Meanwhile, in The Inner Earth…
William 'The Optimistic', the marked thrall of Mathias Ugelsted, had a long, grueling day of hard, arduous labor, noticeably exhausted by his demeanor alone; it felt as if iron weighed heavily on his broad shoulders, and he slowly shuffled his trunks of legs as though they were loosely shackled to his ankles. Covered head to toe in black from mining coal and stained with sweat, trails of which slightly obscuring the blackness down his clothes, Willaim would take off his horribly filthy shirt with grueling effort and drop it onto the floor. The plop of dampness echoed as the mass of filth and linen struck the floor, followed shortly with his heavy footsteps as he closed the door behind him, which he struggled noticeably to do so.
He stood in the middle of the room for a moment before he let out a worn out sigh, sitting down at a desk that was adjacent from where he'd eventually slumber and let his weary muscles recover.
"At least the day's work is done."
He said to himself in a hushed tone, feeling his weary muscles finally unflex and settle down like a workhorse who'd been plowing fields with little to no respite in between paths. Sitting still, he felt his body ache to the point where further movement was heavily reconsidered by his survival instincts. He had learned not to push himself to the point of rhabdomyolysis, but today, it was considered a close call.
After taking a well deserved pause, he made a slow effort to carefully unweave his tainted face bandages that concealed the ominous markings applied by his owner decades ago. The relief upon revealing his head to the room's warmth was welcomed with a faint grin, yet the reminder of his black, pulsating markings made it almost bittersweet to accept. He would wince after the final bandage was removed, for he could feel his heartbeat from the tarnished marks in his skin, and would gently run his hand over them, which offered him the sensation of smooth bumps from each intricate detail like binary rune stones.
They were like blisters that never healed, though thinner and too specifically detailed to be considered such. Fused into his skin, they'd throb and pester him chronically, though after all these years, it didn't feel out of the ordinary to him anymore. Just another excuse for William to test his faith in God whenever the pain became unbearable. Thankfully, at this moment, it was less than a subtle sting and a throbbing ache that only got worse if he focused on them and nothing else.
"Nothing I can do besides let them air out."
He never understood what these symbols that tarnished him meant. The main one, which appeared to resemble a flaming symbol of what the heathens called 'Yggdrasil' on the back of his head, had roots that trailed along either side of his head. They would seem to swirl around different runic inscriptions that were plastered on his cheeks and forehead, three of them to be exact. However, these runes were not translatable, for they seemed to be a mix of Younger Futhark and Belfitif, which was the Critterman variant of modern runic inscriptions used for what seemed like magic, or sorcery. This oddly specific fusion of language left this old brute Christian with more unknowns to tarnish his forsaken soul, which did not help ease his bone-weary mind.
Attaining them initially was the worst kind of hell he didn't initially assume someone like Mathias would be capable of doing to anyone when he first got to know him. The shades of his true nature were unnerving, the layers of which were patiently decorated with a facade of charismatic politeness; his false human decency tied around the gift like a golden bow around a present only bestowed to the truest of holymen.
Were all humans like him? Merely an offering of a finely decorated pandora's box, just for them to unleash their damning and relentless inhumanity when the seal was broken? To know humanity, it seemed to William, was by no stretch of the word to lose your own, lest one had a foundation more solid than Mjolnir.
"Thankfully," he'd mumble to himself, "God is always with me."
From the tip of an odd, fine needle, he'd recall Mathias taking hours to carve the open wounds before the odd black 'ink' began to seep out instead of blood after some time, and fill the flesh wounds like hasty scabs with the fine intricacy of something inhuman. All his begging and pleading for him to cease was constantly and patiently swatted away with the exact same words over and over;
"Don't fret, I'll be done eventually."
Strapped and pinned into place, William's struggles were in vain. All the while, Mathias had this unwavering focus with a despicable grin glinting from his face; one that William would not dare to forget.
The true nature of that man, to do something so ominously cruel with such a casual demeanor, it only solidified a hatred that would otherwise cower within William in any other circumstance. William was never a hateful person in any regard, and he rarely held grudges, but good Lord Almighty, Mathias left an impression that would tempt the thrall to murder the man with equal distribution of torment previously bestowed.
Thoughts such as those only got more potent as the years battered William, their conversations continued to stack in his mind like lime stones. His stubborn optimism, the only thing he knew for certain he could have true faith in equal to his God, was steadily taunted by that bastard, yet it was always optimism that held his sanity faintly in place so he wouldn't dare lash out again. The last time he did, it was a horrendous failure against the might of the Balderklan, one he wouldn't dare to try again if he could help it. Too many innocent thralls died, and were helpless against the onslaught of those heathens that proved to them through blood that any high hopes would not be tolerated.
That incident was a reason for Mathias's father to set an absolute example, but oddly enough, it was Mathias who demanded he reconsider and begin the official shift toward better treatment for all thralls under the clan's ownership. It is why so many thralls from that point forward finally began to be treated with a sense of humility and humanity.
A jab in the already bleeding ego of William, if anything.
Mathias had spared William's life from the wrath of his father that day, and ceased the absolute slaughter of all thralls in the Inner Earth as well. Priorities aside, William wouldn't forget that day either, for more reasons than one.
Even still, Mathias would refuse to elaborate on the meaning of the markings, even less so the reason he carved them on his skin to begin with. Thus, William endured the marks occasional sharp sting and dull throbbing, knowing he may never understand why he of all people wound up unfortunate enough to be the one thrall under Mathias Ugelsted's ownership. An odd sense of comfort only solidified his practically unwavering optimism to this day.
Tarnished and an easy outcast amongst his peers, William quickly learned to cover these markings with a specifically designed Vættirtol using a wool based wrapping that was more formidable than any ordinary thread known in the current era. It was a gift from an empathetic colleague of Mathias, who offered just enough sets of it so he could regularly wash and wear them with notable comfort.
They were a prototype, and even to this day, William was the only one who currently had a set due to a complexity in mass producing them for the rest of the clan. Whether it be about the thread count needing to be an exact number, or the difficulty in creating that much fabric in conjunction with the Vættirtol essence for an entire army, William didn't get the full explanation. It mattered not, for he was grateful enough and realized a contradiction to his extremist beliefs on humanity that day. He'd use them every day to cover his entire head practically enough for hard labor, breathing, eating, and drinking.
The 'ink', for lack of a better term, that filled in the butchered flesh wounds, was also an enigma, for it was by no means any natural dye, if it could even be considered dye at all. It was thick yet layered perfectly with wherever the odd needle touched and cut the skin. Mathias could be considered a surgical genius if it wasn't so barbaric a practice. Also, it appeared to replace any blood that'd otherwise be seeping out of the wounds as Mathias made each and every cut.
Sometimes the mysterious ink would speak to him; or so he'd imagine, at least. There was no way the contents of the words uttered within his head from time to time could possibly originate from himself if he could help it. Even with justified hatred for Mathias in mind, the intrusive thoughts would sometimes come up when his focus was on something, or even someone else.
"I need to bathe."
After his usual nightly prayer to God, consisting of hope for the future primarily, he finally gathered the courage to stand and move once more. The battered thrall would gently stand to his feet after talking to his only father figure remaining and took his time bringing himself to his tub to wash himself and soak in the much welcomed hot water. A luxury for someone in his position in the past, though not totally unheard of nowadays, for as of recent years, thralls have been slowly but surely living up to the hygienic standards of their Scandinavian owners.
He'd cleanse himself slowly and thoroughly, sore and too exhausted to rush himself, if only to gain extra minutes of sleep when he did eventually finish. William caressed his marks with a gentle hand and got them moist, for that did alleviate the stinging and throbbing to a considerable degree. All that muck and gunk he was coated in was washed away as the water began turning too dark to see through. After washing his body, he'd soak in silence for quite a while to take in the comfort before he began nodding off from exhaustion. After catching himself in the act, he forced himself up and out of the tub and dried himself off before making it back to his bed.
Once he was bathed and felt exquisitely refreshed, he'd plop himself down and shift to his backside, wasting no time to close his eyes with a grand exhale, resting his large hands on his chest with fingers interlocked. Since he outperformed most thralls and made a considerable haul of coal for topside operations, he was granted the following day to recover, since he managed to get two days worth of coal in a single day, only stopping for the occasional sip of water.
"Hopefully, I can see through a complete night's sleep this time."