Refugee Camp I

In the city centre of Southern Germund, a bustling crowd shifted through the streets. From a distance, their movement appeared hypnotic, a mesmerising flow of bodies. The air was filled with a cacophony of noises: wails of pain, cries of loss, and the hum of desperate bargaining. War had left nothing but tragedy in its wake. It seemed as though every survivor, those who hadn't sworn a binding oath, had gathered here from across the southern regions. The headcount must have been in the thousands if not tens of thousands.

At the heart of the city stood a statue of a god, Ares, carved from a glassy black obsidian stone of unknown origin. The figure held a double-edged sword pointed skyward, clad in full armour adorned with a ram emblem, a cloak cascading behind as though caught in the wind. The craftsmanship was so immaculate, so surreal, that the cloak seemed almost authentic, fluttering in an unfelt breeze. Surely, the sculptor had been an arcane caster.

Underneath the imposing statue, the downtrodden sought refuge. Makeshift tents crowded the base like a sprawling slum, leaving only narrow paths for people to traverse. The once-pristine streets surrounding the statue were now lined with vendors selling their wares. Desperation clung to the air as people bartered feverishly, exchanging prized possessions for necessities. Items once deemed valuable namely, marbles, jewels, and fine stones, had become worthless in the shadow of war. Now, food, medicine, and clothing were the only commodities that mattered.

Nearby, a heated argument broke out. A middle-aged man shouted about the worth of his tapestry, his voice rising above the banter as he tried to convince a vendor of its value. The vendor, unimpressed, dismissed him with a shrug, offering only enough rations to last a week if he sparingly consumed them.

On the left stood a grand stone building, its tall oak doors displayed proudly amidst the chaos. A sign above the entrance read House Tasmania — an inn catering only to those who could afford such luxury.

As Jack, Lupus, and their caravan of survivors reached the camp's edge, they exchanged farewells before parting ways. The group dissolved into a horde of miserable citizens, leaving Jack and Lupus to their own devolution. They decided to find shelter for the night and food to rejuvenate their weary bodies.

The camp itself was a grim scene. The stench was almost unbearable, unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and the faint, sickly-sweet scent of death. As Jack and Lupus navigated through the crowd, they were forced to push their way through the tightly packed masses. The oppressive heat made matters worse; sweat trickled down Jack's neck and pooled under his orange jumpsuit. He glanced at Lupus, noticing her black corset and thick, heat-absorbing clothing. Oddly, she seemed unaffected, barely sweating at all. Instead, a subtle, soothing aroma lingered around her — like baby powder mixed with sun-kissed fur.

"Slaves! Slaves for cheap!" A merchant's guttural voice bellowed from nearby, his words punctuated by the spit escaping through the gap left by his missing front teeth.

Jack froze, his stomach turning at the sight. Refugees were one thing, but this? He had momentarily forgotten that, in this corner of the country, men and women were still treated as possessions.

Involuntarily, Jack shot the merchant a look of disdain. The man was built like a bear, his arms easily three times the size of Jack's scrawny thighs. His chest was firm and muscular, though his protruding belly suggested a love of indulgence. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, and his dark green eyes scanned the crowd with predatory intent.

Their eyes met. The merchant's lips curled into a wide, toothless grin.

"Hola, señor!" He called out, his voice thick with an unfamiliar accent. He rubbed his hands together, his gaze flickering to Jack's orange jumpsuit. Clearly, Jack stood out amidst the sea of people.

Before Jack could respond, the merchant gestured eagerly toward his wares. "Please, spare a moment to browse, sí? Just a moment!" He bowed awkwardly, his behaviour hovering between mockery and courtesy.

"Sorry, I'm not interes~." Jack began, but Lupus interrupted him.

"All right," She said cheerfully, stepping toward the merchant.

The hulking man loomed over her, his shadow casting a dark contrast against her pale complexion.

"Señorita, please, be my guest!" He proclaimed with exaggerated pride, his theatrical display designed to momentarily captivate his customer's attention. Slave traders were among the worst of society's scum, despised and distrusted by all, yet this man carried a peculiar charm, a presence so oddly affable it bordered on likeable.

Behind him, a small group of slaves stood in a line. Five of them, dressed in ragged tunics and trousers, wore identical expressions of despair. Among them were two frail women, one short man, one tall man, and a Wildren girl who stood out from the rest. The collars around their necks, made of cast alloy, marked them as bound by the Slave Circlet, enchanted with arcane to subdue and control.

"Caught your eye, hasn't it?! Lother's wares are the finest quality for the price!" The merchant proclaimed with an ugly laugh. Jack forced a wry smile, masking his disdain for the man.

Lupus's gaze lingered on the Wildren girl, roughly the same height as her. Her round, black-tipped ears protruded from her dirty blonde hair, and her dull purple eyes stared blankly ahead. The spark of life, the fire of freedom, was absent; it was the privilege reserved only for free men and women.

"That one," Lother, the slave trader, said, his grin widening. "I'll give you a very good price!" The man's tone dripped with persuasion. For him, charisma was as vital a weapon for him as much as arcane power was the mightiest weaponry of the mages.

Lupus stepped closer, reaching out to touch the girl's lips. The slave hesitated but obeyed, opening the girl's mouth to reveal her teeth — perfectly white, like a human's. 

"Strange..." Lupus frowned, her expression darkening. Turning her direction to Lother, "What's wrong with her fangs?" She asked sternly.

"Well… um…" The merchant stammered, his gaze darting to the side as if searching for an excuse written in the air.

Lupus spun the Wildren around, inspecting her. "And where's her tail? She's missing her lioness tail too." She pointed out, her tone deadpan. The girl shuffled nervously, fidgeting her feet on the ground to ease her nerves.

"What's your name, love-y?" Lupus asked the girl, a motherly care laced her tone.