Chapter 2: The Slave Pits of Highmaul
Two decades before his defection in Tanaan...
He'd been brought in to this world screaming and kicking for dear life, and that was how he planned to leave it upon his death. Only one crucial difference between his birth and his death was to be fought for: this time there would be no hand to cover his mouth, silence his screams and his agony, afraid of the lash of the Ogre whips or the cutting of their blades. No... He would die screaming, laughing, his body broken but his spirit strong. That was his plan; despite his young age he did not fear death - he welcomed it as a matter of fact, so long as it provided a challenge or a way to prove himself. The young Orc smiled to himself, the thought of freedom in death bringing the stinging of the lashes on his back to a brief halt, filling him with ambition and longing.
"You! Puny thing! You work harder, or you die!" the Ogre shouted, interrupting his dreaming thoughts. He was no longer on a battlefield, axe in hand and bleeding to fend off endless waves of his Overlord foes, but rather back on the long ramp from the deepest mine in Highmaul, the rope running over his shoulder and down to the carriage of precious minerals and jewels providing him with nothing but the comfort of friction burns on his pale, almost never sun-touched skin. He flared his nostrils in defiance, but the young Orc could do no more than that. He was small, nimble, a runt that had somehow survived the wicked ways of this expansive underground world, hauling the weight of stones and jewels up the long and steep ramp day and night. Despite this, there was fight in his red eyes, a desire to become something more. And something more he surely would become.
We will have it eventually. Some day. Mother, we miss you; it is somehow empty here without you, even though the Ogres are plentiful. Come back.
His thoughts were nothing more than fragments, other than when he was caught up in dreams of freedom and his longing for a worthy death. The mother had passed on long ago, beaten to the eternal hunting grounds for the sake of birthing such a miserable child. One that would never be strong enough to work or smart enough to fight, a child that she never even asked to bear. She had given the Orc his name, Nosh'marak, more as a taunting gesture than anything resembling a loving name. Despite this it mattered little to the young Orc; he had his name, and yet hers was forgotten. He hated her. Or did he? The thoughts swirled around his head as he struggled up the ramp, finally bringing the carriage to a stop at the very top, where the next Orc took ahold of it, causing Nosh'marak to almost shrink on the spot. It was The Unbroken; some speculated that this Orc had been here longer than the emperor himself, a tall and hulking figure with eyes radiating nothing but hatred and dismay for whoever they were laid upon. The young Orc had once made the mistake of asking why The Unbroken did not fight in the arena, a question that was quickly met with a brutal beating from the other, larger Orcs.
You must kill them, too. The Ogres and those who wronged you will pay; we will flay them all the same!
He twitched a bit, the primal voice in the back of his mind being interrupted mid-speech by a calloused hand balled to a fist connecting with his back. He staggered, pain stinging throughout his entire body, before eventually falling flat and letting out a loud huff. Two more hands came down, this time working less violently than the first, grabbing ahold of his wrists to drag him off along the coarse ground in the mine, talking amongst themselves. And thus, as his head had connected with many of the rocks littering the ground, the world turned black. Blacker than the bottom of the mine, blacker than when he closed his eyes at night. Nothingness enveloped him.
"Puny one! You worthless in mine, you worthless in kitchen, and you worthless in life! You fight now, or you die."
They want to throw you to the gladiators. We made it; we are where we want to be, my friend. We -will- succeed.
The darkness enveloping him eased up, leaving him chained by his right hand to a wall. Flexing his fingers, he groaned. How long had he been knocked out? How long had he even been here? He was not sure. It felt as if he'd just been knocked out, but he clearly felt older, stronger, more potent. Thinking, the Orc came to the conclusion that the holes that riddled his memory must have lasted at least a few months. After all, he knew he'd never been this muscular. Had he? He was meant to be a runt in the eyes of others, not a gladiator. A bright beam of light shot from one of the walls, creaking wooden doors open like floodgates to the sunlight outside. Squinting, he looked to the light whilst the chain around his wrist was released with a satisfying click.
They want you to fight again. Do you remember how to fight? You must. Or you die a slave.
He snarled, twitching ever so slightly at the voice. Memories came rushing back; fights in the mighty arena against Orcs both larger and somehow smaller than himself. Fights that he had not lost so far, fights that the flame inside had let him win. He flexed his hands once again, looking towards the exit where the two halberd-wielding guards stood. He had to hurry, or they would whip him once more. He groaned, shambling towards the wooden gate only to be stopped by a hard punch to the chest. He gasped, folding over as the air was knocked out of him, but was pleasantly surprised at one of the guards handing him a spear.
"From one of da bosses. You gots good money on you, -slave-." the Ogre laughed, before pushing Nosh'marak out in to the arena, the shouting and cheering feeling like the beating of a hammer against his ears. It was time; he would prove himself again. And soon, freedom would be his.
Only sixty-seven left for you, after this one. Do not fail, you want your freedom and you will -take- it.