Glade 65, 123
The call of seabirds broke through the orchestral grunts of the chained men and women rowing the oars of The Prickly Pear. The drums for keeping time came to a sudden and deafening stop, allowing for the slaves to raise the oars and coast on their efforts, gliding into the harbor. Morin wiped the sweat from his brow, peering out the oar turret, seeing a stark splash of yellow and orange alongside the crystal blue waters. Somewhere warm, that would be a nice change. He hadn't really cared for the cold and dark winter in Gel'Grandal. He leaned forward on the oar, the only person smiling among this cargo of slaves.
His chain neighbor, an older man with fewer teeth than years left, surely, looked at him incredulously. "Why are you smiling, boy? Clearly you've never been a slave in the sands, you'd not be so excited for a return."
Morin scoffed in a chuckle, his grin only growing, "You don't find excitement in traveling to somewhere new?" He looked back out at the harbor as the ship slowed to a crawl. "A new world, full of new opportunities, and plenty of fun to be had."
The old man shook his head, "Fun, you're a slave, boy. You won't know fun ever again. They'll whip that out of you."
Morin reached a chained hand over, clasping the man on the shoulder, "You mustn't give up hope, you old fuck. There's always a way to have fun, if you know what you like."
The old man shrugged off the hand, turning away, no longer interested in talking to this crazy boy. No point in keeping tabs on him, he'd be dead in a month with an attitude like that. Soon the ship lurched to a stop as the workers caught it with stays. A minder came down below deck, club hanging off his belt, and Morin rolled his eyes as he began barking out orders. Disembarking, compliance, eyes down, try to run and your knee caps would be broken and sold off for a cheap price to a mine that went through slaves like certain Zaichaeri officers went through candy.
It wasn't long until lines of chained slaves began being stood up and marched topside, and when it was Morin's turn, he went with the rest. He was dirty, in rags, thin with his ribs able to be counted, pale, like many others on this ship, and he shuffled out, the last in his particular chain. He raised his hands to shield his eyes from the incredibly bright sun as he was topside for the first time in weeks. He saw a queue at the gangplank, lowering his hands as he took in the sights around him, and that damned smile of his crept back upon his face. This place was beautiful, warm, and he saw many a lovely person traveling along the harbor. A familiar desire crawled back in under his skin as he sucked in a deep lungful of the salty, arid air.
Yes, this place would do just fine.
He listened in as the captain was talking toward a clerk of the quartermaster. He seemed a bit annoyed, something to do with taxes it seemed, "I already paid for them taxes in Auris before we even left for here, I am not paying it again!" Morin smirked, hoping it was especially annoying for the man. As he shuffled down the gangplank, still taking in his bearings, he listened in on a few of the ship's minders, "... yeah they are off to the warehouse to be cleaned up and evaluated for the upcoming auction."
Auction? Interesting. Morin looked around at his many fellow slaves, smug and certain he could fetch a higher price than any of these sad sacks. They were marched through the harbor and into wagons, as many eyes were upon them. Morin knew nothing about this land, but despite the minder's warning, he did not keep his eyes down. He watched and paid attention as they rolled along toward the warehouse. A few well dressed merchants and others followed after the caravan, sharks smelling a deal by the looks of them. Make some purchases now before the auction raised the prices.
The warehouse had many more armed staff, as the slaves were unchained. A large, dark and bossy fellow with a ridiculous goatee was going along to each slave, giving a once over of physique and appearance. Some slaves were asked more questions, others were not. After each evaluation, they were sent off to various groups. The sex workers, the servants, the fighters, and so on. Morin saw the near toothless old man sent to the group for the mines, smirking, thinking the old man deserved it.
The boss arrived before Mordin, eyeing his wiry physique. He saw the scars upon his body, from the years in the Imperial camp and the year or so fighting in the rings for the gangs in Gel'Grandal. He checked over Morin's fists, checked his joints and his teeth, removed his rags to inspect his genitals, receiving a smirk from the slave. This prompted the man to cuff Morin on the jaw, knocking the smirk from his face, staining his teeth with blood, but not souring Morin's mood one bit. He enjoyed getting a rise out of the man.
"Fighters."
Figures. Never lucky enough to get the sex work.
Morin strutted over to the area with the rest of the fighters, who were being paired off by the minders there. "We got some guests coming. You all will face off in combat against one another. No permanent damage, so no biting, eye gouging, throat stomping. Do well and fetch a good price, you'll find your life more comfortable than if you go for coppers. Break the rules set here, and you'll be off to the mines with the rest of the breakables. Got it?"
The fighters group was shepherded over to a more open side of the warehouse, and it was clear this was an open market, as merchants and onlookers and even a couple of elves seemingly on a date stopped in to see what was going on. The first pair of fighters were placed in the gap of the group and ordered to fight. Morin hadn't even bothered to look at who he was paired against, instead, his eyes looking at all the new arrivals, studying them, searching for what life could mean here.
And how he could best enjoy it.