Meep.
Yeah, nothing to really say about this one. Just some basic background information.
I'll just leave you alone now. Disclaimer's still not until the end.
Yaay, I fixed the REALLY bad typo in this. If there are any more...I'm probably not going to notice them for a long time. But at least the big one's out of the way.
It hadn't even been three full days when they made him start working again. It wasn't as intense as usual, though; they knew they couldn't strain him lest they permanently injure him.
He hated it. He hated THEM. He could barely even walk, let alone work they way he was. THEY'RE the ones who did this to him. They should know that he wouldn't be able to do much at all for at least a good week. But nooooooo. They had him up and moving as soon as he was conscious and able to stand. It must have just been the natural cruelty of nearly every noble that'd ever lived.
Vyland stopped for a moment and sat down his load. He swiped a hand through his blood red hair, sticking to his face with sweat. Looking up to the sky through eyes deeper a red than his hair, he wondered, How much longer will it be until we get the freedom we deserve? How many more will die?
A slave from infancy along with Will and Wolf, Vyland was used to the daily stress and work that came with his servitude. None had known their true parents, and the only one who came close was the woman who cared for them through their first few years. How many years had it been since she died? Six? It was two years after Sedgar and Tomas joined them, a five-year-old and one-month-old added after their parents threatened to tell the king of the trade and were killed. It was surprising that the two weren't separated; it was a rarity that families were kept together in a place like this. Maybe they thought a child and an infant couldn't do much harm together? Vyland scoffed at the thought. Their parents were two of Aurelis' best archers and two of her best tacticians.
Not to mention the slavers had yet to meet someone who they believed could possibly stand in their way. Like Roshea, for example. It was known from the start that he would become someone great in only a matter of time. Walking, talking, reading, writing- he learned it all much earlier than others his age. By the time he was three, he had the knowledge and temperament of someone several times his age. He was obedient, respectful, selfless, and moral- like a grounded angel sent to help in a time of need. This is why they feared him. They knew they had to either hide the truth from him before or stop him before he could do anything about it. That decision was made clear the day they seized him and put him into the possession of the slavers. Vyland didn't know the exact details, but the general idea was that Roshea saw something he shouldn't have, and they thought it would be safer for them to make him a slave himself. Yet they decided to stick him with us, a rowdy bunch of kids, Vyland thought, allowing himself a small smile. And here they were, three years later, planning an escape to the royal palace. Maybe they were fated to be together, though Vyland wasn't usually one to believe in pre-determined destiny.
The crack of a whip by his ear snapped him out of his thoughts. Behind him, a slaver approached and cracked the whip again, this time landing a hit on the boy's shoulder, making him cringe. "Move it, brat!" the man yelled in his ear, making him cringe further. "Bein' an injured rebel don't give you the right to slack!"
Vyland rolled his eyes and bent down to pick up the crate he put down before. "Oh, shut up and speak proper Irish," he mumbled.
"What was that?!"
The boy turned and shot a glare at the man, then started to walk away.
"Bratty kid..." the slaver muttered, walking away himself in the opposite direction. "'E'll get what's comin' to 'im eventually."
Vyland heaved a sigh as the distance between the two greatened. Alright then, fate, he thought a bit bitterly, looking back up to the sky. Let's see what you've got in store for us now.