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Tevildo · 04-17-2006, 02:45 AM

As the riders plodded onward towards the low hill that Brand had shown them, one or two large raindrops came plopping down upon their heads. Dorran pushed his hood up and pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders. Once again, Brand had been right. This light sprinkle was likely to pick up and turn into a true rainstorm by the time they reached the hill he could just see in the distance.

Dorran had started the morning in good spirits, flashing a friendly smile at Athwen and waving once at Incana. As the road had spilled southward and the clouds had blown in, the young man had found his spirits sinking for no fathomable reason that he could spell out in words. He could feel a definite foreboding in the pit of his stomach, a sensation that he found impossible to ignore or wish away. But why that feeling was there or what it might portend, Dorran had absolutely no idea.

It was only after the rain started to fall that shadowy images, vivid and horrific, began to intrude on Dorran's conscious thoughts. He glimpsed images of a place far away in time and place: women and children shackled together at the ankle with an Easterling master parading up and down the line. Dorran shuddered as he recalled how Urik and his captains would pull the younger women out of line and then drag them off to some unknown destination, never to be seen again. The rest of the slaves were sent out to the fields, with many of them silently weeping to see their beloved kinswomen so cruelly torn away.

Dorran shuddered as he remembered the sharp barbs of the whips of the Easterlings. The men were not as powerful or overtly brutal as the Orcs, but many of the Easterlings exhibited something even more frightful. Their captors had possessed a keen intelligence and cynical spirit, taking absolute delight in causing mental as well as physical pain---not the sharp, rapid blows of the Orcs that would be over in a minute, halted either by their own stupidity or the merciful release of death, but a slow torture, more like the dripping of rainwater onto a hard dirt surface. Eventually, the persistent water would have its way and transform the hard dirt into a muddy bog.

Dorran gasped in surprise as fragmented images of blood and pain that he had intentionally repressed for many years came slinking back into his mind. The last time he had mentioned Easterlings to Brand, he had made a terrible mistake in judgment. They had ended up attacking some good men and women. Perhaps he should keep his mouth closed and say nothing. Everyone else was fearing the attack of Orcs. Why then should he be thinking of the Men of the East? But what if his fears and premonitions were real? Could he forgive himself for saying nothing? Dorran promised that, once they had gotten to the safety of the hill, he would try and pull Brand aside and quietly speak with him again.....

04-17-2006, 02:45 AM	#310
Tevildo Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Nov 2004 Location: Curled up on Melko's lap Posts: 425	Dorran: As the riders plodded onward towards the low hill that Brand had shown them, one or two large raindrops came plopping down upon their heads. Dorran pushed his hood up and pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders. Once again, Brand had been right. This light sprinkle was likely to pick up and turn into a true rainstorm by the time they reached the hill he could just see in the distance. Dorran had started the morning in good spirits, flashing a friendly smile at Athwen and waving once at Incana. As the road had spilled southward and the clouds had blown in, the young man had found his spirits sinking for no fathomable reason that he could spell out in words. He could feel a definite foreboding in the pit of his stomach, a sensation that he found impossible to ignore or wish away. But why that feeling was there or what it might portend, Dorran had absolutely no idea. It was only after the rain started to fall that shadowy images, vivid and horrific, began to intrude on Dorran's conscious thoughts. He glimpsed images of a place far away in time and place: women and children shackled together at the ankle with an Easterling master parading up and down the line. Dorran shuddered as he recalled how Urik and his captains would pull the younger women out of line and then drag them off to some unknown destination, never to be seen again. The rest of the slaves were sent out to the fields, with many of them silently weeping to see their beloved kinswomen so cruelly torn away. Dorran shuddered as he remembered the sharp barbs of the whips of the Easterlings. The men were not as powerful or overtly brutal as the Orcs, but many of the Easterlings exhibited something even more frightful. Their captors had possessed a keen intelligence and cynical spirit, taking absolute delight in causing mental as well as physical pain---not the sharp, rapid blows of the Orcs that would be over in a minute, halted either by their own stupidity or the merciful release of death, but a slow torture, more like the dripping of rainwater onto a hard dirt surface. Eventually, the persistent water would have its way and transform the hard dirt into a muddy bog. Dorran gasped in surprise as fragmented images of blood and pain that he had intentionally repressed for many years came slinking back into his mind. The last time he had mentioned Easterlings to Brand, he had made a terrible mistake in judgment. They had ended up attacking some good men and women. Perhaps he should keep his mouth closed and say nothing. Everyone else was fearing the attack of Orcs. Why then should he be thinking of the Men of the East? But what if his fears and premonitions were real? Could he forgive himself for saying nothing? Dorran promised that, once they had gotten to the safety of the hill, he would try and pull Brand aside and quietly speak with him again.....