I still have no idea how long I have been a slave to my tormentors, the Karavek tribe. As best I can translate from what I have managed to learn of their degraded, draconic tongue, their familial title roughly translates as “blood scavengers,” an apt name for my captors. They learned of the secondary journal I improvised after they took the original but, rather taking my sackcloth accounts from me, they have returned my book so I may transcribe all I have written since it was confiscated.
My understanding is my leather-bound journal was initially taken for fear that it contained words of power — magic — with which I could arm myself. After learning of my sackcloth notes and seeing they had not been blasted into oblivion by what I had written, the smartest among them understood I was a record keeper of sorts and not some form of shaman.
Gone are the mindless, manual labors that filled my waking moments prior to this realization. Now, as a creature of rare learning cast amongst their kind (and, I admit without conceit, even amongst much of my own), I am a spoil of war, to be used and shown off. So far as the tribe’s chieftain is concerned, my knowledge is a trophy that helps cement his position with his own kind (and, as best I can surmise, the other tribes scattered throughout the region.) I must confess to a sense of pride in this status, degenerate and foul though these evil creatures are. I shall perform penance for this vanity when next I encounter a shrine of Logothos. Assuming I ever escape, of course.
From what I have been able to discern, there is that a feast is scheduled for today in honor of their god, Kzdakhain’kzdakhar. (If you think that’s a mouthful, consider my effort to ensure I discerned the simple, corrupt draconic symbols of their shrine sufficiently to pen. Try as I might, though, I cannot translate the word’s meaning — it could be their tongue has fallen too far from its origins for me to connect its components to its root, or I was never as good at my draconic lessons as I thought.
Regardless, the creatures are forcing me to dress in the best regalia they can find for my size. Unfortunately, their best appears to be comprised of clothing stripped from their victims’ corpses. The tunic they provided still had a sharp tear in its chest, surrounded by a wide blood stain! I can only conclude their god does not consider it an insult to be found in His presence wearing the blood of one’s enemies — for all I know, it could be a compliment or even a requirement.
I leave pen and paper aside for now, as one of the diminutive lizard-like folk has arrived and is bidding me to follow him. The kobold is one who is regularly assigned with my care. I have named the little beast Scar because of an old wound that winds from his fore-teeth, across and down his snout’s length, to end high on his forehead, between his eyes.
Wherever it is Scar is taking me, and whatever occurs, I hope I survive to return and record the events.
© 2012, The SpirosBlaak Chronicles. Misfit Studios. All rights reserved.