Roderick
The sky was blood-red as the settting sun cast its final rays across the desolate landscape of the wasteland. The earth was cracked and parched, and the air was thick with dust and despair. Roderick stood alone in this midst of this barren terrain, clad in tattered armor, the disgraced colors of his family’s house faded and caked with dirt.
The journey to the fabled treasure city of Xulthar had been long and treacherous. His companions had already abandoned him, leaving him to brave the dangers of the wasteland alone. If not for the words of the old sibyl, he would have abandoned the quest himself. But the city of Xulthar was not a mere fable—otherwise, she would not have warned him against its treasure. And if he was to be cursed either way, better to brave whatever evils awaited him in that ancient and forgotten city than to turn from his quest now.
As night fell and the moon rose, Roderick sought shelter in the ruins of an old caravanserai. Its crumbling walls were adorned with faded and broken mosaics, and its dusty courtyard was filled with an eerie silence. Roderick drew his sword as he explored its darkened recesses, his senses alert for danger.
Sure enough, he was not alone.
A guttural growl echoed through the air. Roderick spun on his heel just in time to see a pair of red, glowing eyes staring at him from the shadows. A monstrous creature, half-human, half-beast, lunged at him with razor-sharp claws. Roderick parried and sent a riposte at the beast’s throat, but the creature was fast and agile, evading his strike with unnatural speed.
Roderick parried desperately as the beast attacked with primal ferocity. Fear gripped his heart as he felt its claws tearing through the air, barely missing him in a flurry of deadly swipes. Struggling to keep up, Roderick’s muscles burned with effort and his vision began to blur from the sheer force of his opponent’s strength. With every ounce of energy left in him he lunged forward, plunging his sword into the creature’s chest and severing its arm with one final strike.
The beast fell to the ground, stunned and weakened from loss of blood. As Roderick looked on, the creature’s red eyes faded, and its grotesque body transformed into that of a man clad in ragged and bloodied clothes.
Roderick stared down at the man he had slain, his sword still poised in a defensive stance. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he took a step closer to the fallen man, anxious about what he would say.
The man choked out words between gasps for air, “You… you killed me.” Roderick could feel the guilt grip him as he answered back, “I had no choice. You attacked me.” The man’s eyes held fear and sorrow and with a labored breath, he said, “I was lost… searching for something better in Xulthar, but I found only death.”
“Have your eyes beheld the city?” Roderick asked. He reached for his waterskin and pressed it to the dying man’s lips.
The man drank eagerly, though his strength was rapidly fading. “Aye, my friend. Like you, I sought the riches of Xulthar, but its magic… it twisted me into a monster.”
Roderick watched with a sinking heart as the sick man’s eyelids fluttered, and his breathing became more labored. The man’s gaze finally fixed on the arm he had severed from himself in desperation—the limb that still grasped the scaly form of the beast he had been until recently. His hand trembled as he reached out to Roderick, his words sent shivers down his spine. Listening to the man’s plea, Roderick felt a surge of pity mixed with fear as he remembered the sibyl’s warning about the treacherous nature of his quest.
“Listen… Xulthar… it’s not what you think. It’s not a city of riches… but of sorcery… a cursed place… the Dark King… oh God, I can still see his eyes!”
“Steady,” said Roderick, holding the man as he began to convulse in his death throes. “Steady. It will all be over soon.”
The man’s eyes held a flicker of gratitude even as he faded. Then, in his final moments, they suddenly became lucid again.
“My arm… the claws… you must take the claws. Fashion them into a totem… they will protect you… they will protect you from him…”
“From what?” Roderick asked, his voice urgent. He again pressed the waterskin to the dying man’s lips, but this time, he did not drink.
“Wealth and power… lured into a trap… it’s a lie… it’s all a lie…”
The last words of the dying man rang out in the silence, and his empty husk slumped onto the unforgiving ground. Roderick gently closed those eyes and laid him to the rest, a sense of crushing sorrow consuming him. The cold night air clawed through his skin like icy talons, and the moonlight illuminated the stillness like an omen of death.
He began to pile rocks atop the fallen man’s body, in an attempt to form a makeshift grave. The hard ground mocked him, refusing to give way to his efforts. A gust of wind blew through the desolate landscape, dispersing the chill night air across the ruins. But no matter how high he built it, he could not escape the haunting echo of those final words:
My arm… the claws… you must take the claws!
As Roderick dropped the last stone on the pile, his eyes fell again on the severed arm. The flesh had wrinkled and was already beginning to putrify, but the claws still gleamed in the moonlight.
“Very well, my friend,” Roderick said to the empty air. “I will accept your gift.”
It took him the rest of the night, but he pried the claws from the cursed and black-bloodied flesh, and bore a hole at the base of each of them. From the leathern strap of his wineskin, he fashioned a passable thread. And when the hot desert sun rose the next morning, Roderick set out with the cursed man’s claws hanging like an uncanny talisman from his neck.
Laria
The sun blazed mercilessly over the barren wasteland, burning Laria’s fair and tender skin. The rocky ground burned her bare feet like a furnace of heat and grit. She wore naught but a leather loincloth to shield her from the sun and stinging sand, and the heat of the desert made her pant with thirst.
“Please, master,” she begged the slave trader who held her captive. “May I have some water?”
“Quiet!” he snapped, tugging on the rope that bound her wrists. She stumbled, nearly cutting her bare feet on the sharp gravel of the desert floor, and whimpered as she struggled to keep up with his sauntering camel.
He was not the worst master she’d had, though admittedly he was far from the best. She missed the days of her childhood, under her first master: the old, rich man her parents had sold her to. Of all her masters, he had been the kindest to her, treating her as a member of his household and requiring almost no labor from her at all. Sadly, the plague did not distinguish between the kind and the wicked, the master and the slave.
“Master,” she asked, “why must we take this road that leads through such a desolate and untraveled waste?”
The beady-eyed slaver sneered at her from his perch atop the camel’s solitary hump. “More questions, eh? Your throat must not be parched yet if you think to ask me that.”
“Please,” she whimpered. “It’s just that I’m not used to the desert. All my life, I”ve—”
“Spare me your life’s story,” he said impatiently. From the anger in his voice, she dared not open her mouth again.
She looked up at the undulating dunes and rocky crests of the desert waste. In all directions, there was no sign of human habitation, nor—wait, what was that? Was it a man, traveling alone by foot, or in her heat-induced delerium had her fluttering eyes deceived her?
No. It was certainly a man, crossing the desert without horse or camel. Though he was alone, he carried a large sword strapped to his back, and other weapons beside. He stood incredibly tall, more than a head taller than Laria, with broad shoulders and muscular chest and arms. His shoulder-length hair was brown, and as they drew near, his deep blue eyes seemed almost to penetrate her. She shivered in spite of the heat.
“Ah, a fellow traveler,” the slaver called out in greeting, his beady eyes gleaming with greed. “Looking for some company, are you?”
The traveler’s eyes were sad, though, as if he carried a burden that was almost too much to bear. Laria couldn’t help but wonder at that. What was this burden that he carried? Was it guilt? No, his expression carried none of the ugliness or cruelty she’d seen in her worst masters, or the brutality she’d seen etched into the faces of men of the criminal underworld. And the longer he gazed upon her… was some of his sadness for her?
Surely this man would be a kind and a benevolent master, she realized as she halted beside the camel, all too grateful for the chance to rest. She smiled and drew herself up, doing her best to look pretty. More than anything else, she desired a kind and a gentle master–though not so gentle that she could not please him with her feminine wiles.
“Do you like her?” the slaver asked, leering at her. “She’s a rare beauty, isn’t she? Yours for the right price.”
The slaver’s words echoed in Laria’s head as she tried to maintain her composure. She had been sold as a slave before, but never had she been in such a vulnerable position. Her eyes flickered towards the man who was gazing at her, and she could see his eyes soften as he looked at her.
Please, Laria inwardly begged, calling upon the names of all the gods that she could remember. Let this man find me pleasing enough to make me his slave!
“I have no coin for your wares,” the man growled, shattering Laria’s hopes.
The slaver’s smile turned into a sneer. “No coin, eh?” Well, then I’ll just have to take what I want.”
In a single swift motion, the slaver leaped from his camel at the traveler, drawing a wickedly curved blade. Laria’s eyes widened in shock, but before she could scream, the traveler’s sword leaped into his hands, meeting the slaver’s attack with righteous ferocity. The clash of steel echoed across the desert as the two fighters engaged in a deadly dance of blades.
Now Laria dared not scream, for fear that it would break the traveler’s concentration. Instead, she watched with baited breath as he struck and withdrew, parried and riposted. The slaver was skilled, but the traveler was no novice. To Laria’s surprise, the slaver’s eyes widened in fear as he realized he was outmatched.
“Yield!” he cried, stepping back out of the traveler’s reach. “Yield! Please–have mercy!”
His plea for clemency gave the traveler pause–and quick as a wink, the slaver lunged at her, grabbing her violently by her arm. She yelped in surprise as he pressed his wicked blade against her neck, holding her in front of him like a shield.
“Drop your sword, or I slit her throat!”
Laria had no doubt that the slaver would do it. To him, she was nothing more than merchandise, and if the cost of his life was the loss of her own, he would make that trade in an instant. Terror and exhaustion froze her to the spot.
Her eyes met the traveler’s. Don’t do it! she inwardly begged, knowing that if he dropped his blade, her cruel and vindictive master would make him a slave. Besides, what was the value of her life to a man of noble bearing like him? She did not want to die, but likewise she did not want anyone else to suffer on her behalf.
To her horror, the traveler heeded the slaver’s words and dropped his sword on the dusty ground. “Good,” said the slaver. “Now, kindly wrap that cord around your wrists.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else the girl dies!” the slaver snapped. He pressed the point of his dagger between Laria’s breasts, making her squeal in spite of herself.
Never before had a man sacrificed aught for her sake. And yet, here stood a man who had willingly dropped his sword, when he could have pressed his advantage and defeated his enemy at the cost of her life. But the traveler was not stupid, she was gratified to see. His thews taught with defiance, he clenched and unclenched his fists, waiting to see what the slaver would do.
With the slaver’s knife at her heart, Laria hardly dared to breath, else she would have urged the traveler to save himself. Instead, she kept herself as still and unmoving as possible, anxiously waiting to see which man would win the contest.
“Where did you get that talisman?” the slaver asked, breaking the tense silence. In all of the recent action, Laria had hardly noticed it, but the slaver’s greedy eyes were trained to look for profit, no matter the circumstances.
In the end, his greed was his undoing.
The traveler smiled wanly, then lunged and swung his fist with speed born of desperation. The slaver, momentarily distracted, was unable to react in time to meet his blow, or to plunge his wicked knife into Laria’s breasts. He cursed and stumbled backward, releasing her, and she fell to the ground.
Quickly, she rolled away from the two men, just as much to avoid getting in the traveler’s way as to escape the slaver. When she finally rose, bruised but otherwise unhurt, she turned just in time to see the traveler plunge the slaver’s own knife deep into his heart.
Thank the heavens! Laria inwardly prayed as she realized that her cruel master was no more.
The traveler stood over the slaver’s lifeless body, catching his breath and surveying his surroundings. Laria watched him, curious but cautious. She knew the ways of men like him, brave warriors who slayed their enemies without a second thought. But she also knew that they were usually more honorable and fair than those who trafficked in slaves.
“Who are you?” Laria asked, cautious but intrigued.
The traveler turned to face her, his sword still in hand. “I am Roderick, an adventurer, and you are?”
“Your slave,” she answered, lowering her gaze.
Roderick took a step forward and she flinched, not sure what to expect. But to her surprise, he sheathed his sword and held out a hand to help her up.
“Don’t worry,” he said in a gruff voice. “I won’t hurt you.”
A flood of relief washed over Laria as she accepted his hand. Fate had truly smiled upon her, answering her prayers by sending her a kind and benevolent master. She only hoped that he found her pleasing enough to keep her.
Roderick
Roderick turned his attention to the young woman who had been offered to him as a slave. She looked up at him with a mixture of relief and gratitude, as well as something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Give me your hands,” he said, noticing the rope that still bound her wrists.
The young woman lowered her eyes and held out her hands. He drew his dagger and swiftly sliced through the ropes binding them.
“You’re free now, girl. What is your name?”
For several moments, she stared at her unbound wrists in dumb disbelief. Realizing that she was delirious with thirst, Roderick gave her his waterskin and helped to wring out the last few drops. There was plenty more water in the camel’s saddlebags anyway.
“Here,” he said, pulling out one of the slaver’s spare robes and tossing it to her. “Use this to clothe your nakedness.”
“Th-thank you,” the girl stammered.
Roderick shrugged and averted his eyes as she dressed. The robe hung loosely on her slender frame, but it would shield her from the worst of the desert sun. He searched the slaver’s bags and found a white headscarf, which the girl took gratefully.
“Now, what is your name?”
“My name is Laria,” the girl said, falling on her knees. “But you may call me whatever pleases you.”
Roderick frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Master,” she repeated, holding out her hands. “Please—let me be your slave. I have nowhere else to go, and I fear I won’t survive in this wilderness.”
Her strange request took Roderick aback.
“By all the horns of hell, girl!” he bellowed. “Did you think I would abandon you in this waste? Come, let us travel together as companions, at least until the next oasis.”
“Yes, Master,” said the girl, as subservient as before.
Roderick regarded her coolly, his brow furrowed in consternation. “Call me Roderick,” he muttered.
“Yes, Master Roderick.”
“Not ‘Master.’ Just ‘Roderick.’”
She opened her mouth as if to say “Yes, Master,” but caught herself first. Roderick turned away in disgust.
“Do I displease you, Master Roderick?”
“Why should it matter whether or not you please me? Stand up—you are free!”
Reluctantly, Laria rose to her feet. “Roderick,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “I owe you my life—my everything. I have nothing to offer you in return, but myself.”
Roderick sighed, torn between his sense of honor and Laria’s persistent desire to be his slave.
“Laria, you owe me nothing. I saved you because it was right, not because I expected anything in return.”
“But I have nothing without you, Roderick,” Laria pleaded with him. “I have no family, no home—no one to care for me, no one to guide me. If you will not have me as your slave, I fear that I will perish. Please, let me serve you.”
After a long internal struggle, Roderick finally nodded. “Very well, Laria. If you truly desire to serve me, I will not turn you away. But know that you are my companion, my equal. You are free to make your own choices and to live your life as you see fit. Do you understand?”
Laria’s face broke into a smile, and she threw herself at his feet. “Thank you, Master Roderick! I will do my best to serve you in any way I can!”
Good grief, Roderick thought. Can this girl do nothing for herself? Still, at least the matter was settled, though something told him it would be a problem again soon enough.
“Come,” he said, pulling the camel down to let her mount it. “Let us be on our way.”
She stood up again and hesitated, as if unsure what to do.
“Well?” he said impatiently. “Climb up and let us go!”
“But Master Roderick, where will you ride?”
“Ride?” he said angrily. “I will walk. You will ride.”
“No, Master Roderick. I cannot ride in comfort while you walk. It—it wouldn’t be right.”
He groaned and ran his fingers impatiently through his hair. “Very well. We will both ride—and if the camel dies of exhaustion before we arrive at the next oasis, then I suppose we will both have to walk!”
With that, he retrieved his sword and mounted the camel. Against the animal’s protestations, Laria climbed on behind him, and with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, they set out.
