A dying yelp fades into the sweltering desert heat followed by the crack of a whip and another yelp. The wretched sounds repeat themselves in succession for what seems like an eternity before they stop.
A man kneels in the burning sand wearing nothing but a pair of tattered, threadbare trousers. He is heaving and gasping for breath, trying to keep his composure. His back is shredded by a whip and blood pools down from his wounds into the sand. His head is bowed and his long black hair falls down in front of his face.
A man in bronze and scarlet armour stands behind him with a whip and a malicious grin spread across his dark features.
The armour clad man lets the slave sit in the sand gasping for several minutes before roughly grabbing him and hauling him to his feet. The slave gasps in pain as he is dragged about. The armour clad man drives the slave towards the bustling city of Umbar. The city appears on the horizon like a tiny black beetle that sits on the edge of sand and water.
As they draw near, the tops of masts and sails begin to take shape and soon after, the silhouette discerns into buildings and streets of the port city. The heat makes the air thick and heavy and makes the city shimmer and wave.
Man and slave eventually reach the edge of the city and begin the long trek back to the household. The people pay little heed to the wounded and battered slave staggering his way through the streets with the armoured guard driving him.
The process is long and exhausting for them both. They eventually reach the tall iron gates that signify the household they work for. The gates had the house's coat of arms adorning it; a twisted and gnarled old tree. White against a black background.
The Umaarah household is built around an oasis in the centre of the city. It was tall and built with white stone. The household was the busiest part of town with merchants, priests, entertainers, and soldiers coming in an out all day.
The slave driver steered the slave into the centre courtyard and in to the main house. They walked through the clean, bustling building to the very back where the slave's quarters are. The armoured man steered them towards a rough and worn wooden door, which was different from the rest of the polished appearance of the household. He yanked it open and shoved the slave in the room
The slave staggered in with his head still bowed. He cringed when the door slammed shut. The other slaves became silent and glanced to the newcomer.
An elderly man hobbled over to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, "(H) Come young one..." The beaten, young man winced as his raw shoulder was touched. He still stood there with his head bowed in shameful silence. The elder spoke again, "(H) Kahldoon. It's over now, you're safe with us. Let us tend to your wounds." The young man called Kahldoon slowly looked up with piercing blue eyes, which was different from everyone else's dark eyes, and nodded once. The elder smiled and hobbled over to a wooden crate in a far corner of the room.
He opened a ragged leather bag and produced a vial with a brownish salve and some bandages. He beckoned for Kahldoon to come over. Kahldoon trudges slowly over to the elder.
The elderly man motioned for him to turn around, which he did. Kahldoon winced as his back was touched. "(H) How bad is it?" He asked.
The elder grimaced, "(H) These scars will remain with you for your life." He opened the vial with the salve and took some onto his fingers. He began to slowly and gently work it into the young man's wounds.
Kahldoon winced and hung his head as if in shame, his black hair curtailing his face. His voice is a soft, broken murmur, "(H) I deserved that punishment, didn't I?"
The old man shakes his head and picks up the bandages, replacing the lid on the vial, "(H) No man deserves that. No man deserves to be a slave. You remind me of you father in some ways." The elder chuckles softly, "(H) Yes, you are a spitting image of him when he was your age. The same fiery attitude as well."
The old man pauses and glance around, seeing who was in the room before looking back at Kahldoon. His voice is now low and hushed, "(H) Turn around to face me, lad. For I am about to say something that may result in my death..."
The young man obeys and raises his eyes. He tilts his head in and inquisitive manner as he regards his elder.
"(H) I have taught you many things I should not have already. Reading, writing and Westron to name a few... But there is one last thing I was to teach you, your history." The old man glances around before continuing, "(H) You know your mother died in childbirth. But your father, he is alive and prosperous. He does not want you to become his child. You are an illegitimate child." The old man glances around, lowering his voice even more, "(H) Your father is the lord of this household. You have noble blood, yet slave blood as well. I overheard that you father wants to send you to Mordor to fight for the Dark One."
Kahldoon's eyes widen in fear. Before he can say anything, the old man jumps up, he hisses, "(H) I hear guards, young one!"
