The city of Tamaran, nestled in the crevice between two mountains, was part of a prominent trade route and a key passage to the Republic of Mimbo. Its sweltering streets bustled with a medieval flair, shouts of merchants contending with the bustle of the crowds, their horse-drawn carts weaving around honking cars as they sang of their wares. But even the craftiest of their slogans couldn't out-attract the crowds cramming around the city's main square, filled with wooden platforms and rusty cages. Cages that were holding humans rather than goods. Slave traders.

A short figure leaned against a worn brick wall some distance away from the hubbub, watching one such display with an expressionless scrutiny. His head and torso were wrapped in a prickly cloak of Tamarian style, but a tuft of white hair poked out to separate him from the locals.

"...Young slaves, newly imported from Changa," a peddler from the group was shouting, voice thick with a Mimbonian accent, "trained by the best Changan Masters, obedient, ready to serve..."

These slave mongers all wore Mimbonian garments, drab linens that hung loose and exposed much of their dark skin. The group of them working in a secluded area behind the stage brandished large bullwhips in their hands, swinging up loose dirt as they herded a group of chained slaves into one of their horse-drawn caravans.

A black-haired man was struggling at the back of the line, pulling his link in the chain taut. His light skin stood out from the rest, and he wore a white shirt that must have once been a pristine button down but was now hanging as shreds on his injured body.

"...No!" He seemed to be trying to shout, but his voice was muted and easily drowned out by the commotion around him. He pulled harder as the lick of a whip added yet another slice through his shirt. "I'm a free sub. You can't do this!"

The peddler handling him frowned in annoyance, moustache curling misshapenly as he searched around their clearing. He eventually located a Mimbonian sitting amidst a mess of crates and boxes.

"Youpi!" he called, making the man raise his head and rise slowly. It was a large man, strongly built and wearing nothing to cover his toned torso. He pointed to the slave and said something, and the large man nodded.

"Silence! Get on now." Youpi spoke deeply, grabbing at the black-haired slave. His accent was stronger than the others, making his words almost indistinguishable, but there was a strong underlying tone to it that rang clearly. The slave, who had been struggling harder when he saw the man, suddenly tensed and stilled under his touch. When the peddlers ahead yanked the chain again, he walked forward without further commotion.

Youpi humphed, and was about to return to his seat when he suddenly looked toward someone in the crowd. He beckoned his colleague and nodded towards it: a cloaked youth, standing at the edge of the commotion, a stone's throw away from their caravan. His cloak was identical to the people around him, but a long rip ran from one shoulder and was exposing his arm. Pale - a foreigner - and with a large whip welt still red with recency.

The mustached peddler nodded in response and pushed towards the youth in fast strides. "Yes, boy," he called, and placed a hand roughly onto the youth's whip wound as he approached.

The young man flinched in pain and turned quickly, hood falling off and exposing a head of messy ashen hair. His blue eyes widened in surprise and he opened his mouth to shout something, but the peddler squeezed his arm and murmured a deep, "quiet," and his voice came out only as a soft sigh.

"Yes, I can show you to some of our other slaves," the peddler said more loudly, pulling the young man towards their caravan. "Over here we have our slaves travelling to Mimbo…" he nodded to the large man as they reached the seclusion of their clearing, "...and you will be joining them, boy."

He handed the youth to Youpi, who in turn grabbed his arm roughly and seated him between a pile of crates, hidden from view. White hair flew wildly as the youth struggled, but his arms were weak under the muscled man's grasp.

"Be good, boy," the large man demanded in his accented slur. He waved the other peddler off to return to the lineup of slaves before turning his small eyes back. The youth had relaxed where he sat, on his command, and he slowly released his grip. "You are not from here. You are from the south?"

"Zaban," the youth responded, his eyes frantic but his body loose, "but originally from the Free States of Saherta."

"You have been trained before?"

The youth's head shook minutely in denial, but his answer was, "yes, sir. In Zaban."

Youpi hummed in understanding. "You have run away from your Master." It wasn't exactly a question, and the youth's lips narrowed tightly without answer. "It does not matter. What is your name?"

There was a brief moment of hesitation, then the word forced its way past the youth's lips. "Killu."

"Killu." Youpi repeated, as he grabbed the youth's wrist painfully. His voice dropped a few tones to reverberate at a deep bass. "I am Master Youpi, and I claim you as my submissive. You will obey me, my friends. You will not run away. I am your Master, these are my rules."

The youth startled and tensed up, wide eyes reflexively scanning the muscled man man before him. He struggled for a moment, shaking hard, until the slaver tightened his grip; then he dropped languidly to his knees.

"Yes, Master Youpi."

"You will put your hood on and join that line," Youpi ordered. He pointed toward the now very short line of slaves gradually boarding the caravan.

The youth nodded again, pulling on the hood of his cloak with somewhat shaky hands, and moved at once. A hand shot up to cover his heartbeat as soon as he'd made some distance, and he puffed out a long breath as he fell in line behind the other foreign man.

The wagon was a sturdy-looking, sharply rectangular thing, made of broad wooden planks that encased all sides of the exterior. There was only a single gap on the roof, where one of the planks had been pulled out to allow for some dim light inside, and it was being covered by a sheer piece of fabric, spotted with holes.

The young man eyed it dubiously as he climbed on. The thing seemed far too heavy for the single pair of horses pulling it, and far too small to accommodate the two dozen or so slaves inside.

Two poorly built benches ran along the length of the interior, currently being occupied by a few elderly and some lucky young. The rest stood tightly packed in the order they were chained, and the cloaked youth found a corner to himself as the door was locked behind him.