Thread: Island of False Hopes (Dream and Findarato)

Like a fierce, howling desert storm the women cried out in rage and agony. The guard seemed almost pleased with the fact that he was able to provoke emotion from her and shortly thereafter skulked away with an egotistical grin twisting from ear to ear. This scenario painfully reminded her of what things were like in the desert just as the purge was commenced. Whips cracked like lightening would rip across the shrouded sky brother would be pitted against brother for the prize of potentially being exempt from the purge people would point and cry out, beckoning for one to slaughter the other, watching, not putting an end to the madness as she had attempted to on several accounts. But, at the time, her will was useless if not broken. For an instant, she turned her head to scorn those mocking her. There was a moment where she eyed a man who had a very kind aura, but his back was turned and he seemed very determined to complete the task at hand. She lifted her hand and wiped away the mud from her face, smearing it further over her eyelashes and cheekbones. Her hair was slick, wet against her face with mud and water while her clothing was heavy and laden with caked on earth and globules of freshly churned grime. She gripped the shovel's hilt. It was a slow, drawn out process she swore to herself that she could feel the untreated wood splintering into her hands. But she said nothing. For an hour she dug alongside the stranger, a silent man, but one who had earned the attention of the guards on several ocassions. They would pace by with their gilded weapons while snacking on what seemed to be the leftover remnants of cold mutton. From time to time she contemplated stealing it, but her rational mind had said otherwise. When night fell - and her hands were throbbing with protest - the guards swarmed in and grunted. It was the Architect's command to let the slaves rest every night or they would be useless and incapable of completing his masterpiece. Each one was escorted into the barracks. It was a large, underground chamber already constructed. From the looks of things, it had been carved from obsidian the walls were jagged like diamond in some places, smooth in others. You're all done for the night, grunted one of the guards. He waved about his mutton tauntingly then took an unesscarily large bite. Though the slaves were treated horribly while on duty, their living conditions could be considered luxurious. There were hard, gaudy cots littered about in chambers that divided the cell. The walls were draped in low-lit torches embedded within the obsidian and tables spotted certain areas next to the cells. As the men and women swarmed in, the woman took a particular interest in an untouched cell near the far end of the chamber. Though the blanket on the cot was disturbed - and there was flecks of mud everywhere - she felt she could rest. She reached to her back to gauge the severity of her wound it was still wet, but from blood or mud she could not tell. From time to time she found herself glancing back to the stranger. She waltzed over and parted her lips only to turn her back and slide down the seeming of her bandeau with her thumb. A red gash ran up and down her back split flesh, revealing tumid muscle underneath. How ... she stopped. It was difficult speaking common language. How bad ... how bad is it?