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Grit and Glory

pisalieus
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Synopsis
Dion, slave and a husk doomed to life of death in the fields, struggles against his fate. The lines between righteous and evil are ever anything but clear, and Dion must find his path between them. [DISCLAIMER: Contains potentially disturbing and graphic content. Reader discretion is advised]

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Chapter 1 - Pilot - 1

On the southern outskirts of the Great Aleutian Empire, the Erasmus Dukedom lay. The Dukedom was a far-off and often forgotten desert, in which the miracle of civilization could be said to exist, albeit far from well.

The days were sweltering and unforgiving, with the ground teeming with poisonous creatures. The nights were frigid, with extreme gales from twilight to the witching hour, and harsh hail from the witching hour to daybreak.

A desert the Dukedom was also, with rains infrequent. Vast sands lay to the north of the territory, while dry, nigh infertile desert surrounded by impassable mountains lay to the south. The land's graces were the tens of thousands of kilometers of manastreams and vast aquifers, hundreds of meters below the surface, not discounting the booming pharmaceuticals and narcotics trade.

———

"Since ages long lost, the divine above have laid upon mankind their truths. Power must be claimed. Wealth won. Rule, dominion, empire purchased with blood. The forefathers of man built our civilizations, in which great empires and expansive culture erupted."

"But you, you are not men. You are not kin. You are born to serve. You live to graze and sustain the trueman, the good man, an honor to which you are undeserving of."

———

[Year 772 Sacrosanct Age, Heliotic Calendar]

The sun glared down wickedly as if the inhabitants of the Erasmus Dukedom had invoked Helios' cruel wrath.

Dion's mouth numbed in dryness, even more so than usual. The incessant, thick iron shackles around his ankles and hands burned badly in the heat. They were unchained, only on for the inconvenience of speed and the deterrence of escape. Gasping for some intangible refreshment, he stumbled slightly, digging his spade into the stem of the plant. Swiftly realizing his folly, he lifted the crude iron spade, inwardly sighing as the bush remained undamaged. The Overmaster, Fabius, thankfully had not noticed his slipup. That would have cost him a whipping and the loss of precious morsels. He smoothly continued digging, and carefully situated another Regalia bush in the dirt.

Dion was all too familiar with Regalia. He had lived through seventeen springs, the latter ten of which he had spent planting the deep-red bush. Regalia had flared leaves, much like Marijuana, but it had no smell. The true men processed it into a fine, pinkish white powder that they called "redbarb." Dion's mother often volunteered him for well digging, leaving him to the scorpions and serpents in exchange for a little more barb in her nostrils. Only three summers past, Dion's mother had found herself dead, with more redbarb in her veins than blood.

Dion's father died shortly after his birth. The lowmen at the camp said that he had kicked dirt onto Count Gryff's daughter by accident. The truemen, especially the nobles knew no mercy. They tortured and crucified him publicly. Dynon, the eldest of the camp's lower, taled that his father's dry, piercing screams echoed through the grounds for days.

Dion felt his knees shake, placing his hands to Earth for stability. Then, the thunder rang in his ears. Turning towards the sound, the air left his lungs. Horses, hundreds of them, neighing and stampeding headed towards the field. Unlike the fine purebred steeds the nobles owned, they were brutish and menacing; true warhorses from tall tales of barbarians and pillagers. Atop them sat fearsome men, menacing in the face and hard in stance. Massive pikes and spears, quickly approaching, rose into the heavens while archers followed close behind.

Fabius quickly fumbled for a small, hide sack, and withdrew a small white bead. It began to glow brightly like a full moon, turning to dust soon after. Fabius silently nodded at the other masters. They hurriedly turned their steeds and galloped at full speed away.

Dion, frozen as ice, still watching the horsemen draw closer, gripped his bush-blade tight. The barbarians sped their trot into a gallop, less than 300 meters yonder. Collectively, hundreds of men nocked their arrows and aimed high. The first slave ran; the rest followed suit.

Dion picked himself up and ran as fast as his legs allowed. Glancing behind himself, black streaks littered the sky, swiftly increasing in size. Then came the screams in agony. Dirt kicked into the air, as a low smokescreen and the sound of the arrow to earth resounded.

A girl, who couldn't have been a day over 8 summers fell in front of Dion, sending him face first into the ground. Dion rolled over awkwardly, bumping into her face. A metal arrowhead, shining in the sun, had pierced her throat and exited from her mouth. Blood bubbled from her mouth as tears streaked from her pure eyes.

In a brief moment of reasoning, Dion bent the arrow from entry to feather, snapping the end off. Still shaking, he ran his fingers over the girl's wound, smearing it with fresh blood. He ran it all over his neck, then nestled the end between his shoulder and chin. Silently, shivering he closed his eyes, in a futile attempt to silence the distant screams and the soft whimpers of the innocent girl dying before him.