A Grave of Chains - The Journals of Kowèn

Part II: No Way Back

It was a typical morning. The sun barely touched the sand dunes to the east of Baster when I collected the last of my bags. The travel to the Well of Life can be quite a hassle for the inexperienced. The heat was one thing. But I have heard tales of giant scorpions and worms buried within the sand... waiting to catch its prey unaware. Having traveled to nearby hamlets, villages, and the capital itself, I never was unfortunate to step into their paths. Nevertheless, my mother and father convinced me to hire a troupe of mercenaries to accompany me on my journey. Not that I minded. Being alone was nothing I took pleasure in.

Had I known of the looming five years apart, I would have held onto my loving husband a bit longer. However, we made no big fuss about this. In a week or two, I would return with another pouch of coin to sustain the family for another month. Our lips touched, and I got into the saddle of my mount. The hidden oasis, my home, soon disappeared as we pressed forward. 

Ironically, the Well of Life would bring me no more than death and suffering. Word reached me at my home of a merchant seeking my craftmanship. From what I understood, it would depict an important figure. That's usually how it is. People seek to let their names echo through eternity no matter the cost. And cost, it would, just not the way I thought.

After trudging through the landscape and braving sand storms and the like, the Well of Life appeared. Like a cauldron filled with water, it glistened in the dying light to the west. A local establishment housed our mounts, and we slept near my cart to be ready in the early hours to head straight into my work. Of course, my cup filled with delicious wine, and I munched on pickled apples, feeling the drought leave my skin.

I awakened to the sound of the mercenaries drawing their final breaths. Seeing as I was unfamiliar with the sound of blood pooling and leaving bodies, I stepped out from my cart. A group of ruffians entered our camp and slit the throats of... my companions. I have never been much of a fighter; I've never seen the appeal of harming another soul. So when the ruffians came for me, I did what little I could to defend myself. I tried to escape them, but before I knew it, they pinned me to the ground and beat me to a bloodied pulp. All I heard was: "Keep this one alive."

Their attack terrified me. Of course, I heard stories and tales of such things but never experienced it on my own. It was like trying to swim with shackles around my feet. My body tried desperately to stay afloat. I wished I could have passed out, letting my body forget. But I was wide awake.

When I was a young boy, my parents found me in the yard with a set of utensils between my muddied fingers. I assume they grew tired fast with my theft of knives for my projects as they purchased a mason's kit. Since that day, the tools have accompanied my travels. Like part of my arms, I refused to part from the tools. But... as the ruffians used the tools against me... 

 Using one sharp chisel after the next, they carved into my skin, completely ignoring my plead and whimper. My skin parted and pooled with blood that formed horrid puddles beneath me, reeking with iron. Someone pointed out the irony of my tools resculpting their owner.

Someone dragged me away. I followed limply in their grasp, only observing as others destroyed my belongings. They lit the cart on fire and tossed chisels, hammers, and towels into the inferno. 

I remember waking up inside a crate, a crate just big enough to hold my body in a hunched-over position. I looked for a way out, I shouted and yelled for help, but no one answered my call. Through one of the slits of the wooden container, I saw the endless golden landscape passing us by. I was stuck in a box loaded onto a caravan, like a caged animal. 

The caravan came to a halt for the night, and the cage's lock came undone. I threw myself out into the arms of my captors. I wriggled my way past them and took up running, heading into the darkness of the desert. The sand, still radiating heat from the hot sun as I did all in my power to put distance between the monsters and myself. I cared not of the scorpions or worms. Anything had to be better to face than sadistic people.