In a land beyond that of mortal comprehension, this story begins... Beneath a scorching sun marched a convoy of men, women, and children, trudging to the tune of cracking whips, as they pass through a sweltering desert. They were locked in shackles and trapped in chains, they were all broken in some way, whether it be the mightiest of warriors or the meekest of babes, they all possessed the same looks in their eyes. Despair. Fear. As they dragged their feet through the fiery red sand that blankets the landscape, they were akin to broken dolls, worn out by years of neglect and misuse. Thousands upon thousands of broken dolls… perhaps they were once happy, perhaps they used to laugh and cry. Now, however, within their hearts existed only despair …show more content…
Yet, suddenly, the crack of a slave master’s whip came down onto her back like a sabre, but she did not scream nor yelp. She knew she couldn't afford to. The whip came down again... and again… and again, soon her back had received thirty lashes. Despite the pain, the girl mustered the strength to wonder why she was receiving so many lashes, usually, it is only one or two before the slave master moves on to the next unfortunate victim; but, she doesn’t dare let that thought crawl onto her face. She would never know, yet the most likely answer is that the slave master felt like it. It is now that she started to discover herself, discovers that previously hidden spark of hope; the hope of rebellion, of freedom. Yet, she didn't let any emotions betray her expressionless façade. She knew that any hint of emotion would result in her receiving the same punishment as the unfortunate …show more content…
To this, the girl, weak and close to death, extended her arm towards the body of the slave master; the slave master did not react, perhaps this was what his whisper demanded. Then, in a flash, the girl adjusted the trajectory of her hand, angling up and grabbing a dagger from his belt. Instantly, the girl buried the dagger deep within the slave master's neck. She drew it out, then back in; this time, a few centrimetres to the right. Within mere seconds, she had inflicted a dozen deep wounds on the master's neck and face. Whatever despair and fear that used to exist within the girl had been sidelined. In their place, she now carried a multitude of emotions, and principally, that of hope. As for the slave master, his face had been crafted by the girl's blade into a mangled mess, oozing with blood. His screams brought those spectating to attention, but it was too late for him. By the time the girl could be removed from his body, his face had been thoroughly mutilated and his death