As the lordly sun Helios began his slow trek across the barren sky, the Slave Lords unleashed their hellish hounds into the midst of the Slave Pit. Many of my fellow slaves were laid low in the slaughter, victim to the razor sharp teeth. Even the Axe Lord and the Lord of Chaos felt the sting of their venom and wander the halls no more. I stand only by the mercy of the Ancient One.
The Soft Winds of Gossip flutter through the camp like smoke over a battlefield. Those that survived huddle together to feel the warmth of each other in consolation. Some laugh in celebration of their survival, while others veil themselves in dust and ashes. The Dukes of Power drink deep the spiced wine of the Slave Lords, and proclaim their drunken love in slurred speech. Eagerly they step over the bodies of the fallen to stand in their place, seeking power like animals in heat. Good kings are not replaced, but instead rise to power.
