A Different Type of Harvest

Dubious Harvest - by Meek (added 10/27/99)

Harvest Moon

The moon was just rising, full and deep orange. Karana's followers called this a harvest moon, as it was generally a sign that the last crops before winter needed to be harvested before a killing frost.

However, this particular follower of Karana was after a harvest of a different sort.

Slaves.

To be more precise, the freeing thereof, from the foul depths of Crushbone.

When she and Joril had been here last time, to defeat D'Vinn, she'd been appalled at their plight, and freed as many as she could. It wasn't enough though. It was never enough.

So, when they'd returned to the area for their honeymoon, she'd decided to do another night-time foray. Joril was busy fletching a large order of arrows for a customer, and she was actually glad he was busy. Not only was it good that his fletching fame had spread so much, but she wanted to spare him the horrors of the slave pits where he'd been imprisoned in his younger days.

The harvest moon rising above her seemed a favorable omen to her as she crept up silently behind a slaver who was napping while on duty.

An hour later, she was doubting the accuracy of omens.

Many slavers lay dead or unconscious, but she'd had no luck finding any of the proper shackle keys for the slaves she'd located. The best she'd been able to do was feed a few from her foraged rations, and tend some minor wounds. If only she knew how to pick locks!

The moon was starting to get higher, and paler, and she knew that her time was running out. The guard would be changing soon, and it was inevitable that the dead slavers would be discovered soon.

She had to get out of there, and soon, before she was discovered. The thought left her seething with helpless frustration, as she wanted, needed, to do more.

Her frustration vanished, to be replaced by total distraction, as she crept past a slave pit next to the castle. She heard the most extraordinary thing, and found herself freezing in place, listening.

Someone was singing. Here, in the midst of the dismal cesspit of foul orcs, was the most glorious singing. Granted, the tune was heartrendingly sad, but the voice ... it was as if someone had taken the most melodious songbird they could find, and given it a voice to sing as people did. Such a voice, such a talent, did not belong here.

Ru finally remembered to breathe, just in time to catch and hold it again as voices neared -- a pair of D'Vinn's personal guard was approaching.

If they'd been talking in orcish, she'd not have had a chance of understanding them. However, D'Vinn wouldn't lower himself to speak orcish, so his personal guard was required to speak Common. She strained to decipher their mangling of the language.

"Little one won't sing long. D'Vinn wants in his room. Wants more than her voice."

An orcish chuckle followed the words, and Ru's hand closed quietly around her longsword as she listened.

"Huh. Guess rumors that he her father wrong."

"Ungh. Not sure. Think would stop him if true? Only a halfbreed."

Carefully, Ru slipped deeper into the shadows, flooded with conflicting emotions. Was it possible that the foul dark elf, D'Vinn, that made his home here may have spawned a child on a slave? Could she allow such a bloodline to continue?

It sounded like there was some doubt as to the father of the child, but still, the thought of a child of that, that ... beast .... On the other hand, could someone who sang that sorrowfully truly resemble her father, if the rumors of her parentage were true?

She was pulled from her thoughts as the singing ceased abruptly due to the orcs' arrival at their destination.

"P-p-please. N-no. I d-don't want t-to g-go! I promise I w-won't b-be any m-more t-trouble!"

Ru's heart nearly tore in two at the anguished stuttering coming from the slave pit. Karana preserve her, that child sounded like she was only 10 or so, far too young and innocent for what was about to happen.

Her mind made up, she slipped out of the shadows behind the guards. One held a pale, struggling young form easily in it's meaty grasp, while the other looked on, snickering.

She struck from behind, sliding a longsword through the ribs and into the heart of the one holding the child. Letting go her grasp on the blade, she left it embedded there as she uncoiled her whip and clenched her tomahawk more tightly.

With a yell, the other guard was upon her, and she heard the cry repeated from another part of the compound as the orcs were alerted that *something* was wrong.

"Run, little one!" Ru wasted no more breath, no more time, but launched into combat, knowing that she only had a few moments before reinforcements arrived.

The guard was tough, but Ru's memory of haunted violet eyes, looking out from a tear-streaked face that reminded her of her when she was young goaded her to new feats of strength and skill. Battlefury, pure raw rage, tempered by a maternal instinct she never knew she had, washed over her.

The guard didn't last long, nor did the two centurious who were near. But the hue and cry had started, and it was time to flee.

She stopped to grab her longsword from the first dead guard, but it was gone, and so was the child.

Needing no further urging, Ru fled.

~~~~

A while later, when she'd shaken off all pursuit, she doubled back, searching the trampled ground for telltale signs.

In the forest of Greater Faydark, she found what she was looking for. Tracks left by bare feet, with tiny drops of blood here and there showing that the feet were badly abraded, as if from fleeing heedlessly over rock and root.

Carefully, Ru started disguising or brushing away the tracks, even as she followed them herself. She wanted no other to be able to follow the trail.

The moon was starting to set by the time she found her target, hidden deep within a thicket. The poor thing let out a squeak of fear as Ru seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and then promptly fainted, dropping Ru's missing longsword in the process.

Ru took the next few moments to look the girl over. She was what was commonly known as half-elven, a name that was a catch-all for any pointy-eared person of at least partial elven descent. It could mean a mix of various elven races, or it could be one-eighth or three-fourths elven. Society didn't care, as to most eyes, they all looked the same. Half breeds. Like Ru.

Silver-haired and slender, Ru noted enough telltale signs to guess that there was quite a bit of human in her, as well one of the smaller elven races. It was hard to tell in the waning moonlight, but her skin looked too fair for her to have a dark elf for a father. Skin color varied quite a bit on halfbreeds, however, and her cheek bones and other features were sharp enough that it was hard to be sure one way or the other.

Carefully, Ru cleaned the longsword of gore and dirt, and then stood there, staring down at the prone figure. For a brief moment, her hand tightened on the hilt of the blade. It would be so easy ...

Her eyes strayed to the scars on the girl's wrists. Manacle scars, unless she missed her guess. And more on her ankles.

Ashamed of herself, Ru sheathed her blade and crouched next to the girl. A tell-tale tensing told her that the lass was conscious, even though her eyes were closed. She was bracing herself for a blow.

"Easy lass. I won't hurt you, but we need to get you out of here in case they widen the search."

Wary voilet eyes looked up at her and Ru had to turn her face away to hide sudden tears. Just so must Ru herself have looked up at Mortekai when he rescued her from Blackburrow. Like a cornered beast that was half fearing, half praying for a merciful death blow.

With an effort she forced out the words, knowing that if D'Vinn wanted this child, the search would resume. "Let me bind your feet, and then we're going to the docks. I'm Ru, by the way."

"I'm M-Meek."

With little further ado, they were off. Joril would know how to sneak her out of here ... if he could control his own hatred for D'Vinn, and keep it from spilling onto Meek's thin shoulders.

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Reaping the Harvest

by Meek

It was the end of harvest time in West Karana, and the druids were busy with the last of the grain. In a large barn, one druid was threshing the wheat from the chaff by using the Whirling Wind spell upon it. The lighter chaff was flung out to the edges of the barn, while the grain didn't move far before it sank again. Migrant workers, adults and half-grown children, then swept the chaff out the doors before the brief burst of wind was called up again, to separate more of the precious grain.

One of the younger of these homeless ones sang quietly as she worked, knowing she couldn't be heard over the din of the frantic activity. Rain was coming soon, and there were more loads of grain to be threshed before then.

Sanity is a vanity of humanity
and music holds the key to save us all
In a world filled with hate and inhumanity
music holds me deep within it's thrall

Lose me in the melody, fill my very soul
Music holds the ma-a-gic to keep my spirit whole.

If only she could properly unlock that magic. Heal the fear, heal the pain, the scars, the memories ... the accursed stuttering.

Born a slave, she'd been beaten more times than she could count due to difficulty speaking, and only her lovely singing voice, which rivaled that of her dead mother's, had saved her from permanent maiming or death.

She was free now, and over a continent away from the terrors of Crushbone, but she still woke crying in terror many nights, still went into blind panics when she saw a dark elf, or heard mention of orcs. Thirteen years of slavery was not easily erased by a few days of freedom.

Meek still didn't understand *why* Ruldari had freed her. The woman seemed barely able to tolerate her presence, often looking away after a quick glance. And there were a couple times when both she and her husband looked ready to run her through.

A shudder ran through her over the "discussion" she'd overheard between Ruldari and her husband, Joril.

" ... she won't, or can't, confirm who her father was. Even it *is* true that she's a by-blow of D'Vinn's, she's a mere child. An innocent. A former slave ... just like you were, Jo. She needs our help to escape this island." Ru's voice was thick with emotion, and the eavesdropping Meek could tell that the woman still battled within herself over what to do with her.

"I'm sorry, m'love. I won't help. Not if there's even a chance that the bast---- D'Vinn is her father. Innocent she might be, but that bad blood might tell at some future point."

There was a ringing sound of a weapon being drawn. "Then you'd best run this through her heart now, while she is sleeping, because if we don't get her off Faydwer soon, death will be kinder than what D'Vinn will do to her when he finds her." Her voice quieted, and Meek had to strain to hear the next words. "And then think on your own daughter, husband."

There'd been dead silence a long moment, then the ringing of a blade hitting the floor. Meek heard the door to the street open, then slam shuthard enough to shake the rafters. Then, all was silent but for the sound of Ruldari breaking into heartrending sobs.

A few hours later, a tight-lipped Ruldari had secreted her on a boat bound for Freeport, with a small sack of provisions and a few coins, and left. Once the boat was far to sea, a merchant sought out her hiding-place, claiming that Joril had tasked him with getting her safely to Qeynos, hidden in his caravan.

She'd been suspicious, fearing that she'd escaped from one form of slavery, just to have been traded into another form of bondage. In the end, however, exhaustion and fear wore down her resistance ... that and the sight of a dark elf standing on the docks when they docked in Freeport.

When they hit West Karana, however, Meek overheard him say something about taking "care of her", and had fled, fearing the worst. Since then, she'd been living hand to mouth, scavenging what she could, singing for her supper, and finding odd jobs where nobody would ask questions about her scars or her stutter.

She didn't know yet if she would be considered grain or chaff in the final reckoning, but she was going to try to make the best of her new-won freedom.

And one day, "dear, beloved" D'Vinn was going to get a special visitor. One that would teach him how to sing soprano ... by virtue of a knife blade. Then would her mother's death be avenged.

Back to the top

Dubious Harvest

by Meek

Meek reached to pull her hair forward over her face, then stopped with a sigh. Old habits die hard. No longer could she hide behind the long silver tresses. D'Vinn had treasured her hair and her voice, and recently had seemed to take an interest in her budding figure. There was little she could do about her figure, and she refused to stop singing to spite him, but the hair, that glorious hair, that she could deal with. She'd hacked it short soon after her escape, and now kept it close-cropped.

It still took getting used to, especially when cold winter winds blew through the plains, and she snugged her new leather cap more tightly over her upswept ears.

She still marveled at all her new possessions, even as they made her more on her guard. Everyone seemed to want her give her things, and she was increasingly suspicious of the motives behind some of the gifts.

Meek was unused to generosity. Slaves in Crushbone learned quickly that they could call nothing "theirs". When someone managed to scavenge an item, it was quickly hidden away, for fear it would be taken.

Some of these items were used for bribes. Bribery was something she understood well. Gifts with no strings attached were ... incomprehensible. There must be a catch.

Of course, she didn't view the gifts she'd been giving in the same light. They were insurance, or so she told herself. A few bone chips to a necromancer here, a few batwings to a shaman there. These things would hopefully be remembered if she was ever backed into a corner and needed help. Only a tiny, hidden part of her mind would admit that she simply enjoyed seeing the look of pleasure on people's faces. Insurance, nothing more.

Try though she might, Meek couldn't figure out what the thief, Tiatha, wanted from her. First had come the gift of the throwing daggers, which Meek quickly learned to like. Then had come the bronze club, gifted right after Meek had nearly cracked in two the staff she'd been learning to use on a particularly thick-skulled skeleton. And then, to bring her into Blackburrow, when she only had 4 circles of training?! It had seemed like folly, but the woman was so authoritative in her command to follow, that follow she did, knees knocking in fear. However, she'd returned from the trip with a growing array of skills and loot, and had been granted the knowledge of another spellsong as a reward for her efforts.

Tiatha seemed to simply want to help, but what was this talk of "shadow walkers" sticking together? Was she being tested for some sort of gang?

The bard, Rhaine, was also hard to figure out. She'd seemed to truly enjoy listening to Meek's original song, and Meek had been agog at the gifts she'd been given, but ...

Rhaine had taken her to the bard's guild to audition, and after a few moments of panic, Meek sang the first thing that came to mind. However, as Rhaine excused herself a moment to aid in locating someone's corpse, her earlier words came rushing back to Meek. She'd been introduced to the bard guild master who was "master of all things both musical and magical." Master? Suddenly, the whip that Rhaine had given her, and the "guild" seemed something much more ominous. She'd not call anyone master again.

Mastermastermastermaster .... noooooo!

Meek had fled in a blind panic to the docks, and hidden on the first ship bound to Erudin.

Once she'd calmed down a bit, she started realizing that all the guilds called their leader "master" as a term of respect, not of subservience. For hours, her mind spun in circles, trying to figure out Rhaine's motives, and trying to figure out what the woman's reaction would be if she had been simply being kind.

Meek didn't want to be considered an ungrateful foolish chit, but at the same time, better an ungrateful one than an enslaved one.

So, she returned to the Qeynos area and worked on her various emergency caches. Should ever trouble arise, she had plenty of hiding spots to run to. They held things such as spare clothing, food, a rusty dagger, a short sword, more throwing daggers, a wooden staff -- anything she might need for survival if she had to run for it.

She worked long, hard, hours learning multiple weapon styles. She still preferred slashing weapons, but was also becoming proficient at staves, daggers, thrown weapons, and had learned a bit of hand-to-hand as well. She was determined to never be defenseless again. She was quite proud of her growing proficiency, all the more so when Azeen commented on it.

Azeen - now there was the one person she didn't suspect of ulterior motives. She'd grown up in the slave pits surrounded by dwarves, and they'd always done their best to shield her from the attention of the slavers where they could. She understood their gruffness, and their soft hearts, and she knew of the vows that their paladins took. Azeen truly wanted to help someone in need. She never searched further for a motive behind his actions. ... could it be that she may have found a friend?