Chapter 3: Small men have great shadow(3)
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Chapter 3: Small men have great shadow(3)
'At this hour, mom would have finished preparing dinner and I would already be down preparing the table' Alpheo thought as he watched the sun slowly approaching his resting place.
Memories flooded his mind, each one a precious fragment of a life he left behind 17 years ago. But there was one memory that haunted him above all else, one that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.
He was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by his family. He sat between his brothers. Across from him sat his parents, smiling and happy as they always were. And at the head of the table stood his beloved grandfather, a kind and gentle man whose face had become a blur in Alpheo's mind.
The large, wooden table was adorned with an abundance of delicacies , succulent cuts of meat, freshly baked bread , steaming plates of pasta, and creamy mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter. It must have been a special occasion, but Alpheo couldn't recall which one. In fact, he struggled to remember any details about that night. The faces around him were familiar yet unrecognizable, like ghosts from a past life that he could never fully grasp again. Their expressions were blurred and their voices muffled, as if they were speaking through a thick fog.
But one thing he would always remember was the food served on that table. Did that make him a bad son? Was it wrong for him to only remember the food and not the faces or voices of those who brought him into this world? His first parents had showered him with love, and his second ones had shown nothing but hate. How could any parent worth being called such sell their own child into slavery?
As he drifted into sleep, battered and hungered from a long day of labor under his cruel master, he would dream of revenge. He imagined breaking free from his bonds, escaping into the night and finding his way back to his villages. In his dreams, he set fire to his old house, letting the flames consume the memories of his past life. But as dawn approached and the pain of his wounds jolted him awake, he faced the harsh reality that vengeance was not an option for someone like him.
Suddendly he jolted as he heard the usual shout accompaning dawn ''SPEED UP!EACH TO HIS CELL!'' It was always the same voice that shouted that , it was that old bastard of Menicus , he was the overseer of the slave and it seemed like he took pleasure in that , as there was nothing he loved more than to search for an excuse to beat them with a stick.
"Was today a successful catch?" A deep and gruff voice asked, cutting through the stillness of the room.
The owner of that voice was Jarza, the oldest among them. Time had etched lines into his face, but he carried himself with a proud posture that belied his age. It was said that Arlanians were masters at hiding their years, and Jarza was no exception .
As an Arlanian himself, it could be said that he had returned to his homeland, albeit in a much different position . But none of the three men in the room dared make such a joke. After all, why would they mock someone's shit , when they were rolling in it?
Like most low-born Arlanians, Jarza had dark-brown skin that glistened in the dim light of the room. He was completely bald, save for a patch of scruffy hair growing on one side of his face. It gave him the appearance of a dirty egg, or perhaps more fittingly, a chocolate truffle left out in the sun too long.
He always claimed to have lost count of his age, but he knew deep down that he was well over forty. Despite his many years and countless battles fought, he remained a resilient bastard, refusing to go down without a fight. In his youth, he had been a formidable mercenary, Alpheo was certain that if he was to fight against him in battle, he would certainly piss his pants, he was no coward though , it was just Farza that was so scary to be around.
Four years ago, his luck had taken a turn for the worse when he fell into slavery.
The ironic twist was that it wasn't an enemy's capture that landed him in this dire situation. Instead, it was his own mounting debt that sealed his fate. No matter how hard he tried to escape the cities and find new companies to serve before his creditors came knocking, they always managed to catch up with him.
And on one fateful day, luck seemed to have abandoned him completely. As he was caught and hauled away to be sold as a slave, as his pockets were as empty as his sense of humor. His strong and muscular physique fetched a decent price at the auction - eight silverii, to be exact. Despite his current state, traces of his past strength and constitution could still be seen beneath the layer of exhaustion and defeat.
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Chapter 3: Small men have great shadow(3)
'At this hour, mom would have finished preparing dinner and I would already be down preparing the table' Alpheo thought as he watched the sun slowly approaching his resting place.
Memories flooded his mind, each one a precious fragment of a life he left behind 17 years ago. But there was one memory that haunted him above all else, one that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.
He was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by his family. He sat between his brothers. Across from him sat his parents, smiling and happy as they always were. And at the head of the table stood his beloved grandfather, a kind and gentle man whose face had become a blur in Alpheo's mind.
The large, wooden table was adorned with an abundance of delicacies , succulent cuts of meat, freshly baked bread , steaming plates of pasta, and creamy mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter. It must have been a special occasion, but Alpheo couldn't recall which one. In fact, he struggled to remember any details about that night. The faces around him were familiar yet unrecognizable, like ghosts from a past life that he could never fully grasp again. Their expressions were blurred and their voices muffled, as if they were speaking through a thick fog.
But one thing he would always remember was the food served on that table. Did that make him a bad son? Was it wrong for him to only remember the food and not the faces or voices of those who brought him into this world? His first parents had showered him with love, and his second ones had shown nothing but hate. How could any parent worth being called such sell their own child into slavery?
As he drifted into sleep, battered and hungered from a long day of labor under his cruel master, he would dream of revenge. He imagined breaking free from his bonds, escaping into the night and finding his way back to his villages. In his dreams, he set fire to his old house, letting the flames consume the memories of his past life. But as dawn approached and the pain of his wounds jolted him awake, he faced the harsh reality that vengeance was not an option for someone like him.
Suddendly he jolted as he heard the usual shout accompaning dawn ''SPEED UP!EACH TO HIS CELL!'' It was always the same voice that shouted that , it was that old bastard of Menicus , he was the overseer of the slave and it seemed like he took pleasure in that , as there was nothing he loved more than to search for an excuse to beat them with a stick.
"Was today a successful catch?" A deep and gruff voice asked, cutting through the stillness of the room.
The owner of that voice was Jarza, the oldest among them. Time had etched lines into his face, but he carried himself with a proud posture that belied his age. It was said that Arlanians were masters at hiding their years, and Jarza was no exception .
As an Arlanian himself, it could be said that he had returned to his homeland, albeit in a much different position . But none of the three men in the room dared make such a joke. After all, why would they mock someone's shit , when they were rolling in it?
Like most low-born Arlanians, Jarza had dark-brown skin that glistened in the dim light of the room. He was completely bald, save for a patch of scruffy hair growing on one side of his face. It gave him the appearance of a dirty egg, or perhaps more fittingly, a chocolate truffle left out in the sun too long.
He always claimed to have lost count of his age, but he knew deep down that he was well over forty. Despite his many years and countless battles fought, he remained a resilient bastard, refusing to go down without a fight. In his youth, he had been a formidable mercenary, Alpheo was certain that if he was to fight against him in battle, he would certainly piss his pants, he was no coward though , it was just Farza that was so scary to be around.
Four years ago, his luck had taken a turn for the worse when he fell into slavery.
The ironic twist was that it wasn't an enemy's capture that landed him in this dire situation. Instead, it was his own mounting debt that sealed his fate. No matter how hard he tried to escape the cities and find new companies to serve before his creditors came knocking, they always managed to catch up with him.
And on one fateful day, luck seemed to have abandoned him completely. As he was caught and hauled away to be sold as a slave, as his pockets were as empty as his sense of humor. His strong and muscular physique fetched a decent price at the auction - eight silverii, to be exact. Despite his current state, traces of his past strength and constitution could still be seen beneath the layer of exhaustion and defeat.
Chapter 3: Small men have great shadow3 'At this hour, mom would have finished preparing dinner and I would already be down preparing the table' Alpheo thought as he watched the sun slowly approaching his resting place. Memories flooded his mind, each one a precious fragment of a life he left behind 17 years ago. But there was one memory that haunted him above all else, one that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried. He was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by his family. He sat between his brothers. Across from him sat his parents, smiling and happy as they always were. And at the head of the table stood his beloved grandfather, a kind and gentle man whose face had become a blur in Alpheo's mind. The large, wooden table was adorned with an abundance of delicacies , succulent cuts of meat, freshly baked bread , steaming plates of pasta, and creamy mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter. It must have been a special occasion, but Alpheo couldn't recall which one. In fact, he struggled to remember any details about that night. The faces around him were familiar yet unrecognizable, like ghosts from a past life that he could never fully grasp again. Their expressions were blurred and their voices muffled, as if they were speaking through a thick fog. But one thing he would always remember was the food served on that table. Did that make him a bad son? Was it wrong for him to only remember the food and not the faces or voices of those who brought him into this world? His first parents had showered him with love, and his second ones had shown nothing but hate. How could any parent worth being called such sell their own child into slavery? As he drifted into sleep, battered and hungered from a long day of labor under his cruel master, he would dream of revenge. He imagined breaking free from his bonds, escaping into the night and finding his way back to his villages. In his dreams, he set fire to his old house, letting the flames consume the memories of his past life. But as dawn approached and the pain of his wounds jolted him awake, he faced the harsh reality that vengeance was not an option for someone like him. Suddendly he jolted as he heard the usual shout accompaning dawn ''SPEED UP!EACH TO HIS CELL!'' It was always the same voice that shouted that , it was that old bastard of Menicus , he was the overseer of the slave and it seemed like he took pleasure in that , as there was nothing he loved more than to search for an excuse to beat them with a stick. "Was today a successful catch?" A deep and gruff voice asked, cutting through the stillness of the room. The owner of that voice was Jarza, the oldest among them. Time had etched lines into his face, but he carried himself with a proud posture that belied his age. It was said that Arlanians were masters at hiding their years, and Jarza was no exception . As an Arlanian himself, it could be said that he had returned to his homeland, albeit in a much different position . But none of the three men in the room dared make such a joke. After all, why would they mock someone's shit , when they were rolling in it? Like most low-born Arlanians, Jarza had dark-brown skin that glistened in the dim light of the room. He was completely bald, save for a patch of scruffy hair growing on one side of his face. It gave him the appearance of a dirty egg, or perhaps more fittingly, a chocolate truffle left out in the sun too long. He always claimed to have lost count of his age, but he knew deep down that he was well over forty. Despite his many years and countless battles fought, he remained a resilient bastard, refusing to go down without a fight. In his youth, he had been a formidable mercenary, Alpheo was certain that if he was to fight against him in battle, he would certainly piss his pants, he was no coward though , it was just Farza that was so scary to be around. Four years ago, his luck had taken a turn for the worse when he fell into slavery. The ironic twist was that it wasn't an enemy's capture that landed him in this dire situation. Instead, it was his own mounting debt that sealed his fate. No matter how hard he tried to escape the cities and find new companies to serve before his creditors came knocking, they always managed to catch up with him. And on one fateful day, luck seemed to have abandoned him completely. As he was caught and hauled away to be sold as a slave, as his pockets were as empty as his sense of humor. His strong and muscular physique fetched a decent price at the auction - eight silverii, to be exact. Despite his current state, traces of his past strength and constitution could still be seen beneath the layer of exhaustion and defeat.
