She snapped her fingers and all the children were quiet as they stood behind the girl. She had a design painted over the left side of her face, and her silky gown and shiny sash were obviously picked to enhance the look of the picture of a green dragon.

‘Your name, milady?’ Haven gritted her teeth as she struggled not to spat out the phrase she had become so accustomed to.

‘Malha…’ the girl answered. Haven groaned inwardly. How come she hadn’t been told Ekatran’s daughter would be under her care? The girl took a step forward and away from her herd. She reached forward to touch Haven’s sleeve, but quickly pulled back. Then she turned and pointed at Haven, wrinkled her nose, and her other hand came up as if to waft away bad air.

The children giggled.

Haven rolled her eyes. Most likely, the children had rarely seen anyone not decked out in silk and colorful ties, or scrubbed raw and perfumed until one reeked of foreign flowers. Not that Haven stank, but to the richly clothed and strange smelling children, she must have smelled strange to some extent. None of the children back away though, and they kept their dark eyes on the interesting and strange slave.

Haven raised her hand and went to touch the silken sleeve of Malha, as she had done to Haven. Before she could, though, Malha screamed at the top of her lungs and jerked away. As one, as a flock, the children ran down the hallway away from Haven. Haven groaned and chased after them. They eventually stopped, and Haven angrily grasped Malha’s wrist.

‘Ma’am, you are in my care. You listen to what I say and I don’t want to hear anything out of your mouth. Understand, child?’ Haven glowered at Malha, and the girl took on a smug look
.
‘Papa says I don’t have to listen to you. He says you belong to me and that I get to tell you what to do. Don’t be so foolish, slave, unless you want to be taken care of by my daddy,’ The girl smirked at Haven, and wriggled from her grasp.

Soon after the little incident, Nahala came to pick up the seven children that Haven didn’t usually take care of. Haven pulled up a stool, and sat in the hallway, head in hands. The twins, Jamilah and Jovanna, were pushing each other as they fought over Jamilah’s stuffed doll. When they noticed how down their caretaker was, they approached Haven and tugged on either one of her sleeves.

‘I don’t like Malha. She’s mean,’ Jamilah started. Haven looked up, and was about to answer that if she was heard saying such things she would be killed for treason, but thought better of it. ‘Do you think you’ll be picked Hay?’

Haven smiled when called by the nickname, but was oblivious to what Jamilah was talking about. ‘Picked for what, child?’

‘The Hunt, of course! Silly Hay-Hay!’ Jovanna laughed and clapped. Haven gasped: she had forgotten all about the Hunt Selection Ritual that night. Smacking a hand to her forehead, Haven cursed her forgetfulness. She should’ve remembered! Jamilah and Jovanna’s father was taking part in the hunt that year, and they made it a habit of always reminding their caretaker about it as they counted down the days.

Now that Haven had upset Lord Ekatran’s daughter, Haven wouldn’t be surprised if she were picked and sent on the deadly run away from the hunters. Now, If I had only upset Malha tomorrow, I wouldn’t have such a big chance to be picked!

[piosenniel]

Mauwurz’ post

"That was tiring work," Kherug said to himself.

He had just finished telling the young children about life in Umbar, the Haven of the Corsairs. It was marvellous, the wind was in your hair, the sea air was fresh and you could taste the salt.

Of course that all had to end when he moved to Nurn. He still remembered the day when messengers of Sauron came to enlist soldiers willing to supervise the slaves at Lake Nurn. He had heard rumour that Lake Nurn was beatiful, very much like the sea. Driven by a desire to see new places, Kherug accepted.

Thinking back he didn't know why he did it. Despite all the locals have to say Lake Nurn was sad and nothing like the open sea He sighed, perhaps he was just feeling down because tomorrow was his fathers ninth anniversary of his death.

Racking his brain he remembered how his father had died at the hands of a slave. “It was our place to kill them not the slaves place to kill us. Of course, I got my revenge when I tortured him until he bled to death. That'll teach them for messing with me.”

*********************************************

Ithaeliel's post

It was the grayest of mornings in the land of Nurn, and not a man or woman raised his or her head to notice it at all. Their shadowed and grimy faces were bent over their labor. It was not an unusual sight: men walked heavily up and down the rows tilling the earth, leaving behind them the churned and chopped soil, while the women went about planting the seeds and covering the holes with their bare and calloused hands. But there wasn't a sound from the field workers- not a sigh, nor a spoken or sung word- as a young man hobbled past with a bag slung over his shoulder. As he passed, a young girl with smudges on her face looked up at him, half-smiling. "Good day, Turos."

Manituros (for that was his full name) returned the smile. "Good day, Ereline." Then he continued on past the vast fields dotted with slaves to his destination. Eventually he came in sight of a long black hut that glowed fiery red from the inside and emitted a thin trail of smoke from the chimney. It was the smithy, where he was now assigned to work. Turos drew a breath and approached it apprehensively, hoping to get through the day ahead without getting himself injured or displeasing his master. The slave shuddered at the sound of his foot dragging against the pebbles near the smithy as he came to the door.

A somewhat tall Easterling looked up as Turos entered the darkened shack. "Good morning, Turos," he grumbled as the man set his sack on the floor. The master smith was one of the kinder 'overseers' that he knew of. As Turos replied with a "Good morning, master" and hobbled over to get his gloves on. A man his age who was getting his equipment also stared down at his mangled leg, shook his head and turned away. Turos was painfully aware of his handicap; only six months before he had been as healthy and strong as the best of men, and now he was useless at the jobs he had taken on before so willingly. He glared furiously at his foot, as though the accident had been its own fault, and went to his station.

The master smith had sent Turos to the anvil the moment he had first come to work at the smithy, thanks to the man's strong arms. He was mostly fine at what he did, but he sometimes was too hard on the white-hot metal and a few times broke or bent the metalworks (at a great expense for the smithy!). He tried to pay extra caution when the first piece he was handed was a sword-blade. He started well, handing off the blade in one straight piece as well as several other items, but then he began to think: how far he had fallen. A year ago, Turos would never have opted to work as a smith. He enjoyed the open air of the fields, the touch of cool, fertile earth on his feet and hands... and the people were certainly more friendly there. But that was before this, he thought ruefully as he glanced down at his foot and brought the hammer down on the breastplate he was working on. What would they think of me now? What would they say? I can barely walk. I am ashamed to be alive, and with no work to replace the love I had for the fields! I hate this!

Turos was brought out of his final thoughts by a sharp crack and a loud clatter. He realized with horror that he had broken the breastplate clean in two! He waited with dread as the footsteps of the master smith sounded on the floor, quickly coming towards him. "Manituros! Look what you have done! Why, with all your mess-ups, we're being robbed of a fortune!" the enraged man shouted.

"It could be melted again, master," Turos replied timidly, bracing himself as he did.

"Perhaps it could, but you're slowing down our production! We'll be at war with your kind before we know it, and we'll need all the armor we can forge!"

"I am sorry, master," Turos said. "I was... not concentrating hard enough."

The master smith's teeth were bared, his eyes burning, and Turos cowered as he raised his whip to give the clumsy man a lashing.

It never came down. Turos lifted his head, slightly surprised. It was silent inside the smithy, save the roaring of the furnaces. The master paused, then gave a frustrated sigh and lowered the whip. "Exactly, Manituros. You don't concentrate. And that will be the end of you, if you aren't careful. Of course, how can you be? They're already selecting slaves for the hunt, and you're one of them on their list. You won't be here much longer," he said before beginning to walk away. Then he stopped again, shaking his head at Turos. "You were better off in the fields," he finished.

Turos hung his head. He knew the master was right.

[ April 02, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post

Fionel pushed her short, sun bleached hair out of her eyes, standing to stretch her back. A whip slicked out over her back, cracking above her head, just a warning this time, a warning that next time it would not just make her duck.

“Get back to work, Fionel! Just because you’ve been selected by His Lordship, doesn’t mean you don’t have to work!” The guards harsh voice rang out from the side of the field. Fionel glared balefully at him, leaning back on her knees to squint at him against the scorching sun.

“Whats that supposed to mean?” She called back at him, then bit her lip, knowing she shouldve kept her mouth shut. The guard mock gasped, but a wicked glint was in his eyes.

“Insolence! Insolence must be punished!” He quoted one of the rules and flicked his long whip at Fionel, who rolled to the side, a talent perfected out of practice, but a second whip flicked over harder from another guard. It drew a scorching, red hot line across her back and Fionel cried out as it laid into her skin as if it was red hot. The first guard dragged her back to her knees and she attempted to hit him, foolishly, as she was tired out of already working several hours in the field. He struck her across the face and the girl reeled back into the mud. He looked scornfully down at her.
“Get back to work, slave.” He hissed at her. Gritting her teeth against the tears and the insults welling up, Fionel got back on her knees and back to work. Besides, if she worked it would take her mind off what was going to happen tonight…the picking for The Hunt….

[piosenniel]

Beruthiel’s post

The sun blazed down on Santiara's back like every other day. Her lips and mouth were so dry, if only she could have some water! The guards were right in front of her, there was no way she was going to be able to get to the water that was kept by the fence. She tossed her bleached, limp hair out of her eyes and stared at the two guards. 'What do you think your doing eh?' One shouted at her menacingly, holding up the whip. She looked away from him to the water bottle he had. He looked at the bottle and then smiled wickedly. 'So you're thirsty are you?' He said softly coming closer to her. She didn't move. 'Well I'm sorry then.' he whispered into her ear, she could smell his foul breath and she looked at him in disgust. He put the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. When he had finished all the water he kicked dirt in her face as he walked off. She cried out but was silenced by the loud cracking of a whip.

She couldn't take this much longer, the torment and pain of slavery she had to go through every day since she was 18. She remembered that terrible day, so long ago. The wild shouts of the invading Easterlings, how her father had tried to protect them but they were all taken away to this evil place. 'Maybe tonight will change things' she thought. The picking for The Hunt...yes she knew what would happen if she was chosen but it was better than staying here for the rest of her life. 'Tonight' she repeated to herself and she continued to work. The sun was going down, it was nearly time.

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post

‘Not a breath of air today,’ he reflected to himself, looking to the east. His hand came up to shade his eyes against the unrelieved light of the afternoon sun, and he peered toward the edges of the cultivated lands, watching the shimmering waves of heat pool along the shallow dips in the flat, almost featureless land that lay beyond, stretching out toward the horizon. ‘Deadman’s Water, Fool’s Hope’ is what his people called the mirages that played tricks on men’s minds.

His sturdy little horse shook her mane, drawing his attention back to matters at hand. Across the small field he saw one of the guards toying with a female slave. He taunted her with his bottle of water, drinking it in front of her, allowing a few of the precious drops to spill down to the ground. Another guard flicked his whip at her as she cried out.

Pah! He spit on the ground in contempt. Ignorant men! Better to give the slave some water and keep them working all the longer. He narrowed his eyes and watched as the two guards laughed, then a quick conference, and one of them was running back to where the tent of the Lord’s captain was. ‘The dog curry’s favor for himself,’ he thought, as he watched the guard admitted to the tent. ‘He means to tell the Captain there is an unnecessary slave who would be good for the Hunt.’

He looked from the woman kneeling at the fence, small, ill fed, to the burly men who guarded her. Half smiling, he watched the play of muscle ripple beneath their sleek skin. ‘Now those would be worthy prey for a true Hunter!’

Rhûnnaro sighed, tomorrow would be The Hunt – the fifth for him in as many years. He was prized as a tracker in this dusty land where the wind often obscured a creature's passing. There was little hope for him that this year would be any different. That there would be a true challenge for his efficient skills. His eyes roved back to the forms of the guards, calculating. He sighed again, and a sudden hot gust of breeze ruffled for a moment on his brow.

‘The eastern wind-horse springs up!’ He laughed in delight, remembering what his mother taught him. ‘The red horse of the east carries the wishes of the heart upward . . . to the waiting gods.’

[ March 31, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Mattius’ post

Ranchard had always hated the slaves; always whining and complaining about their hard lives. He enjoyed introducing his bull whip to their backs in the fields when they were talking or being lazy or just for the hell of it. He achieved a sick deep satisfaction, that he could torture and torment other people with no fear of retaliation. In fact, his pleasure had almost caused him to loose his place as a guard in his familes fileds. One day he had beaten to death a young slave girl, perhaps no older than seventeen or so. Ranchard could still hear his excuses to his father all those years ago- she looked at me strange, she deserved to die! Ranchard was only twenty then and now he was thirty five. His madness had slept but grew inside him, his lust for death had slowly grown into insanity.

Ranchard's dream, his ultimate dream had always been to participate in The Hunt. Year after year he watched how others were chosen above him and year after year he heard why he was not chosen. He was to instable, no hunter- just a crazed killer- no hunter. For years Ranchard hid his lust for human death and hunted alone on the plains of Mordor, torturing and mutilating birds and beasts. He proved himself to his piers of his talents and, although he did not know it yet, his time had come; he would be chosen this year for The Hunt.

[piosenniel]

Gorothlammothiel’s post

On the back of his horse Lord Ekatran watched from a distance as ‘slaves’ worked the fields of his homeland. Under the scorching heat from the high mid-day sun he took shade from a nearby tree, not a comfort the slaves were able to have. Overseer’s watched with eager eyes as they walked the boarders of fields waiting for one of the slaves to make a mistake, one wrong move, like vultures circling, waiting for a death.

His steed adjusted its footing as a man approached on horseback from behind. He came aside Lord Ekatran and spoke “My Lord, the Hunt grows near and we believe it is time for the choices to be made.” Ekatran nodded and his eyes narrowed as he focused his sight to a man on the other side of the field, taunting a slave with his water. He lifted it above his head and as she reached for it he kicked her to the ground, laughing.

“Have you no recommendations to make?” Ekatran replied to the man at his side. “Yes my lord, there are several we suggest you take for those you hunt. There is one slave in particular who has grown unruly and another disobedient.” Lord Ekatran looked towards his company, tilting his head “Very well but are there those who are to come with me? Each year presents a different character, someone strong but willing to take orders. I do not want to return with less than I set out on as we did last year.” The man fell silent and Lord Ekatran sighed.

Turning his attention back to the fields Lord Ekatran noticed a figure past the fields seemingly ‘playing’ with some sort of animal. Torturing it then watching its pain. “What about him?” Ekatran asked.

[piosenniel]

Orual’s post

The sun beat down on Dôranna Celebyavë's pale neck as she worked in the fields. She could feel the heat on her cheeks even in the shadow, and knew that she had burnt her skin again. She sighed, knowing that it would hurt terribly before the day was over. It had been many, many, many years since she had been captured, and she was no stranger to sunburn.

"A little slower and you'd be going backwards," the overseer shouted, his harsh voice ringing in her ears. The whip cracked over her back, and she stumbled, but did not fall. The overseer grunted. "Keep working, and go faster or you'll feel it harder."
Dôranna made no sound, but quickened her pace. She did not want to please the overseer, but she also did not want to be beaten again. She simply heaved a great, though silent, sigh, and kept working.

She fingered a fine silver chain on her neck, that her fiancé had given her. It, and a dagger, were all that she had left to remember him by. She sobbed at night over him, wishing to use his gift to end her life, but knowing that he would not want her to. Even in this life of servitude, she had some hope of seeing him again. In the Halls of Mandos, she had little.

"Melda," she murmured, beloved. Someday she would see him again.

"Enough talking!" the new overseer shrilled. Dôranna quieted.

She returned to her quarters that night, her back striped from lashes, her face and neck crimson with sunburn, and her body filthy with sweat and dust. It had been a terrible day, much like every other day lately. Her limbs were weak and her back felt like she had a thousand pounds strapped to it, and after her initial resistance she had fallen many times. Her knees were aching from the falls, and her hands were cut and bleeding from catching herself. She went onto her sleeping pallet and picked up the journal that she kept, with nothing but the day in it so as not to incur the wrath of her captors. Her ice-blue eyes filled with tears as she saw the date. "Melda," she cried, her voice tight with grief. Some Easterling yelled for her to be quiet, but her sobs continued. He came in and beat her, but still she wept. When they had become nearly silent, he left, shouting a warning behind him.

It was the anniversary of what should have been her marriage to her Melda, and she wept. She would find him again, she swore, she would find him and on this day, some year soon, she would marry him as she had promised.

She would escape.

As soon as she thought that she laughed derisively at herself. She thought that every year on this day. And on the day she had met her fiancé, on her birthday, on Midsummer's when she had been engaged. All of these dates meant something to her, and she always thought of freedom when they came. Freedom would come no more this anniversary than it did on any other that she had passed here.

"...but what do you think our chances for escaping the Hunt are?" asked one of the girls who shared Dôranna's room in a hushed voice.

There was a silence, and Dôranna was perfectly still. She never participated in the conversations of her roommates. "I heard tell that they're looking at Dôra."
"Not Dôranna!" the first gasped, then chittering resumed. But Dôranna had stopped listening, stopped breathing.

The Hunt? Why would she be chosen for the Hunt? Had she been performing that poorly? Hot tears ran down her cheeks. It was only a rumor, she told herself. And the girls were never very reliable. They heard things fifth, sixth hand. Not a one had any access to an Easterling who made that sort of decision. These girls were fieldhands like Dôranna herself, not house servants.

But on the other hand, if she was quick enough, maybe she could use the Hunt to escape...

She pushed the thought out of her mind, and tried to sleep. The Hunt would come later. And if she was chosen, then she would have to be rested. "Melda," she murmured once again, then fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

[piosenniel]

kittiewhirl’s post

Lanbriel felt relieved as she walked off the field, swaying a little from her fatigue. She had managed to survive another day of fieldwork. She steadily headed back to her master’s house, along with a few other slaves. Five guards, not a heavy amount of guarding by her standards, were following them.

There had been worse. Much worse. Whenever a slave tried to escape, or had killed or injured someone, the guarding had grown a huge amount. Slaves were treated much more harshly. Once, a young, freedom-longing slave tried to escape from Nurn. The next day, twenty guards followed Lanbriel’s party.

Finally, Lanbriel arrived at her master’s home. The house was medium-sized. It had a big red roof that loomed over a small part of the courtyard. It also had four big, half-oval shaped windows spread out across the front.

The slaves sleepily trudged up to the side door, and from there each one went to their room to await their next order. Lanbriel walked down the long, straight staircase that led down into a dark, musty hallway. No more than one average-sized person could fit in the hallway at once because it was very thin, but that didn’t matter to the slaves because they were incredibly thin themselves and therefore were able to walk freely down the hall. Lanbriel walked past a series of doors, all of them being very small. In order to fit through them, the older slaves had to bend down.

Finally, she saw the one tiny door that led to her own little “dungeon” as she called it. Lanbriel felt very tired. She saw her bed, made of straw and hay, mostly. She felt a great urge to drop down in it and never wake again. The urge was about to overtake her, when she started hearing voices from the wall to her right (the walls weren’t very thick, and sometimes the slaves could even talk to each other from their rooms).

The household overseer was talking to her friend Erfandel.

“Slave, where were you at five o’clock?”
“I-I… My friend… she was hurt… I had to help her… I came to the fields as soon as I could!”
“You know the law. You were meant to be doing field work at five o’clock, and you were missing until seven!”
“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“That’s no guarantee!”
“Please, Mr. Overseer, don’t make them beat me!”
“No? Well, then I’ve got a better job for you. You will carry the weapon supplies to the next village by foot. If you don’t get there in one hour, you will be beat to death. You will be followed by three guards, and if you try to escape they will kill you.”

Lanbriel couldn't stand this. No. The hunt was coming up, and she was going to escape these terrible, day by day tortures, if she got called.

“No! Please, it does take three hours to get there by horse. I cannot get there in one by foot!”
“You will do what you are told.”

Lanbriel couldn’t stand to hear any of this. Without thinking, she started screaming things across the wall to the overseer.

“This makes absolutely no sense! Why, she can’t get there in one hour! Are you mad? You’re killing my best friend through the worst type of torture! Why don’t you just give her a horse? Then at least she’ll have a chance of making it! The supplies will never make it to the next village if you do such a terrible thing!”

Suddenly, the door to Lanbriel’s room swung open. The overseer, a large, angry-looking man with a short white-black beard and long black hair opened the door. He stopped at the entrance, a mad gleam in his dark eyes. His frown almost looked like a kind of sneer, and his huge, bushy eyebrows came down very close to his eyes. He was trying his best to look angry and frightening.

Lanbriel almost laughed, but she knew that that woud give her another beating. This wasn’t the first time that she had blurted something stupid out without thinking. Of course, she knew it wasn’t stupid, and that made her angrier than ever.

“You fool of a slave!” He roared across the tiny room.
“Who’s the fool here? I’m only suggesting the best for the girl, unless you want to kill her!”
“If you don’t watch out, you’ll be dead in a moment yourself! How dare you say to me, that I don’t know what’s best? Why should I make her do what’s best! You’re the slaves. You don’t deserve the best, and you don’t get the best!”
“If I don’t deserve the best, you ceratinly don’t either.”
“Will you cease your endless talk! I am trying to tell you that you that if you do not stop interfering every time a slave is punished, you will soon be dead!”
“You can’t just kill me, you’re not allowed to. And there’s no reason to beat me because I’m not on fieldwork.”
“No, but I’ve got an even better idea for you. You will go in place of your friend here.”
“How dare you!”
“I have all the right to punish any slave who interferes or speaks against me.”

Yes, thought Lanbriel. If I get called, I will be able to escape this terrible punishment. But if I don't...

[Amanaduial the archer]

Fionel scrambled through the one tiny, high up window in her slave hut. The tiny space was shared between twenty female slaves and was smaller than the one Fionel had been in before she had worked at the palace. Therefore shed only been in this hut for a few days, and didnt know everyone. The slaves tended to be pretty secretive; there were rumours that Ekatrans slaves could get everywhere, and because of this many were wary of Fionel.

However, as she tried to wriggle through the window, her bare feet scrabbling for a perch outside and her hands for one inside, one girl looked up. Her eyes widened as the saw the other girl trying to squeeze through the window, then she smiled. Standing, she crossed the room to stand just beneath the window, then stood on one of the hard, stony beds and took Fionel's hands, pulling her through the window to land in a heap on the other side. Fionel winced as yet more bruises joined those already keeping the whip lashes company, then started giggling, along with the one who had helped her. Stifling this hastily, wary of the guards who would soon be prowling outside, she stood and thanked the girl.

"Thanks.."
"Meia." The girl smiled, then glanced back up at the window. "Late again Fionel?"

Fionel grinned ruefully and nodded. The guards locked the doors late at night and the only way to get in was through that window. The inward facing spikes stopped anyone going to other way though, preventing escapes. "Hmmmm....I was just-"

She stopped herself, and satisfied herself with smiling again at Meia. She had been looking for weak spots in the barrier a few hours agao and since then had been leading a guard who had followed her on a wild goose chase, but didnt want to tell Meia that. Like they said, Ekatran's spies were everywhere.

Another slave was watching them, her eyes bright from where she lay on her front on a bed. Fionel winced at the sight of the long, deep lashes across her back. The penalty for trying to escape was harsh, and this one had reaped it by the looks of it. "You tried to escape?" She whispered, a slight, mischeivious smile on her face.

Fionel grinned back slightly. "Nah. I couldnt miss the Hunt, could I?" She said the last bit a little bitterly. Fionel knew shed be picked. The other looked like she was about to say something before she was cut off.

"All slaves stand!"

The imperious voice rang out as the door opened and an overseer entered. His dark, hard eyes took in the slave girls as they scrambled to their feet. Only the lashed girl stood more slowly.

"In number order!"

Fionel resented this. All the slaves were given a number and were branded on the arm with it, like cattle going to the slaughter. That was all they would ever be to the easterlings; animals, waiting to die, and all Fionel was ever going to be was number 12755. The girls ran outside and joined the line of slaves already there, standing in a giant crocodile. The overseer mounted on his own horse and cried another harsh word and they were off at a fast run, the whips flicking over their heads.

Fionel stared at the dark sky; tonight the stars hid their faces. The night of the Hunt.

~~~

By the time they reached the main city, all the other slave lines had joined them. Fione, felt her fists clench in anger; tens of thousands of slaves, all controlled by a few thousand easterlings. If they could only rebel...

A whip flicked over her shoulders, waking her from her thoughts and despite herself the girl flinched. She glared at the easterling but he reared his horse, stamping its front feet down near to her bare, unprotected feet, his grin cruel and brutish. Fionel wanted to lash out, to wipe to grin off his face, but knew that tonight of all nights, she had to resist, to keep her head down. As if that will help your chances of not being chosen...

They were herded into the huge Great Hall, more like a cavern than anything else. Its huge structure still took Fionel's breath away; it was hard to believe anything this big could be created by Man, hewn as it was out of the very rock. It was the biggest building in Nurn and extended partly under the ground. Beneath her, on the levels below, slaves and easterlings swarmed like ants. She stepped back from the edge as she felt her mind reeling. Then she looked down to the centre of the hall and saw something that made her shudder even more; the figure of Lord Ekatran.

[ April 01, 2003: Message edited by: Amanaduial the archer ]

[ April 03, 2003: Message edited by: Amanaduial the archer ]

[Envinyatar]

Rhûnnaro stood in the shadows, as close to the entrance of the Hall as possible. What sort of men would want to enter the belly of a rock? It made his skin crawl to think about it, and he remembered with longing the wide, open plains of his homeland. Pushing back the stray hairs that trailed above his right eye, his hand came to rest on the back of his neck. He sighed in resignation, watching the lines of slaves filter in to the Hall.

The intervening years of his service to the Dark One had not abated his repulsion to this yearly ritual. He had made his deal with The Dark One’s minions, to see that the land was worked, food produced to fuel the Dark One’s armies. He had made no deal to let the Shadow eat his spirit. Rhûnnaro fingered the small, turquoise horse on the thin leather thong around his neck.

‘Ghosts,’ he whispered to himself, looking round at hunter and hunted alike. ‘All ghosts.’ His dark eyes slid over the gathering, his face impassive. ‘Shadows of men.’

Though the slaves at times, at least seemed more substantial than the others . . .

[ April 10, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]

[Arien]

Shivana sat in the Great Hall on one of the balconies that overlooked the colossal centre. Thousands upon thousands, of foul, repulsive slaves filed in though the various doors dotted around the Hall. She was off duty tonight and luckily didn’t have the job of herding those damn things form the slave camp where she worked. She hated that, their incessant whining was excruciating sometimes, but a good whipping would put them back in their place.

“How long left do you think?” asked Kavita who was sitting next to her.

“Well they have at least five more camps to get in here, I don’t know.” Replied Shivana looking down upon Lord Ekatran who stood in the centre of the great hall. “ We will have to go down soon, for the selection. I want to be selected, not have I been on a good hunt for nigh on three years. And now I yearn to hunt again. To see the fear upon their faces, oh it is marvellous!” Her eyes flickered wildly to the slaves entering through a door beside her she truly craved to kill again. A mere child was not enough, there was no challenge in that. No intelligence needed. But an adult was entertaining, but even better was an elf. It would be a gift from Sauron if she got to hunt an elf, it honestly would.

“Let us go down then!” shouted Kavita over the lashing of her whip against and elf. Shivana followed her, tonight would be her night.

[Beruthiel]

Santiara was startled by the loud shouting outside her hut. "Get outside now!" The door opened and a guard stared at them all with disgust. "In number order!" She slowly rose from her bed, her knees were so painful from being on the ground all day in the fields. The guard watched her and when she finally walked passed him he struck her on the back. She didn't even cry out, she wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. Number 13952. Thats who she was. Not Santiara just 13952.

They were forced to march all the way to the city. They were like cattle, stupid beasts that only the Easterlings could control. She hated the way they made her feel. She remembered something her father had said once, "Never forget who you are". Its too late now She thought to herself

As these thoughts raced through her mind the great hall loomed up ahead. The slaves were pushed through the doors harshly. Santiara saw a small child fall on the ground but was whipped until he got up again. The place was so crowded that the air was stuffy and it was hard to breathe. The crowd was getting larger as more camp groups were coming in.

She was standing on the lower level, the main stage was at the very front of the hall and standing on it was the figure of a man. No one needed to tell her who it was. Lord Erkatran. He was famous around the camps, he was rumoured to kill slaves at random.

Santiara watched the other slaves filing in, waiting for the ceremony to start.

[ April 03, 2003: Message edited by: Beruthiel ]

[ April 03, 2003: Message edited by: Beruthiel ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Haven carried the twins, one in either arm, to the great hall. She walked behind the twins' mother, who carried her newborn to the ceremony. Haven felt strange to have entered in such a way, for she would always be identified as the slave that worked for Kara. Easterlings sneered at her as she walked behind Kara, and any slaves in the vacinity glared at her.

"Hay, how long will this last? I'm tired!" Haven shook her head at Jamilah's question. The children really should've been left home, but Haven, as well as Kara, had to be at the selection ceremony, so there was no choice but to take the children as well.

Haven followed Kara as they climed the stone steps that led from the lower levels of the Great Hall to the central overlook. Looking up, Haven saw the several thousand fellow slaves above her, and it blew her away to actually see them amassed altogether.

Jamilah fell asleep, laying her big head on Haven's shoulders, while Jovanna tugged at one of Haven's blue and yellow hair wrappings. When Kara finally took her semi-honored seat nearer to the front, Haven was bade by an overseer to sit in the isle, whether she was the children's caretaker or not.

Jo, who was quite upset by this, growled at the man as he walked away, as though she was a wild beast. Haven scolded the girl, and prayed that the overseer hadn't seen it. Sitting in the isle wasn't any fun, but it certainly was better than nothing.

As Haven waited for the ceremony to start, she noticed the Great Hall get louder and louder by the minute. Jami woke up and tried hard not to complain about the noise, and Jo covered her ears. Haven's eyes were kept on Lord Ekatran as he walked to stand in the center podium of the Great Hall.

Oh, here he comes now. We should all bow down and praise him for his brilliance and flawlessness. How we all love the Great Ekatran! Haven thought, sarcastically and bitterly.

Haven looked to her arm. It had been a long time since she had needed her number, save for this night every year. All Haven was to the Easterlings was number 19299.

[ April 06, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Brinniel]

"All slaves stand!"

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. It took a few seconds for Desolyn to comprehend those words, for her mind was somewhere else. It was a rough day in the fields for the girl and the pain that shot through her back was all she could really focus on.

Meialath noticed Desolyn's hesitation, and after giving the girl a slight tug, Des finally stood up slowly.

"In number order!"

Like every other year, Desolyn hoped the overseer would not say this. But as always, the words came as expected. Desolyn hated walking with the other slaves; it was the time she felt least human, if she ever felt human at all.

Still, Desolyn did not argue and she rushed to find her place in line. She was number 19769, only seventeen away from Meialath, who stood with her head high, obedient as ever. Des glanced back at the girl she had spoken with earlier; she was new to the hut and Desolyn was curious about her. She had spotted the girl for a second, whose head was hung low, then she disappeared in the crowd of other slaves and Desolyn could not find her again.

The walk was a grueling one for Desolyn. It was not so much the pain from her raw back and sore feet that bothered Desolyn. It was the feeling of shame that hung over her like a cloud that was so disturbing. More than anything, the girl wanted run, but she knew that would be foolish. The easterlings would kill her on the spot if she did. If Desolyn had any chance of escaping, it would be in the Hunt. The Hunt. She looked ahead towards the Great Hall, where the choosing of the Hunt would take place. All around her, Desolyn could see slaves muttering to themselves, hoping they would not be chosen. In her own mind, she began to pray the opposite.

[Orual]

An Easterling guard bellowed for Dôranna to hurry up with wrapping her arm. She shrugged her shoulders in reply, which sent a flash of fire down her wounded limb. She had landed poorly after a beating, and had sprained her wrist and badly cut her arm on a sharp rock. It bled freely for a long while, and she had not been allowed to bandage it until her work was done. Her dusty clothes were now red and stiff with her blood. She only hoped that it wouldn't get infected.

The guard screamed again for her to hurry, and this time she nodded her head. When a few more moments passed as Dôranna was tying the bandage with her left hand, the guard came in and grabbed her by her left arm. "I won't say it again," he hissed, his hot, foul breath on her cheek. She turned her head in disgust, but he twisted her head so that she had to look at him. "And I won't say it in any Elf-language. Come now!" He yanked her up. She cried out in pain, feeling like he had ripped her arm out of its socket, but she stumbled along after him as fast as her aching legs would carry her, which was still not fast enough for him.

Her long hair was sticking to her face when she was finally dragged into the hall. She had meant to pull it up again--it had fallen out of its bun after a hard day in the fields, and the beating--but had not been able to with only her left hand. It would make her stand out. She flinched both from the thought and from the guard shoving her into line, just as a harsh voice called out, "All slaves stand!"

She hurried to where her place in line would approximately be. She was fairly far up in the line, having been in captivity for a long while. It pained her to see so few before her; she often envied her fellow slaves their mortality, and though she tried to forget that she had been in Nurn for almost as long as most of the human slaves lived, she could not ignore the fact that there were few slaves who had been in Nurn longer than she had.

"In number order!"

She saw a few grimaces, but it didn't bother Dôranna too much that the Easterlings thought of her as a number. She thought of them as less than that. And she hated the sound of her name on their foul lips, the name that her parents had so lovingly given her. She was not the gift of their land, not their silver fruit. She was their slave only as Number 11547, not as Dôranna Celebyavë.

Briefly she tried to rub off some of the dried blood that stained her tunic, but a sharp reprimand from one of the guards stopped that activity. She supposed that it was part of the cruelty of the whole ritual; don't let them do anything or occupy their minds. Let them stew in their doubt, and walk like animals. Like the slaves they are.

A grin twitched on her face, but she quickly suppressed it. She would not be like an animal. With all the dignity she could muster, which was considerable, she threw her hair behind her shoulders (when she knew that no guards were looking), held her head high, and marched proudly to her fate. If she was chosen to die, she would die like her father would have wanted to her to: like a warrior, not like a slave.

[ April 02, 2003: Message edited by: Orual ]

[Frodess]

"Wife, we go," said Dorlas. He took her by the hand, and they rode off together with a few other riders, mostly house slaves. Glancing at her, he noticed she looked somewhat. . . afraid.

Bah! She'll soon be over that! And so he rode 'til he reached a magnificent building of splendor. A countless number of slaves were gathered round. He waved at some of his friends. Galéwyn was shaking.

[Ithaeliel]

When the humiliating work day at the smithy was finally done, the master smith told all the slaves to go to the town square. "Today is, as most of you know, the day on which a group of slaves shall be selected for the Hunt," he told them. As Turos went past him to put his equipment away, he heard the smith mutter to himself. "I do not doubt some of you will be among them."

Turos gulped as he struggled to keep up with the other slaves. If he was selected, he knew he would not survive long. His impairment kept him from moving about at a regular pace, and everywhere he went his lame foot left a clear trail (he had developed a tough callous on it just from dragging it all day). He would slow down the entire party (if they so chose to stay together) and leave behind a mess, making it easy for their trackers to follow. "If I am chosen I may as well jump off of a cliff," he said under his breath, managing to stay among the unimpaired slaves. "It would be just as well and even quicker than being hunted down." But another side of him said that there was still hope: that if he did escape, Turos would have a chance for a better life, and maybe to have his leg mended. If he managed to make it through the harsh desert of Nurn and over the mountains, he would be free, and would start anew somewhere in Gondor. But those chances were slim.

Now they were approaching the mass of slaves gathered in the center of town, and Turos saw little Ereline there as he passed by. She looked terribly frightened, for she had never been to the choosing for the Hunt before. It was her first year, and a wonder she was not hysterical. Turos himself, after so many times of being in line, was shaking with anxiety, praying that he might still be of enough good that they would not choose him. But now he was more afraid than ever, for he had reason to be selected.

"All slaves stand!"

As the words rang out from an Easterling's mouth, most of the tired slaves scrambled to their feet. Turos stopped to watch the overseer, whose eyes scanned the crowd of slaves hatefully as he waited for silence. A young boy standing near Turos fought to stop crying. He shook with terror as the overseer's eyes crossed him and went on. Turos felt terribly for the children there. They were young, and most of those he saw were thus scrawny, but they had lives ahead of them and could become strong. Every year, some of the children with the most potential for greatness disappeared from Nurn forever. If anyone deserved to die, the children did not. And yet they did.

"In number order!" the overseer shouted again.

13795. That was who- or what- Turos was when the time came for the Hunt. Not "Turos," not "Manituros," not even "you, slave," but a number. They do not see us as living, he thought sadly. We are as shades: not dead, not living, but nearly invisible.

The Easterling overseer gave the signal, and the guards lashed their whips, forcing the numbers of slaves to start forward at a fast walk. Turos hardly felt it at all, for he was preoccupied with his stomach, which had tied itself in knots a logn time ago. He felt faint, for he knew that he would not see his town or the fields ever again. He would be chosen for the Hunt.

[ April 02, 2003: Message edited by: Ithaeliel ]

[Envinyatar]

Rhûnnaro let his mind drift as the slaves jostled for position according to number. All were now inside the Great Hall and he edged his way closer to the door, hoping to make an escape at the earliest opportunity. His presence was obligatory for the first part of the Ritual, the intention he supposed, to make the slaves cower at the presence of the guards and overseers.

What a fiction that was! At least in his mind. The slave population outnumbered the others many times over. He wondered at the peoples these slaves must have come from. Why were they so easily pressed under the thumb of the Dark One’s minions?

He had made the habit of observing both the slaves and their handlers, as he called them. The handlers, he noted, were, for the most part, brutal men, shallow thinkers, their minds bent on the physical domination of those under them. Most of them were little better than predators, though when he considered that comparison, he thought the predatory beasts to be one up on them in terms of any sort of conscience. At least the beasts killed only for food, and not for play.

The most chilling of the handlers were those who did consider well what they were doing, and chose it because it advanced them in the eyes of their superiors. He shrugged his upper body slightly, trying to ease the tightness which had planted itself between his shoulder blades. This was the kind of man he was in danger of becoming.

Cold, analytical, precise in his killing. No toying with the victim. No joy. Just the task well planned and executed quickly. A brief entreaty to the night black mustang of the west to bear the homeless spirit away. And then on to the next target. A dangerous balance of callous reserve and the nodding acknowledgement of compassion.

The slaves were another matter. Many of them were already spiritless shells, animated only by the routine of their lives and the one feeling left to them to feed on . . . despair. They had neither the will to move to another level of considering their options nor the hope it might succeed. Still, there were those he had seen in whose eyes such desires was still a spark . . . well banked, but still a spark. And given the right opportunity, it might be fanned into a most interesting blaze – consuming any ignorant enough to stand near it.

His gaze slid over the rows of slaves, picking out those in whom he had seen such a spark. Perhaps, given a slight nudge, the game might shift slightly this year. Become more interesting, create a diversion he might use to his own advantage.

Below, in the midst of it all, the center, was Ekatran. Rhûnnaro’s eyes narrowed as he considered him. What would happen to the center, should one of the balanced ends be knocked loose from its fixed position, become unpredictable . . . dangerous, even . . .

[ April 10, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]

[Amanaduial the archer]

Fionel had started to drop off slightly. She was shattered and had been standing there for over an hour. She was almost asleep on her feet, her eyes closing slightly when the drum beat started. Her eyes snapped open.

The music at the Hunt Ritual always made Fionel shudder, made the hairs on her neck stand upright. It started with the drums, slowly at first, then faster, far faster all at once....then it began to get slow again. But as it slowed this time, it seemed to draw out Fionels heartbeat with it, slowing her heart to its beat, dragging it out. Then a pipe began, and another, and another. The sounds of the three pipers came from all over the room, unescapable. The slave girl shuddered, and saw other slaves clearly felt the same. The strange, haunting melody, punctuated by the drum beats, made your entire body feel like it was being torn apart bit by bit. Looking around at the easterlings, in this year of all years when it seemed ever more likely that she would be picked, Fionel saw an excited, almost feral look in their eyes. For the first time since her first year, deep in her soul, Fionel was scared.

She looked down to the centre of the hall where Ekatran still sat, straight backed and forboding in his high backed chair, his throne. She felt her lip wrinkle in disgust; he acted like a king. No one like that would ever be a king. But now the black clad figure stood slowly. He raised his arms and flung back his head, his dark hair falling back, and the voices of the pipers grew louder and higher, more powerful, their power outmatched only by the dark figure in the centre of the ring. The drums grew faster now, speeding up, until Fionels heart felt like it was about to burst....

As Ekatran threw out his hands suddenly towards the ground, everything stopped. The great Lord raised his eyes again and spoke.

"All here know why they are here,
All here know why were are gathered,
All here know what the purpose is,
But none know how they will depart.

Easterlings and lower creatures," Lower creatures?! Why you little... "We are gathered here in the ritual of the Hunt. Tonight six will be chosen from our higher race...and seven to be their quarry. Come! Let the name holders come forward! Let the Gods and Fate decide who!"

Six younger men, each in their teen years, now marched forward, each followed by two slaves, lugging between them a cauldron. Within those cauldrons were the names of every slave and every eligible easterling in Nurn. But when you looked veryclosely into the cauldrons, you could see darker pieces of paper- marked. Ekatran would choose them to be the hunters and hunted alike. Those whose names were on those pieces of paper were doomed.

Ekatran paced forward with fast but measured steps and once again called out, his voice more excited this time.

"Let the Gods and Fate decide who! And first shall be the quarry..."

With that, Ekatran put his hand into the cauldron and drew out a piece of paper, and as he unfolded it, Fionel closed her eyes and prayed...in the direction she had never guessed she would...she prayed she would be picked.

[Mattius]

Ranchard could hardly contain himself. He had sat at the very corner of the main easterling seating area with no other person within a few yards of him. Even his own people thought him odd and unstable. He sat with his knees up to his face and his arms wrapped around his legs whilst bouncing on his backside. His right eye was twitching strongly and his tongue licked his lips almost constantly.

He had watched how all the slaves had been led in, it alomst made him sick to see them all together in the same place. He stood on his chair and shouted profanties at them but eventually controlled his rage and pushed it deep inside him. Ranchard used his excess energy to play with the spinal cord of a dog he had just killed, cracking the bone at a fantastic pace.

As Ekatran stood up Ranchard had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing with joy, it was about to begin, it was so close. Every year he had hoped it would be his name to be picked yet every year it was someone else. For any sane person this would have seriously dented their self-confidence. Yet Ranchard's insane sub-concious totally convinced him that they day was comming, if not this year then the next.

As Ekatran walked towards the pot of names Ranchard was sure he gazed up at where he sat. This froze him solid in his seat. Now he was sure it was his year.

[kittiewhirl1677]

Lanbriel had gotten up a bit early.The overseer came and called to all the slaves, telling them to get ready. She ignored that comand; she already was ready, very ready. The second time the overseer came, he shouted across the row of cabins, telling them to come out. Each slave slowly, but readily entered the hallway. They walked to the fields, and then along with hundreds, thousands of other slaves began the long terrible run. Lanbriel managed to avoid most of the whip lashes shooting to and fro over her head. She kept down, invisible, focusing on only her task; to get to the ritual.

Finally, after thousands of lashings throughout the whole group, they managed to get there. The giant hall coldly greeted them as they walked through the doors. They were all herded to different levels of the hall, packed together like rodents in a small cage.

She looked around, the great hall looking more like her worst enemy, a terrible menace then she had ever imagined. It was as if the hall itself was choosing the hunted slaves. But she knew, she knew that someone she hated even more was choosing.

As her eyes soared across the hall, she noticed a figure on the level below her. Lord Ekatran.

Lanbriel knew that if she didn't get chosen for the hunt, it would mean death from the alternate task ahead her. She had to get chosen for it was her only chance at life.

Lanbriel waited, her heart pumping faster and faster with every second. Either the ritual would start now, or she would have to scream from the anxiety.

Just at that moment, Lord Ekatran rose and started talking.
"All here know why they are here,
All here know why were gathered,
All here know what the purpose is,
But none know how they will depart.

Easterlings and lower creatures, We are gathered here in the ritual of the Hunt. Tonight six will be chosen from our higher race...and seven to be their quarry. Come! Let the name holders come forward! Let the Gods and Fate decide who!"

To Lanbriel, it seemed as if everything had just stopped. Suddenly, abruptly. Everything froze. The figure below had stopped before the beginning of his next sentence. The slave's terrified expressions, unchanged, made her feel more terrified than ever herself.

Actually, everything hadn't frozen. Everything was just moving at an impossibly slow speed. She saw the cauldron being brought out. She saw Lord Ekatran's mouth open, to say something else.

The choosing had begun.

[ April 03, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Amanaduial the archer]

Fionel, her eyes still closed, felt the entire hall, the entire land, the entire world hold its breath as Ekatran drew out the first name.

"Number 12755, section 4. Fionel."

He said the last word with relish. Fionel felt all the breath leave her, and for a moment she didnt realise exactly what he had said. It was as if she didnt recognise her own name and, she thought with disgust, her number. But the overseer of her section looked over it, and she could hear him muttering under his breath through his fat lips as he counted, looking for number 12755. She didnt wait for him to find her. Standing, only then did she open her eyes, looking over the hall, not even hearing the murmering voices, or seeing the necks, craning upwards and downwards to see who had been chosen. Her eyes only saw Ekatran. She took a deep breath and answered in the way that had been drummed into all slaves on pain of drawn out death or beatings even more severe than usual.

"I am the first chosen, O Lord, and I shall be the quarry for your Hunt." Her voice was surprisingly clear, and throughout the echoes, the tremble in it was drowned out.

"Then come, slave, come to welcome your fate." Ekatrans voice echoed back to her. The overseer of her section grabbed her arm, dragging her out, as if she was about to try and run away - where could she run to?- but she didnt resist. Indeed, a small smile was creeping onto her face; her prayer, it seemed, had been answered. She was pulled by the overseer, and another guard, each holding an arm now, onto a wooden platform. The second easterling gave one of the ropes on which the platform was attached a short tug and, working on a pulley system from above and below, the sideless platform was lowered down, and all the way down, Fionel stared back at the one in the centre of the hall, although she felt a million other gazes on her, red hot.

As the platform landed with a slight thud, muffled by cushions underneath it, softer than any slaves bed, she stepped off, and now she almost welcomed the grip of the pair of easterlings; her legs felt weak. She stepped up onto the platform and the pair let her go. Slowly, she paced towards Ekatran until she was only a few steps away.

"Lord, I come." Her voice was barely above a whisper. It seemed like centuries since she had last seen Ekatran this close up, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into her. She was almost glad of the next part of the ritual, when her legs would have a blessed rest, but, with dignity, she lowered herself to one knee in front of him.

Ekatran didnt spare her another glance. He turned once more and drew out the second name...

[Gorothlammothiel]

Ajusting his sight from the slave-girl in front of him, Ekatran turned back to the cauldron to take out another name. He pulled a piece of paper from the dark mass and held it out in front of him.

Slowly he read aloud the number, elongating each digit, watching the slaves torment at the full number being slowly revealed. Looking out into the crowd he focused his attention to one small figure, one holding a bundle, perhaps a child? His eyes narrowed as he caught her sight.

"Haven" he spoke deeply watching her facial expression change. Whatever else she had been expecting of tonight, it was certainly not to hear her name being said aloud by Ekatran.

As two of the Easterlings started to make their way into the crowds towards Haven, Ekatran raised a hand to them. "Wait" he bellowed through the halls. He was holding another piece of paper in his hand. A third name and number. A smug smile crept across Lord Ekatran's face, one that was well known among those in Nurn.

"Desolyn"

[Orual]

Dôranna stood, only half-listening, as she had done every year. Most years she would tune the selection out completely, but since rumours had been circulating about her being chosen, she wanted to make sure that she heard if something did end up happening.

Fionel. Haven. Desolyn. The first three names were unfamiliar to her, but that was not surprising; there were thousands upon thousands of slaves in Nurn. Dôranna twisted a strand of long blonde hair around her finger, hoping that she didn't look bored. She was supposed to look frightened. She wasn't.

"Number 11547, Section 7. Dôranna Celebyavë." Dôranna could feel the gasps behind her, and prison-yard whisperings. Nobody was surprised, probably, and Dôranna least of all.

She realized that several moments had passed in what had felt to her like the blink of an eye, and that the slaves around her were staring at her. Lord Ekatran was looking for her, too. She tried to move, but her legs felt like jelly, and they were steadily melting. "Varda help me, I have to move," she thought in panic. She stumbled, and someone behind her grasped her and helped her up. She stumbled up to the podium. She tried to find her voice, but it came out as a hoarse croak as she said "I am the fourth chosen, O Lord, and I shall be quarry for your hunt." She coughed and nearly retched, but controlled herself and was able to finish her "speech". She had not thought that it would feel like this, after so many years expecting death, to be faced with it. She had expected to face it like her father would have wanted her to, like a warrior, proud and calm. Not like a water-kneed weakling. Tears of shame burned in her eyes as she took her place among the other chosen. She would not die like this. She would either escape, or die a death to make her father proud.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Haven," Lord Ekatran had said. At that moment, Haven could do nothing but blink. She heard Kara behind her gasp and say 'Oh, my,' while Jamilah and Jovanna's eyes widened. Haven couldn't believe it.

"No! We don't want Haven to go!" Jo cried, as two burly eaterling men made their way through the crowds and towards Haven.

"Shhh. I have to go. Be good little girls for your mommy, all right? Everything will be fine. I'll miss you," Haven hugged each of the four-year olds, then left them with a dumbfounded Kara.

Walking up towards the podium, where only one other stood, and stuttered as she said in a clear, but surprised voice, "I am the second chosen, O Lord, and I shall be quarry for your hunt."

Haven dismissed the numbers that were called next, and focused squarly on the two slave women who followed her. Desolyn was one, and Dor...Dor...someone with an elvish name that Haven couldn't quite pronounce was after her. Haven wondered if she had seen any of these women before, but there were so many slaves as opposed to their captors that she could not distinguish the others.

Haven felt as if she were choking on something, but she kept still and silent. Under the gaze of all those people, Haven felt weak and useless. Haven could see Jamilah and Jovanna's faces as they stood on a seat to get a clear sight of their chosen caretaker.

Haven looked back towards Lord Ekatran, as je began to call more names.

[ April 04, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Beruthiel]

Santiara watched as Ekatran drew out each name. The silence in the hall was almost unbearable but she waited silently like everyone else. All the other slaves around her were praying silently, that they wouldn't be chosen, yet secretly Santiara was doing the opposite.

Ekatran drew out another name, he read the paper silently to himself. Then ever so slowly he read out the number, "13952, Section 3, Santiara"

She got up slowly, realising the full impact of what was going to happen. The other slaves watched her with pity, but she could see in their eyes, they were glad it was her and not themselves. One guard grabbed her arm and pulled her to the platform, it wasn't as if Santiara was going to run. She walked faster to keep up with the guard and before she knew it she was on the platform next to the other slaves.

She repeated her speech to him, "I am the fifth chosen, O lord, and I shall be quarry for your hunt" She spoke so quietly that only the slave next to her could hear.

The guard behind her kicked her in the leg, she looked up with anger at Ekatran. She spoke louder, her voice filled with bitterness, "I am the fifth chosen, O Lord and I shall be quarry for your hunt"

She said the words O Lord with extreme sarcism and was amazed that he didn't order the guard to beat her. He stared straight into her eyes with utter disgust and went back to the choosing.

[ April 04, 2003: Message edited by: Beruthiel ]

[kittiewhirl1677]

Lanbriel felt herself fighting off the hope that she knew she had. It was either a tiny chance of life, or a longer while to live, or a useless and stupid death-punishment that she would have no chance to escape. She thought back to the time before she left her cabin. The overseer came in, and glared at her. The look obviously meant only that she would get chosen, and she would escape the punishment, but someday he would pay her back.

She snapped back to reality when she realized that Lord Ekatran was about to call the next quarry.
"Number 19204, section 5, Lanbriel."
At that moment, she didn't even hear that he said her name. While he had been talking, she had been focusing everything on one thought: I must get chosen.
She only opened her eyes after hearing the "ohs!" and "aahs" all around her. She only realized that she had been called when a guard kicked her in the shins and hollered at her to get going.
After what seemed like ages, she managed to get to the platform, and standing next to all the other slaves announced proudly:
"I am the sixth chosen, O Lord, and I shall be quarry for your hunt."
Lord Ekatran seemed to be a bit surprised by her bravery, and gave her a silent, 'Your bravery won't stay for long' look. Then he went on with the ritual.

[Brinniel]

Desolyn stood next to the other chosen slaves, squirming with excitement. She had to bite her lip to prevent a smile from forming.

She glanced at the other slaves. All females, of course. The Easterlings liked to pick females for the Hunt, for they were considered less useful in slave labor and were thought to be much easier to catch. But Desolyn was surprised that no male had been chosen yet...

The girl could see the expressions on the chosen slaves' faces. Many of them looked terrified, uncertain of what their future held. A few of them put on brave faces, trying to remain optimistic. Fionel, the girl Desolyn had spoken to, had a broad smile spread upon face, looking just as excited as Desolyn was. Des was glad to see she was not the only one happy to be picked.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Lord Ekatran cleared his throat and called out the last quarry:

"Number 13795, Section 2, Manituros."

[Envinyatar]

He edged closer to the exit and slipped out as Ekatran called another name. A guard at the outer entrance to the Hall stepped forward to challenge his leaving, then stepped back as quickly when Rhûnnaro fixed him with a cold stare. Walking with a measured step back to his quarters, he ran a list of things he would need through his mind. He rummaged through his closet and hauled out his pack and the double one for the pony.

Weapons, rope, dried foods, two skins of water went into one pile. A change of clothes, his cape, the small brown book in another. Four small bags from beneath his bed went into the pony’s packs, two to each side; the food in one pack then, the water skins in the other. At the bottom of his old leather pack went the brown book, and over it went his clothes and cape, carefully folded. His bedroll he placed next to the packs, near the door. On his bed, laid out in a row were his weapons. A methodical man, he would pick each one up in order, girding himself for the Hunt when it began.

He hurried quickly back to the Hall and slipped in, stand as far to the back as he could. The slaves had been summoned, and now would come the Hunters.

[ April 11, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]

[kittiewhirl1677]

Lanbriel stood by the other chosen slaves, patient. The slave-picking was over, and now Ekatran would start choosing the hunters. The last slave chosen was a male who she had never heard of.

She looked around at the other slaves. Some were completely horrified, mostly those who had their life run a little better than most slaves, and were suddenly put into this dangerous situation. Others stood proudly, facing all the overseers and other slaves. She was one of them. Standing boldly, straightening her back as much as she could. She felt quite strange there; standing with the others, in front of thousands of people.

She shivered at all those people. The slaves especially; all the ones that didn't get chosen were relieved, but at the same time, jealous. Although she needed to be in the hunt, she hadn't really realized quite how lucky she was to have been chosen.

She had a chance to escape. She, out of the thousands of others who could have been chosen. This was a grand chance - her only chance at freedom, to get back to her village, see the others. Maybe even find her mother, if she disappeared not from death, but for some other reason.

This was the only way. She had to succeed.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Fionel felt Desolyn looking at her and slid her eyes to the side to return the other slaves gaze. Desolyn had a quietly gleeful expression on her slim face, and Fionel knew she was wearing the same expression. She wrinkled her nose slightly, indicating she felt the same way, and Desolyn grinned at her. This was all done in minute movements, so none of the easterlings would notice. They neednt have worried though; all the easterlings were now engrossed on who of them would be picked for the hunt. Thousands of eyes were fixed on Ekatrans hand as he drew out the piece of paper and unfolded it. There was more chance to this; unlike the picking of the slaves, not all the hunters were chosen. Possibly three out of the six would have been pre-selected, but not all.

"Ranchard!"

Fionels grin faded instantly as Ekatran said the name, her eyes widening.

"Oh, please, by the Gods, please not Ranchard..." She murmered. She looked at Desolyn, and saw a look of horror on her face as well; the name of Ranchard was as infamous among the slaves and Desolyns own was among the easterlings. Fionel clenched her teeth together tightly, hoping, praying that there could be twe Ranchards...

But no. She saw the young man swaggering up to the front, his cold eyes gleaming maliciously. She closed her eyes. She knew what he was like, had seen the sort of things he did. The hope that had been there, the chance of escaping was still there, but she could see how slim it was...and could imagine how bad things would be if that hope didnt survive, if this hunter caught them.

[Mattius]

"Ranchard!" Lord Ekatran's voice boomed out against the vast stone walls.

In the corner he sat, frozen with joy. Heads began to turn and people began to mummer, Ranchard? Surely not. But he had been chosen. The big man stood on his chair and raised his hands to recieve a cheer from the crowds. The slaves were silent.

Quickly he dropped the spinal cord of the dog he was playing with and began to trot down the stairs, half bent over like an ape creature all the while cackling maically. His sub-concious forced him to close his eyes and push down his maddness, it may mean his exclusion from the Hunt even at this late stage. As he opened his eyes he stood more upright and ceased to laugh. He smiled though, smiled at the slaves he passed, kicking sand and dirt in to some of their stupid faces.

As he approached the chosen slaves he looked them all up and down.

"Yes, Ranchard will like disecting you my dear, with a curved blade I will remove your liver..." The slave took a sharp breath in panick and Ranchard began to cackle once more.

Ekatran raied his right arm and Ranchard took his seat to the right of the Lord. There were empty seats next to him to be filled by more hunters and that would be done immdiately as Lord Ekatran once again went forth to choose a name.

[Envinyatar]

Ekatran should be calling his name soon. That was the procedure prescribed by rule. The one called would walk slowly down to take his place beside the other Hunters. A custom whose design it was to strike fear into those chosen as the Hunted, each wondering how that Hunter might find them out, might kill them.

In other years he had walked down without looking to the right or left, his eyes fixed on the spot where he was to stand. Silence followed in his wake, and the man next to him would edge away as he took his place, turning quietly to survey the assembly.

He watched as Ekatran's hand dipped into the pot for the names. A silent wish went out from him that his name would not be called.

And then a grim smile played about his lips, knowing that it would not be so.

[ April 11, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]

[Frodess]

Dorlas smirked at the show. He had found a good seat. Galéwyn had no expression on her face. He glanced at her every now and then, trying to discern her thoughts. Once, he thought he saw horrot on her face. He grasped her hand.

The man had not had any of his slaves chosen. He was not sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Oh well, his own slaves would help him in the Hunt.

The slave woman who was supposed to be fanning his wife had stopped and was staring in open-mouthed horror.

"What are you doing?!" he cried. "You are supposed to be fanning my wife! Would you like me to go to Lord Ekatran and ask if he has room enough for another?"

The girl whimpered and began fanning with much vigour. He struck her hard, just to make sure she knew her place. She was new. He had traded with Lady Shivana. She got a boy, very suitable for the beatings she gave.

"My Lord." It was Galéwyn. "Must you beat her in such a way? I really needn't be fanned."

"Yes, I must. And yes, you do. Only the best for my wife." He kissed her. Drolas Seregon noted that the slave girl was crying.

Oh well, I will teach my wife to discipline her.

He gazed on, the blood pumping through his veins, yearning for the Hunt.

[Orual]

Dôranna grimaced when she heard Manituros' name called. She knew him from the fields; they had spoken, once. She had not seen him since his accident, but she never forgot a face, especially one that smiled at her.

She watched him struggle up to the podium, and nearly winced. He was more badly injured than she had guessed. The Hunt would be dreadful for all of them, but it would be a nightmare for Manituros. He recited the loathesome speech, then took his place among the Hunted. She did not fix her stare on him, because she realized that he probably got stared at more than he wanted, but her heart went out to him and she lifted up a prayer for him. If anyone needed the intercession of the Valar, it was Manituros.

She glanced quickly at the others in the row with her. She did not know them, but her instincts were generally good, and her first impressions rarely wrong. She frowned in pity as she looked at them, then turned her eyes down. She had been in servitude longer than these people had been alive. Many of them were so very young; they should not have to fear death like this.

The Hunters were called up, and Dôranna did not recognize most of them. But when Ranchard was called up, the Elf shuddered. She had heard rumours of this Easterling; they said he was insane, hardly in touch with reality, but that he knew when there was an opportunity to kill and always snatched it up. The wild look in his eyes and the apelike way he carried himself did nothing to say otherwise, and Dôranna swallowed hard and had to make a fierce effort to keep the fear from her face. This was not working out the way she had wanted. Where was the calm and rationality that her father had instilled in her? What was this terror that she felt? She had been facing death since they called her up--since she had been captured, actually. She knew that the six Hunters they chose would be bent on her demise, and would enjoy killing her. Why did the appearance of Ranchard change everything?

She tried not to, but she shrank away when Ranchard approached her. "Yes, Ranchard will like disecting you my dear, with a curved blade I will remove your liver..." he said, and Dôranna inhaled sharply. The Easterling laughed, but Dôranna had to fight back tears. This was wrong, this was all wrong...

And for the first time in years, Dôranna Celebyavë was really, truly, and acutely, afraid.

[Arien]

Shivana stared as Ranchard walked up to the centre of the hall. He was truely insane and evryone knew it, she smiled it would be funny to watch him tourture the slave on the hunt. Oh how she would laugh.

Now Ekatran pulled the second name out, he unfolded the piece of paper and boomed, "Shivana!!". She stood up immediately and threw a smile at Kavita. She knew she wa going to be choosen, no doubt. She walked up past the slaves she normally looked after and stared at them. Some with looks of horror others just looks of pity for the hunted.

When she reached Ekatran she bowed and took her seat next to Ranchard. He was leaning over in his chair muttering to himself. She smiled again this was going to be fun.