So, You're A Slave (Schon)

[Thomas Cosa]

10th of Spring
The Docks

The salty air tickled his nostrils, sea breezes teasing his dark hair as the dark waters of Port Silence churned below. Light rains fell from an overcast sky, droplets racing down his skin, clearing away weeks of unwashed grime.

Thomas had braved his first trip into the Citadel alone, and now he would be leading three others into the darkened caverns, and where he had been willing, these three were not. Slaves. The Thomas of Syliras disdained the word, and had hated slavery. The Thomas of Mura had sympathized with slaves, many of the residents of Mura had family lost to slavers, family seperated by bonds of iron, and written contract.

The Thomas of Sahova only saw tools in his recent purchases, only saw his own potential.

The Thomas of Sahova didn't see the burns that decorated the once handsome face of the blonde, the calloused hands, the hungry body. The Thomas of Sahova didn't notice the tear that fell from another, the shaking hands, or the tired eyes. The Thomas of Sahova didn't notice the grace of the third, or compare the relative well being of his body against the others.

The Thomas of Sahova only saw a tool.

But it was an important one, and perhaps one that would prove most useful in future projects.

He turned slighlty as they made their way into the Citadel, slowing his pace till he matched it with the one he had Seen. The one that would help him the most, the other two were disposible.

This one though, this one is special.

"What's your name?"

[Schon]

The drizzle fell on our quartet, master and slave alike, as we made our way towards the Citadel and by proxy the caverns below. For the briefest of moments a breeze carried from the coast or the port (not knowing which one was closer then) filled my senses, saline and cool, and it felt like the fleeting wave of an old friend embarking on a desperately long venture. And sometimes when I think of that moment - most of the time when I think of that moment - I kick myself for having so readily said goodbye to my freedom. Since then, though not at the time of my first venture down the caverns, I've come to view Sahova as thus: a great and terrible pyre, cold rather than hot, to a long-dead idea.

But to me then, I was so young, so new to all the experiences of life, I had not been on Mizahar more than a fortnight and my senses were inundated, overwhelmed with newness. Sure I had my memories of before, but to the present they were like stars in the day's sky.

Sahova changed slowly if at all in those days and still does even now, resisting the relentless caress of Tanroa. Many of the same bricks I passed following Master Cosa that day, still line the polished stone floors. Had I been observant or gifted, I might have noticed the odd witness golem inlaid in the bare halls of the Citadel, as we made our way to the dungeon and eventually the Labs below.

Even then Master Cosa took an immediate interest in me. Why though, I could not have said.

"Schon..." I said. But it took me a few chimes to figure it out, the question that is, though the simple nature of would have mislead you. We Ethaefal are not born squealing babes, in the presence of loving parents only to be gifted with a name...the process is a little more...what is the word I am looking for; glorious, sad, maybe beautiful depending on your vantage.

"How do I call or address you," I asked Master Cosa. It was funny, maybe not to me then, but now how alike we were. Both obviously similar in phenotype, tall - same height -, light complected, though I'd like to think I did not carry myself so severe - how could I, walking was still obscenely new to me-. The same or near same soft features framed by a strong jaw, the foundation of masculine beauty I am told.

[Thomas Cosa]

"You may call me Master," Thomas smiled slighlty as they pushed into the Courtyard, a low moaning reaching their ears as they pushed through the doors.

"Ignore them; they're harmless enough on this side of the gate," Thomas mentioned, his hair feathered by a windless breeze. Invisible hands pinched and pulled at his skin, warnings whispered into the dead air. Crude insults and desperate pleas teased at the young animators ears, as always, but Thomas had long learned it better to ignore the idle threats.

The fog thickened farther into the Courtyard, Thomas silently leading the three slaves through the black maze, faint mutterings following wet footsteps.

He motioned left at a fork, "You'd do best to remember the path I've shown -- the Courtyard is perhaps one of the more unpleasant places to be lost in," he added, taking the trio to a large set of iron doors that opened without prompt. Cells and cages lined the new hallways, "Test subjects," Thomas whispered, nodding towards the collected souls, mostly human and kelvic, although rarer species could be glimpsed as they passed through the hall.

Thomas motioned them past the starving and tortured, pushing them past two large doors, to which he gestured, "The Great Library," he nodded, as glowing arrows began to light their ways through the slowly dimming Citadel. The way significantly changed as they pushed deeper into the Alhean structure, smooth paving becoming rougher and rougher, the group slowling down to be more careful.

Upon reaching LAB 15, the grandiose doors opened slowly revealing a workplace unequalled by any in the whole of Mizahar. The balcony the doors opened up on, streched along the entire lab, overseeing the creation of golems, many of which only seen by the eyes of the famous Lab.

"This will be your home now,"

[Schon]

"Master," I said trying out the word.

Slave or not, I will never forget the first time I walked into Lab 15. In those days we (the slaves and apprentices) had a saying, "To the glory that was Alahea and the grandeur that was Treval" -only here we would substitute Lab 15 for the word Treval-. I don't know where the saying came from, off the top of my head it was probably some long dead poet, but it was an apt one. With soaring vaulted ceilings, and multiple levels that climbed strong columns that arched high above the great space that was the lab floor. Workstations strewn about, as if someone had swept piles of gadgets together that slowly assembled themselves into golems, in an ever changing rhythm. In the center of all this, a monstrous golem that towered at least a few level upward.

It was so fascinating to watch, the coming and goings of so many; I guess I have always been a people watcher.

And as we walked through the seeming chaos I found it nearly impossible to keep up with Master Cosa, the sights, sounds and golems each drew me in, and held my attention as if a captive for ransom. That was when I saw it, my first diagram.

Here, here was a thing of beauty that rivaled the great hall in which I stood and would later become my home. It was so beautiful. So simple. I marveled at the efficacy of encoding information in technical geometric symbolism. With only a glimpse it was so easy to understand so much, I was astounded to find I grasped some of basic concepts, and from there interpolate and extrapolate the rest.

But there were mistakes, or rather errors of convenience. There seemed to be an agreed upon formula that was shared between the diagrams, that even at a glimpse I could see, that it was applied in the manner of a pre-made solution, an approximation in place of an actual answer. As if someone had given a very few instructions with very wide parameters, when if you knew what to do the answer was simple but otherwise you relied on the few pre-made solutions you were given.

I tried to suss out a more complete answer, if not to help them then to satisfy my own curiosity, but I was having trouble with the language in which it was written, I understood only pieces. But I was confident with time I could solve the problem.

I was not aware how long I stood then, thinking to myself, until I drew the attention of someone.

"Can I help you?" they said. Their tone clearly sarcastic and abrasive. I knew instantly I wasn't where I should be.

"Master!" I called, as I backed away.

[Thomas Cosa]

Thomas flushed a deep red as the slave called out, only to turn a darker shade when he realized who Schon had met.

"Master Kromby," Thomas called, quickly making his way towards the Nuit and slave.

"Apprentice Cosa, correct?" The old master croaked, his undead eyes watching the two, observing.

Thomas nodded, "Y-yes, Master Kromby," he stuttered. It was rare for Thomas to receive any attention, positive or negative, from any of the higher ups of Lab 15. To be correctly named by one of the two masters of the lab was enough to put the young apprentice in shock.

"You were the representative to the auction," he began, tone direct, "These three are ours now, I suppose?" Kromby waved a decaying hand at the three slaves, "No trouble with the other masters, I hope? I had heard rumors of a Zith," he paused, a black tongue licking the tops of his lips, "But I would imagine you would have been outbid for such an exotic," he sighed, dramatically, not truly needing to breathe, "Though, these three humans look well enough," he paused, briefly looking over the slaves before turning back to Thomas.

"How much?" he asked, turning to the slaves.

"330," Thomas responded, chewing his lip. That was too much, he knew it was too much.

"And you have returned the remainder to the Lab's funds?" Kromby asked, dead eyes meeting the coal in Thomas'.

"No, uh, I was --," Thomas hesitated, shoving a hand deep into his left pocket, pulling out the extra mizas, "Here," he smiled politely. "Better to give the nuit his money, and not have him ask questions," he thought, hoping the master would give him leave to continue.

"Very well," he muttered, eyeing Schon once again before turning back to the designs, "Make sure they stay where you put them, apprentice, the only useful slave is an obedient one," he added, the scratching sound of quill on paper signaling the group's dismal.

"That was the Master Kromby," Thomas began, leading Schon and the other slaves to a cluttered metal desk, ink spots covering what was once a reflective sheen. "Along with Filch," he motioned to another nuit walking towards Kromby, "They are in charge of Lab 15 -- both geniuses," he added approvingly, "Kromby is considered a rival to the Archmage in animation, and I've never heard of anyone claiming themselves even near the gadgeteer Filch is," he paused, collecting various designs and sketches into a pile, organizing ink pots and quills by size, "It is a great opportunity to work here," he smiled weakly, his skin tightening around his jaw, his face becoming even more gaunt then before.

"First and foremost, I need to see what you can do," he motioned for Schon to approach the desk, handing him a quill, "I know you can do math," Thomas said plainly, "But how well? Could you resize a golem, could you tell me how much force I would need to throw this quill to the other side of the lab? What are your limitations?" Thomas asked, expecting an answer to every question.

"And then we'll see Cid," he added, and only when he determined Schon's usefulness.