"How can one measure the worth of a man? A man can fight a thousand battles, reap a thousand harvests, win a thousand duels and yet history will bury his name in the winding sands of time. The answer is simple, purpose. Men of purpose are destined to become immortal, sparred death betwixt the pages of history. Like a coffin that never closes, your face will never fade from the threads of time if you live with a purpose.
Carrying on your family's good name, to become the greatest artist who ever lived, to command the greatest armies ever known. Purposes that have each been used to sow the names of ghosts into the fabrics of history throughout eternity. I had once lived with purpose, once dreamed of a life driven by the will to create and glorify.
That life was stripped from me long ago. A broken man writes these words today, a man whose purpose has been made synonymous with his master's. A man destined for more than the life he has been bestowed. How does one such as I live with purpose? Meditation under the dark skies of the tent city, prayers to false gods, words with wise old women...nothing has yielded the answer to the one question I find impossible to answer.
What is the purpose of a broken man?" - Krah'ge Hawrath, Journal Excerpt
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The cave was alive. It shuttered with every echoing drumbeat from beyond the veil of darkness that engulfed the corridor. It called for his blood with the mocking voices of the living damned; each speaking as a unified voice that beckoned him forward like a cackling demon.
"Krah'ge" the demon cave cried over and over; a child awaiting the nourishment of death and torn flesh that it so desperately craved. Still, the young slave kept his pace behind the dim light guiding him to the graveyard that awaited him. Every thread of his being wanted to rip the torch from the skeletal arm holding it and beat the elderly guide savagely with the blunt stick. Beat him until his slaving head caved in and his dirty blood flowed like a river down this dark chasm. Slavery had already torn a gaping void in Krah'ges' humanity, why should he spare what little he had left on a savage old man like Jacen?
"I can feel your eyes on me boy." spat the guide of death from the head of the column leading Krah'ge to the arena "Or should I say your eye" the old man snickered, turning a gaze of pure fire in the direction of his organic property.
Krah'ge gave a single chuckle, his left eye flinching from the memory of its blinding at the hands of Jacen. The dark burns from the coals were still so tender that a small gust of wind gave him searing pains across his whole face.
"If you wanted me to die today, Jacen, you should have taken more than just my eye."
The impact of the back of the slave owners hand echoed down the corridor, outmatching even the chants from the arena. "You will watch your tongue, boy. Your glory in the arenas made me a wealthier man, but you have become more trouble than your worth." grabbing the slave's chin, Jacen looked him straight in the eyes; his face close enough that the stench of rotten meat in his teeth threatened to gag Krah'ge.
"You will die today, boy, don't you doubt that. You are a broken property and I have no use for useless property" Jacen snarled, the white hairs festering from his nostrils abundantly clear in the torchlight.
"I'll have your head, Jacen!" Krah'ge screamed, lunging forward at his owner only to be hauled back by the chains binding his wrists to the burly human men behind him.
"You won't live long enough to see me again, boy. Bring him quickly, the betting fools are waiting."
"Krah'ge! Krah'ge! Krah'ge!" continued the chanting of the sad souls who occupied these bloody tunnels. The dark tunnels contentiously got smaller as Krah'ge was pushed farther into the gut of the beast, the small light at the end of the long tunnel growing like the burning hatred that was alight within the young slave. When he reached the other side, hell would be right behind him.
