The Line in the Sand

Out story team has re-visited the Spirelands and home of the Kaj-Tul Empire. Once again, please be advised that themes of extreme violence and slavery are part of this Kaj-Tul story.

It began as these things always do - with a cacophony of steel, and the smell of blood. 

The warlord's forces descended upon the small Spirelands town. It was too small for most maps, little more than a village. Yet big enough to fill the warlord's coffers. Forces clad in rusty chainmail thundered through the village, striking haphazardly with the butts of their spears at any who they could reach. Men and women fell, battered and bloodied, as homes burned and people screamed. In moments, the noise quietened to scattered sobs and mocking laughs, as villagers were thrown into chains and gathered in the square. The warlord’s lieutenant cast a satisfied eye over their prize. With a gesture, they were hauled to their feet, strung together, and dragged, in some cases literally, towards a dark new future.

The journey was brutal, and the soldiers were cruel. The horses were set to a slow canter - slow enough that the hobbled villagers could keep up, but fast enough to deliberately cause some of them to fall.

And when they fell, as they all did eventually, they were dragged over coarse sand and sharp rocks until they regained their footing. By the first day, every single one of the newly minted slaves were bleeding and bruised. The soldiers laughed and jeered, tossing pebbles at the hopeless prisoners.

“Get used to this, meat,” they’d taunt, flecks of their dinner spraying from chapped lips.

“You’ll spend the rest of your lives broken,” blunt words, delivered with a blunt spear shaft. 

“Not too broken though, or you’ll be too useless to keep!” a raucous laughter erupted.

The days and nights began to blur together, the slaves becoming a mass of tumbleweeds - brittle, yet driven ever forward by forces out of their control. When they stopped to rest in the middle of the day, their captors left the townsfolk to roast in whatever meagre shade they could find under sparse shrubs and shallow dunes. When they tried to sleep during the midnight respite, the soldiers on watch would kick them awake, muted laughs echoing from the featureless helmets. Once, one of them spoke of rebellion - of the light of the moon, and how it could guide them to steal a spear, free themselves, and return to their home. They were taken that night, and returned more battered than ever before, and utterly silent. Some of them chose to call upon the Tapestry - offering pleas to the great Weaves of wind and heat, in a desperate attempt for something, someway, home. But the Weaves never answered, and no matter how loudly the wind blew, it was oh so quiet.

Some week or more past the day they were taken, a great encampment loomed in the distance. The walls were formed from sun hardened clay, and towered so high that the torches adorning the ramparts joined the stars in the endless horizon. They broke camp in the early hours of morning, and as the merciless sun rose behind them, more details came to light - the glittering of polished steel, the rising smoke of forge and kitchen, and the swaying burgundy and brass banners.

The final march into the Kaj-Tul encampment was a funeral procession. Faceless guards lined the walls and streets, eyes hidden, but clearly analyzing the group of slaves as they marched. The disdain and disgust was thick in the air around the unyielding djinn soldiers, as if the slaves were nothing but another profit.

The warlord's soldiers, who had marched with feet so sure, and jeered so loudly, now walked in a protective huddle, regarding the Kaj-Tul with both respect and caution'. At the centre of the encampment, before a grand tent, a man with bronze skin stood in gilded armour. His eyes flashed over the warlord's ragged soldiers before fixing on the slaves. His eyes widened, rage and disgust visible for only a moment, before his stoic demeanor re-settled on his heavy-set shoulders. He gestured inside the tent, beckoning the warlord’s lieutenant and his second to join him inside.

There was a brief moment of silence, before screams from the tent shattered the tension. The soldiers bunched up, confusion and fear written all over their hunched postures. After what seemed like hours, although likely only a few minutes, the screams stopped, and the bronze figure re-emerged, his ornate gilded armour now splattered with an ominous crimson stain. He flicked his hand, and without a word, his forces descended on the warlord's paltry force with silent, ruthless efficiency. The slaves stood in the midst of a bloodbath, untouched by the djinn, in a stunned stupor. Soon, Kaj-Tul soldiers brought them water and bread, as more began to drag the corpses of the slaughtered brigands away.

The encampment stood imposing, made all the more so for the sun-baked message left before its walls. If you would trade with the Kaj-Tul, be warned - they do not accept damaged goods.