LOCATION:

The Southern Wastes

Before you stretch the desolate wastes. There is nothing to be seen for miles. No water, no air. Just gasping dust in this wasteland. You had better have water with you. No folk dwell here, it is too harsh. About you, you can see the remnants of bones of animals. Skulls amid the barren rocks. When will this waste and desolation end?

Obvious exits:

By the Withered Tree By the Stone By the Bridge By the Cacti

[Rashan:]

Still morning, yet, a bright sun sits already high in the sky, burning those beneath him with all the power the Valar instowed it with. The wastes are barren, empty. A harsh wind sweeps down now and again, adding to the terrible heat, raising dust, blinding the eyes.

In this cruel environment, a Harad caravan of slave traders makes their way, in what could be the direction of Mordor. 'Bout 30 slaves walk in a long line after eachother, chained together, watched by a about 20 pair of Haradrim eyes. The sound of whips is can be heard, if the wind is right, as they hit the backs of the unfortunate ones who've fallen into the hands of these vicious traders. They're harsh men, hardened, all wear heavy clothing, to protect themselves against the sun, and dust. Leader seems to be a tall man, with a scimitar in one hand. He bullies the slaves, hitting one now and then with the flat part of his sword. Their screams and rants are lost in the wind. . .

Ahead, upwind, little but dust stirs in the vast emptiness ... no. There is something over by that pile of rocks, a scrap of colour amidst the bleached landscape. A scrap of blue cloth, maybe? But it does not blow away in the wind. The motion comes again, a feeble movement, difficult to notice if one is keeping eyes half-lidded against the stinging, gritty wind. Yet the observant might be able to make out two separate forms sheltering in the lee of the group of rocks, the larger one a slumped figure, the other a shapeless pack.

[Rashan:]

As the slaves slowly drag themselves across the dustridden plains, the Haradrim keep hitting them, enforcing a quicker pace of the exhausted prisoners. Chained together, all they can do is march to their uncertain faith. The wounds inflicted get covered by dust, not quite healthy. The flesh could rot that way. It seems these slavers are bringing these unlucky ones to Mordor, as a sacrifice to the Lord of Gifts. No reason for them to be healthy then.

All of a sudden, a slave somewhere in the middle of the row, drops ot the ground, dehydrated. The caravan stumbles to a stop, slaves happy they can stop for a moment. Haradrim rush to the unfortunate soul, and kick it, beat it. They try to put him back ot hs feet, yet, he just falls through his knees. With a smirk and a few spits on the him, they leave him behind, beaten, a broken shell of a human being.

Rashan, leader of the caravan, nods approvingly at his mercenaries. Heh. The slave is not worth the honour of being sacrificed to our great Lord. Pathetic creatures. With that, he turns 'round, and scans the barren landscape for a moment, tired of the sight of droolng an moaning slaves. Spotting a hint of blue against the desert background, he narrows his eyes. Yes, definetely something. . .blue?

A subdued murmur comes from the line of slaves as the fallen one's link chain is released. Freedom? Yet the unfortunate sufferer cannot get up, cannot move even as he as kicked and spat upon ... left exposed like this, likely the sun will end his life in an hour or two. He gives a long, high, wordless wail, the sound barely human.

And at the sound the shapeless lump of blue stirs again, turns over, pushes itself up slightly using one arm ... this is unmistakeably a human form. Sand-encrusted eyes blink rapidly as the glare of the morning sun falls on them, and the figure groggily struggles to a standing position that leaves it clearly silhouetted against the sky, raising its other arm to shade its eyes, only then seeming to become aware that the desert is not empty. Slowly, one hand reaches for the sharpened stave that lies nearby, as the figure drops back unsteadily to a crouch.

[Rashan:]

A few blinks are all that come from Rashan as he sees the blue spot moving, in response to the wail of the soon to be death slave. It rises and... and it's the silhouette of a man. Amazed to see another living soul here, he just stands there for a few moments, a bit startled. Then, he comes to his senses, as a hard gust of dust is blown in his face. A few screams in Haradrim, cause his companions to look back, piercing through the dust with their obsidian eyes. Immediately spotting the figure a bit further, about seven fiercelooking men detach from the caravan, and come running to investigate. The rest contain the slaves. Rashan himself, follows behind his men, though with a casual walk, his scimitar still at ready.

The figure hesitates, then rises to its feet again, remaining still as the Haradrim approach - odd that, until one notices that this person leans heavily on the sharpened stave now held in the right hand. Perhaps this one believes that running is beyond him now. Closer at hand, it becomes obvious that this is a man, dark haired and swarthy-skinned, with amber eyes that are slightly glazed, parched and cracked lips that bear witness to the reason for the fellow's weakness - dehydration, no doubt. Those lips, strangely twisted, part now as the man struggles to speak, yet all that comes forth is a croak. A second attempt is more successful - yet the words are not Haradrim. "<Mannish_H> Who are you?" the man asks, and then more urgently, "<Mannish_H> Do you have water? I can exchange food for it ..."

[Rashan:]

The Haradrim finally reach the dark-haired man, and encircle him. A few mutters rise up from then, then glance back to watch the steady approach of their Captain. The words of the man are lost, ignored. With drawn weapons, they eye him with great suspicion, a bit undecisive of what to do. Then, Rashan reaches them, and a smirk of contempt appears on his face, as he scans his new victim. He clears his throat, then speaks up in some bizarre language, obviously Haradrim. His gaze is fixed on the man, in an attempt to penetrate the latters thougths.

The lone man stares back, and repeats his words, despite the drawn weapons, glancing slowly from this face to that ... and then at the distance between him and his pack. He'll never make it - and without food or water, in this place he is dead. Better to wait and see - after all, these strangers have not threatened him yet. As the one who seems to be leader pours forth a torrent of unrecognizable speech, the man raises his head to says slowly, in heavily accented Adunaic, his speech rasping and his cracked lips bleeding as he forces the words out, "I do not understand. You speak Adunic?"

[Rashan:]

A frown appears on Rashan's face, as he absorbs Barzag's words. A slight frown appears on his face. He spins around and shouts something in the direction of the caravan. The slavers present there, start to force the slaves to their knees, and set up a few small tents, to have some cover for the burning sun. The slves themselves are left exposed to the excruciating heat. Many already have blisters on their bare backs, and heavy bleeding wounds. It must be torture.

While the men set up the tents, Rashan directs hs attention again to his soon-to-be slave. A firm nod to his men is all that comes from him. Three of the mercenaries approach Barzag and try to grab him. . .

Barzag's amber eyes fix on Rashan, then wander away again - he seems disoriented, still, and his lips move soundlessly, though what he is trying to say, who can tell?. It is not until the first mercenary is almost upon him that Barzag acts, levelling his makeshift spear to fend the man off. It is a lucky blow, catching the man squarely in the midriff and knocking the breath out of him, but the effect is lessened by the padded clothing the Haradrim wear, and there is little real damage. And there are still two others. Slowly and unsteadily Barzag backs away, attention on the leading mercenary, only to stumble as his foot catches against a rock.

[Rashan:]

As one of the Haradrim is struck by the spear, the man gasps for air, as it is blown out of his lungs. He falls back, heavily coughing. At the sight of a comrade being attacked, all Haradrin rush in now, approach slowly, encircling their victim. Their obsidian eyes are narrowed. Rashan, standing behind his men now, clears his throat, and speaks in barely undertandable Adunaic, "Give up and live. Else, die." He pushes himself forth between two of his companions, and eyes the man in front of him, awaiting response. By now, the coughing man, has gotten back to his feet, and shakes his head, still a bit dazed.

The Hillman's amber eyes gaze back at Rashan, and twisted lips part slightly, brows furrowed in incomprehension. "I do not understand," he says again in that hoarse voice, although Rashan's words were plain enough, and then, "Why do you attack? What do you want? If it is water ..." Lips twitch in painful amusement as he manages to raise himself to a sitting position and then back to his feet, bare-handed now. "I have no water," he states simply, throat swallowing convulsively even at the mention of it. "I can not give what I do not have." But he remains still, swaying a little as he squints at those surrounding him.

[Rashan:]

It is silent for a moment, then laughter rises from the tall, dark man. His obsidian eyes don't relinquish ther gaze though. His men shift their weight from one foot to the other, nervously, obviously not quite knowing what's going on. Rashan shakes his head, slowly, "No water", then repeats, "Give up. Surrender." His posture and attitude betray his arrogance, and his feeling of superiority. His self-assurance is quite obvious. After all, the man is cornered and stuck like a rat. This one looks strong despite his current condition. This one will not be sacrificed. Oh no, this one will be sold. . .

The Hillman glances at Rashan and then past him ... stares at the tents being set up nearby, the chained men who have collapsed on the sand, many in far worse condition than he ... then shakes his head doggedly. "<Mannish_H> Better to die free than to live as a slave," he mutters, probably not even aware that he has switched back to his own tongue. And as he stares at the arrogant and self-assured Rashan, a madness seems to take him. He side-steps, then half-blindly lashes out one hand in a chopping motion that's aimed at Rashan's weapon arm.

[Rashan:]

Too starled to react, Rashan watches the Hillman lash out to him. He wouldn't have guessed that in this broken, dehydrated figure some strength was still left. Yet, he resists. A feisty one, indeed. I'll make good money on him.

Barzag's chopping hand contacts with Rashan's arm, before the latter could react. Yet, luckily, the blow was not as forceful as it would've been when the Hillman is at full strength. Though Rash doesn't release his scimitar, he does take a few steps back from the cornered man, while muttering some curses and holding his arm. His man come into action, slowly. They all approach him. One slashes at him with a whip from behind him, aiming for the back.

Barzag's full attention is on Rashan, he doesn't even turn to look behind him. The whip lands full on his back, the tip curling round his shoulder, tearing the cloth of his tunic and leaving a bloody weal. The force of the blow is enough to send the Hillman sprawling into the dust at Rashan's feet, twisted lips contorted in a snarl of pain.

The whip-wielder looks up at his Captain. "What d'you want done with him?," he queries, aiming a kick at the prone figure. "Looks like trouble. Shall we finish him off, or d'you want to do it yourself?"

[Rashan:] Rashan lunges out for the whip-wielder, with his fist. He hits the starled man on the cheek. The jaw breaks under the brute force, and a cracking sound is audible. The latter falls back, squirming in agony in the dust. "Did I say you could attack? Or hurt him?", he says in Haradrim. He scans the faces of his men, who now take a cautious step back from their Captain. "I did not! This man is to remain undamaged. He will be sold to the highest bidder, understood? Tie him down." At the mere mention of money, the mercenaries straighten up, and and two of them, drop on their knees beside Barzag. A long end of rope appears in the hands of one of them. . .

One of his comrades helps the Haradrim with the broken jaw up, and escorts him toward the tents. The latter, though brutally attacked by his superior, does not protest or object, but retreats quietly. By now, the tents have been set up, and most of the guards have retreated into them. Only about three guards remain with the slaves, with drawn weapons.

Barzag lies quiet through all of this, giving no indication that he has understood a single thing that is going on. But he turns his head and raises amber eyes to fix on the man with the rope - the meaning of that is clear enough. He tries to roll away, the breath hissing out from between clamped teeth as his back hits the dust, but only succeeds in placing himself in the hands of the second man, who holds him down as his struggles weaken.

The rope-holder obediently begins to bind the new captive, though the look of disgust on his face is clear. For this trash Marik's jaw was broken?"Sir, where would you like this one put?" he queries his superior softly in Haradrim, his own eyes wandering towards the empty place in the line of slaves.

[Rashan:] Looking down on the tied Hillman, Rashan makes an effort to talk in Adunaic again. "Obey, and live.", he repeats, as if to make sure his words have penetrated the man's mind. The, he follows the gaze of the inquiring Haradrim, and he slowly shakes his head. He switches back to the language of Harad again, "No. Not yet. He must first regain some of his strength, then he will walk in line. Carry him to my tent, and give him some, not much, water." Noticing the contempt of his men for the new slave, and their reluctancy to follow his orders, he continues, "This man may seem like a broken shell, but I sense strength, and a will to survive in him. If we treat him well, he will make good money. Rest assure. Obviously, you will share in the profit. Think of it as an extra addition comrades to the payment of delivering the sacrifices." His authority cannot be ingored, and the men fall into place again.

Barzag makes no reply to Rashan's words, cleft lips pressed tightly shut. But the silent glare of his amber eyes shows that he has understood the man of Harad, though the wild glint they still contain suggests something other than obedience.

Others obey swiftly enough - money is always a powerful draw. If any of the men still have doubts they keep them to themselves. The two who had roped Barzag haul him up between them, and half-carry, half-drag him towards the largest of the tents - no mean feat, for even after a month travelling the Hillman is of sturdy build. Barzag's pack lies forgotten to one side.

[Rashan:]

Nodding approvingly as the two carry off his victim, turns himself to the remaining men, "Return to your tent, and have a bit of rest. We'll resume our journey as soon as the sun sets. The heat is barely within tolerable limits, even for us desertmen." Sheating their weapons, they retreat, whispering among each other.

Yet, when Rashan decides to follow, his eye falls onto something else, a pack. Must have belonged to the Hillman, who else would leave a pack here. He walks over, and drops to one knee, investigating its contents. Bah. Only some food. And tools? What would one be doing with mason tools out here? He shrugs slightly, and rises to his feet, still holding the pack. Well, the food we can use at least. With a final scan of his surroundings, he follows the suit of his companions, and slips into the tent they carried the Hillman into.