Capítulo 2: The Quarry
In the midst of this harsh environment toiled a young boy, no more than twelve years old. His skin, dark and glistening with sweat, was stretched taut over lean muscles forged by constant labor. His hair, once a sign of youth and vitality, was now matted and tangled with grime. Known only as the nameless slave, he had no past to recall, no family to remember. He was simply another faceless worker, another life consumed by the cruelty of the orcs.
Each swing of his pickaxe was an outlet for the deep, simmering rage that burned within him. His veins stood out against his skin, his muscles straining with the effort of each strike. Every blow was a silent rebellion, a testament to his unyielding anger. The rhythmic clang of metal against stone echoed through the quarry, a ceaseless symphony of suffering and toil.
Nearby, an orc overseer bellowed orders, his voice a harsh whip that cut through the oppressive heat. "Work faster, you wretches! We don't have all day!"
The nameless slave gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he fought to contain his hatred. He knew better than to voice his defiance; the scars on his back were a constant reminder of the consequences of rebellion. But inside, he seethed with a fury that threatened to consume him. His pickaxe struck the rock with renewed force, shards of stone flying in all directions.
The quarry was a place of unending misery. The slaves were given barely enough food to survive, their rations meager and tasteless. Water was a precious commodity, rationed out in tiny amounts that left them perpetually parched. The sun beat down relentlessly, turning the quarry into a furnace that sapped their strength and left them drenched in sweat. Blisters and callouses covered the nameless slave's hands, the result of endless hours of labor. His back ached with a constant, dull pain, and his legs threatened to give out beneath him. But he continued to work, driven by a stubborn determination to endure.
As the day wore on, the nameless slave overheard snippets of conversation from the other workers. Their voices were hushed, fearful of attracting the attention of the overseers, but curiosity got the better of them.
"Did you hear about the warband?" one slave whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
"They're supposed to be stopping here tomorrow," another replied, his voice tinged with both excitement and dread.
The nameless slave frowned, his thoughts bitter. He had little patience for idle gossip. These men, broken and beaten, had nothing better to do than to speculate about events beyond their control. He chastised them silently, his mind filled with contempt. Despite his disdain, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of interest at the mention of the warband. The orcs were warriors, their raids infamous across the land. But what difference did it make? His fate was tied to this hellish quarry, and no warband would change that.
The sun began to set, casting long shadows over the quarry. The heat of the day gave way to a cooler, but no less oppressive, evening. The nameless slave's muscles screamed in protest with every swing of his pickaxe, but he forced himself to keep going. The overseers' eyes were everywhere, and any sign of weakness could result in a beating, or worse. He had seen too many of his fellow slaves fall victim to the orcs' brutality, their bodies broken and discarded like so much refuse.
As the last light of day faded, the overseers finally called an end to the labor. The nameless slave dropped his pickaxe, his fingers numb and trembling from the constant strain. He joined the line of weary workers trudging back to their makeshift camp, a collection of tattered tents and crude shelters that offered little protection from the elements. The air was filled with the sound of labored breathing and the occasional cough, the quiet murmurs of exhausted conversation.
The nameless slave found his usual spot, a small patch of ground barely softer than the quarry floor. He collapsed onto it, his body aching and sore. Sleep was his only escape from the relentless grind, a brief respite before the cycle began anew. As he lay there, his thoughts turned to the warband the other slaves had spoken of. Tomorrow, they had said. But what did it matter? He closed his eyes, trying to block out the world.
The next day dawned with an uneasy tension in the air. The sun had barely risen when the sound of distant engines reached the ears of the laborers. The nameless slave paused, his pickaxe frozen in mid-air, as he strained to listen. The rumble grew louder, more distinct, until it was impossible to ignore.
The slaves stopped working, their eyes fixed on the sky. A massive shadow fell over the quarry as the orc raid ship descended, its engines roaring like thunder. Dust and debris were kicked up in a violent whirlwind, obscuring the view and filling the air with choking grit. The nameless slave shielded his eyes, peering through the haze at the enormous vessel. It landed with a resounding crash, the ground trembling beneath its weight. The ramp lowered, and a group of heavily armored orcs marched out, their presence commanding immediate attention.
The overseers barked orders, and the slaves scrambled to form lines, their hearts pounding with fear and anticipation. The nameless slave stood among them, his mind racing. Whatever this warband's purpose, it was clear that their arrival would bring change—whether for better or worse, he could not yet tell.
As the orc warriors surveyed the scene, the nameless slave felt a strange mixture of dread and curiosity.
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