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 Sails and Shackles
Jarrett Pyke
 Posted: Oct 4 2014, 03:40 PM

Living Sacrifce
Posts: 20
Member is: Offline

Character Profile
Age: 32
Player: Victoria

Esoss is much more vibrant and colourful than he pictured, even the Ironborn feels misplaced in this foreign world with his black leather clothes that would make him far too warm for this climate. The second lieutenant walked briskly through the busy streets, his destination is anywhere, for the moment their crew and the Harlot's captain is resting and Captain Crowe have granted nearly everyone shore leave to do what they wish, except invite trouble. To Jarrett's understanding, the last time Haytham was here he had somehow offended the Marquis and landed himself in jail.

And from what he understood about Nicoll, Haytham's first mate, the Essosian isn't on good term with certain people in Bravoos, he doesn't know the details but he suspects he'll find out soon. Word and rumours travel quickly on a ship, but the Ironborn tries not to listen too keenly to rumours, although even a little titbit of information will get him far depending on the context.

It felt surreal to him, it been two years since he escaped the wall and found a trade as a sell sword, but it still feels strange to not be hurling himself through snow and ice and not to be covering himself up trying to preserve what little warmth his cloak can give him. "Move mister!" yelled a child as he rushed past the stranger, followed close behind by either bullies or his brothers, Jarrett doesn't care.

'People seem to be happier here...' pondered the Ironborn as he continued to stroll aimlessly through the city to no where in particular until he came across the heart of the city of Tolos, the slavers market. He stood in the corner, arm crossed and watched the commotion with reserved interest to go with his distaste of the whole thing. He is no fool, he knew Essos practices slavery, at least the area of Slaver's Bay does. Privately he wondered if his captain ever took a slave aboard the ship, or been offered one as payment for trade, he doubts Haytham ever done such a thing but men are weak creatures. No matter how much his captain tries to abide by his own ideals and rules, there will always be temptation that could make his captain stray.

He wondered if perhaps that is the reason why Haytham let him join the crew, to act as moral compass if needed, if Nicoll doesn't do the job.

"Gather round people, for I have quite the prize for you today. A slave of different stock to our usual, different colour, sapphire blue eyes and light tanned skin, I present to you...the unsullied mongrel!" announced the slaver whose body mass speaks volumes about the amount of wealth he obtained from the terrible practice of slavery. The slaver yanked off the cloth that shielded his property from the sun to reveal a young man, in nothing but raggy and unclean trousers. "Formerly of Astapor, once being trained to be a slave soldier he earned his passage here by his uselessness." Jarrett's interest in the male brought him closer to the crowd, he slipped through quickly and quietly until he reached the front.


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Kelvin Fisher
 Posted: Oct 5 2014, 02:37 PM

Posts: 1
Member is: Offline

Character Profile
Age: 25
Player: Ayla

Seven-hundred and eight. Another line carved into the wall. First light shone through a single barred window, casting lines of shadow on a floor of sand and straw. Even at the break of day, that one room burned as hot as a smithy's fires. It burned like the oven women used to bake their apple pies, like a piece of red-glowing metal healers used to close a wound. You never got used to the heat. It had been nearly two years, yet this country still felt strange. The climate was unnatural, the language full but meaningless, the water hardly water at all with its dark brown colour and odour. It was a shithole. A prison. It had never meant anything else.

The room - which was more of a cell above anything else - was furnished with no more than five bedrolls. Twenty men slept on those, somehow managing to fit in their desperation for sleeping on a ground that wasn't covered in piss. They huddled together, clinging to one another if you will. It could remind you of a herd of cattle that was kept in a tight cage. Except it wasn't slaughter that awaited them. Today was market day, which was both the best and the worst day for a slave. It meant a decent meal and a good rinse, some form of clothing and a chance to escape. Not escape as in running away, but escape as in finding a good Master and leaving this place. In the middle of the room laid a young man that stood out from the other slaves. His skin was light and his hair - what little he had - blonde. In his arms he held a held a boy that was easily half his age, ten years old at most. The little boy slept soundly with a smile on his face while the man stroked his dark hair. The two laid at peace amongst eighteen other sleeping slaves, oblivious to what the day would bring.

The door swung open with a mighty force. In walked two men, one tall and muscular, the other short with a belly the Westerosi Lord of White Harbour would envy. Every slave sat up and eyed the two men cautiously as a silence filled the room. Kelvin tensed, his grasp tightening on the little boy in his arms. Today was the day, he knew. It had been a good two moons since he had been chosen and today promised a good crowd. The tall man stepped forth and hoisted several slaves to their feet. It was only a matter of time before he reached Kelvin. His powerful hand grabbed his collar and Kelvin did not fight it. "Kilvin!" A tiny voice rang through the room. The young boy scampered forth and reached for his friend, only to be pulled back down by a fellow slave. "Kilvin!" Again, the boy cried but no one reacted. Once they reached the door, Kelvin looked back. He met the boy's panicked expression and smiled, silently telling him; 'Don't be scared.'


The image of that little boy's smiling face while he slept still clouded Kelvin's vision as he stood on that podium. The sun shone so brightly, it was difficult to see how many people were there to view his display. There were whispers in the crowd as people discussed what was being said. Kelvin hardly understood these foreign words, although some he recognized. Dovaogēdys. Unsullied. What a joke that was, but it was the only story his Masters could come up with to explain his condition. And there were plenty of people out there who might believe it. After all, those who worked in the slave trade were not all of the brightest cut. The Master continued to shout at the crowd, clearly trying to sell whatever he had to offer. At one point he fell silent, gestured at Kelvin and laughed. His laugh rippled through the crowed; men laughed along with him while some women gasped in shock. Immediately, Kelvin's gaze dropped to his feet, knowing exactly what was being said.

It was then that the slaver caught sight of the Westerosi man amongst the people and ushered forth a young girl. She was hardly dressed, only having a skirt to wear, but it was not uncommon for slavers to care less about the modesty of their slaves. Nervous, she swallowed and stared dead ahead. "The Master says that the Unsullied are the finest warriors one could ever imagine. He says that this one is both agile and strong and that this one will forever obey your will." The girl's words were like a monotone chant, as if she had said them over and over again. "He reminds you that, like all Unsullied, this one has also been... cut. He knows no desire, nor fear, nor pain." Slowly, Kelvin lifted his gaze. His expression was blank as stone, yet his eyes betrayed his anger. He was none of those things; he was no warrior, no soulless killing machine, no object to be sold. But what could he do? He stood there with both hands and feet shacked and chained. His head felt light, surely because of the sun and a lack of water. The drought had made his lips chapped, the sun had burned some of his skin and he was no more than a sack of bones with a layer of skin. Some Unsullied warrior he was, and the crowd saw it too.

There was a moment of silence before a shout came from the back. Demonstrate. For a moment, Kelvin's eyes grew wide but he dared not move. The Master paced forwards to talk to his comrade, subtle in his gestures at his slave but meaning all the words he whispered. Whatever it was, it could not be good. His eyes remained fixed ahead but as the discussion progressed, his gaze started to wander. He slowly looked over the crowd until he noticed someone at the front. Someone who stood out like he did, with white skin. His hair was dark and he wore all black leather. For a brief moment Kelvin wondered, Must that idiot not be hot?

He was shaken from his thoughts in a second notice. A strong hand gripped his shoulder and a kick to his leg brought him crashing on his knees. There was a loud rumble of shackles and chains as he hit the wooden floor. A blade glimmered in the sunlight and that strong hand took hold of his ear. Kelvin did not dare move, did not dare make a sound, even when the knife sliced through his flesh. His teeth clenched together as firmly as he could, silently he breathed quick breaths of distress that only he could hear. "The Master repeats; no desire, nor fear, nor pain." The girl's voice called from behind him. "The Master shall now hear your bids." All the while, Kelvin's eyes held that stranger's gaze, reflecting the hopelessness and powerlessness that any slave felt. And strangely, he thought to himself, What on earth are you doing here?

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