Archive Posted January 30, 2003 Report Posted January 30, 2003 Rahsash Geldich Initiate Posts: 7 (1/13/02 5:56:55 pm) Reply Games -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Master of the Games stood on a raised platform among the slaves. A seperation of rank that he needed no platform to distinguish. War. He loved war. It brought him slaves, slaves brought profit, and profit meant he could continue toeing the line safely. His eyes swept over the slaves, making them shudder and avert their own eyes in fear. To them, he was the very embodiment of Kahng, the god of Death and Chaos. He had flat, black eyes, eyes that tended to see through, into, and all over you without a spark of life. The eyes of a dead man. But the Master had faced death many times, laughed at it, taunted it, and was now here to spread it. His head was bald, tatooed with the signs of all the gods. He had very dark skin and his teeth were slightly pointed and red, some Game trick noone wanted to learn. "The Gods don't like the Wisdoms joining in the war, or they would have interveined by now. It is bad for profit to have all these... Disfigured... Slaves." The man beside the Master looked a boy of twelve at best, a trick of magik never reversed. The Master owned the Man, owned the magik, and had better use of him as he was. "No. They favor it and allow me a wider choice. Some would do well in the Pits." His voice was deep and raspy, setting nerves tingling in fear. "Others would die without a chance." "It would not be the first time." The Master began going over the slaves, some form foreign nations, some from his own. Profit was his either way. Choice depended on looks first. Anyone unusual went to the right, average, or simply not what he was looking for went to the left. There they were divvied up among the shipmasters and the rich. The Master of the Games got first pick always. Next was a physical inspection, and a few more went to the left, unfit or too young, too old for the Pits. The Pits of Hell as they were referred to by many. The Master paused by a young girl. She had obviously been in the way of a Wisdom attack, as her hair was streaked with a deep indigo at the temples, and her eyes were a matching shade. Her face spoke of maturity beyond her years, which at most reached ten. She was tall for a girl, almost five foot already. "Where you from?" The girl turned, looking into the dead eyes. "Everywhere and nowhere." A Nomad then. An agressive people who were having the hardest time with the war, due to their living off the land. A land now tainted by the Battle Magiks. "Your parents?" "They roam the sky." Dead then. Even better. "Your name?" The girl studied him intensely, eyes slowly evaluating every inch of his form. "Is it true that in the Pits, you lose your name, your past, your family. They are reassigned as fits the Master's needs, and therefore yours, for you are nothing but is property?" "Yes." The girl considered. "Then I have no name." "You will do well then. Go right." The girl turned and left, looking straight ahead and seemingly immune to the feelings of fear and helplessness that followed in the wake of the Master of the Games.
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