[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 ]