#devros

The large, muscular Drar with short cropped black hair and an air of insolence walked in. The Mongrel was just a few steps behind him, eyes downcast. The difference between the two slaves couldn’t be more stark. Even Balor himself had to admit that the Dog’s manners and obedience were much finer, as was expected. The Mutt has been much more thoroughly trained. Additionally, after everything, it owed him absolute obedience.

“What do you want?” Zan asked hostilely.

Balor noted that the other slave’s response made The Mutt flinch ever so slightly. Balor smirked, The Mongrel knew what was coming. He tucked away The Runt’s reaction, making a mental note to punish it for breaking bearing later.

“Leave us, Mutt,” Balor ordered, his voice echoing slightly in the large marbled entry room of the mansion.

The Mongrel bowed deeply, once again displaying perfect form, before wordlessly leaving.

“Now…” Balor circled Zan a bit, like a raptor circling his prey. “….Care to rephrase that last little comment?”

“Fuck you, you aren’t my master, I don’t owe you courtesy. You’re just a spoiled child. I’m not like that damn simpering dog that just walked out.” Zan glared at Balor, fists balled.

“Funny, your Master put me in charge. And last time I checked I’m both a Tallisian and a noble, thus entitled to respect from a mere slave.” He grinned ear to ear, “You could afford to be more like that simpering dog, maybe we should arrange that.”

Balor watched with glee as Zan’s eyes grew wide with horror. It had been a stab in the dark, but to his pleasure he had hit a soft spot.

“Basement, now.” Balor hissed the order in a dangerously quiet tone. The bands would ensure that he would obey.

*****

Once outside The Dog took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool autumn air. The scent of dying leaves and sweet ripening fruit wafted around him in the breeze. It was soothing to his raw nerves.

He walked around to the backside of the slave house, to the outside corner furthest away from the mansion. The Mutt suspected  that Sir would be busy with Zan for a while, and decided he could risk a look at his one and only possession he has ever had.

Other slaves might be allowed a few small trinkets, but for him, it was forbidden. Of course he would be forbidden, dogs and tools are only owned, they don’t own things, they don’t even own themselves. The Dog would be in so much trouble if this was ever discovered, but it wasn’t like he was hoarding anything valuable.

The Mongrel dug up the tiny pouch he kept safely hidden away. The smell of damp dirt and leather tickled his sensitive nose. The scent was comforting. It wasn’t lost on him how dog-like this behavior was, ‘Master is right,’ he sighed to himself.

The contents of the pouch jingled slightly as The Dog plopped himself down on the soft grass. With trembling hands, he dumped the contents into his palm. A colorful collection of broken glass bits tumbled out. Hues of blues and browns danced across his skin as the sunlight hit them.

They were just bits of trash, not unlike himself, but they were beautiful, and they were the only thing truly his. The Mongrel didn’t have a mat or a pillow like the other slaves or even a name, and clothing was a privilege that could easily be revoked by his master. These bits of glass were HIS and served as proof that even he could be liked one day.

Though, did he really deserve it. The years old familiar guilt crept in. He hadn’t thought of that incident in ages. He earned this treatment. He was the reason she left. Because of him Balor wore a scar to this day across his chest. He truly wasn’t a person; he didn’t deserve to be liked. Nobody liked monsters.

The Mutt was so caught up in his thoughts and glass, he wasn’t paying attention to his senses. He jumped when he went to hold a piece up to the sun, only to see Balor standing of too the side.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Balor’s voice tore The Dog’s fragile moment of peace. His tone was not unlike the sound of ice cracking, and equally as cold.

The Dog fell to a kneeling bow, quickly trying to hide the glass under his torso. His- its- throat constricted in fear. He, no, its thoughts raced. Balor was not predictable like its master, he wasn’t safe like his - its master….. Balor relished reading minds, just looking for an excuse to hurt them, but mostly it, which it deserved. Its Master usually didn’t waste the energy. He disliked it when The Mutt thought of itself as a person, but didn’t care if it used the same terms you would refer to a dog as. Master would just take its glass and make it sleep outside for a while, but that wasn’t Balor’s style.

The Mongrel knew better than to try to lie. It didn’t even know how long he’d been standing there. It took a quiet breath. “This slave was looking at broken glass,” It replied honestly. It didn’t risk a glance up; it could smell the danger it was in for rolling off the man in front of it.

Again, unwanted memories surfaced. That scent of danger used to be the scent of warmth and happiness. Thirteen years ago, with its first taste of Divinity’s Downfall, was its last taste of friendship.

“Is that right?” Balor hissed. “And just where did you get this glass? Sounds like you’ve been stealing.”

The Mongrel visibly flinched, which was the wrong move. Flinching only ever made things worse. “No Sir, this slave would never steal. It….”

“Liar, I know for a fact you stole food a few days ago!” Balor yelled, cutting The Dog off holding up a hand of silence. “I’ve heard enough, I forbid you from speaking further. Now give them to me.”

Unable to resist a direct order, it fell silent. Its bands glowed bright purple with the difficulty of the request, yet their pleasant hum could not dull the sting. This collection was the only thing it had to its name. The pieces were just going to be thrown away, The Mongrel didn’t understand why it couldn’t have this one thing, this one small good. It had no bedding, shoes, or even a name. The only positive in its life was the glowing purple thrum of the bands when it obeyed.  It was an artificial comfort, but it was all it was allowed.

 ‘No, dogs don’t own, and it’s a dog not a slave,’ it reminded itself, swallowing back the impulse to use “I”.

It could talk and think like other slaves, it could even walk on two legs when permitted. It didn’t look like a dog either. Master called it a dog though, Master couldn’t be wrong…. Dogs get bones and toys and beds though; it was definitely not a dog…. Being a dog meant being cared for…. Being a dog would be a luxury.

‘It’s just a tool, tools don’t own. Tools don’t get people names. tools were nothing, had nothing beyond their usefulness. It was definitely a tool. A slave shaped tool.’

That was the mantra it repeated frequently, to lessen the suffering. It can’t suffer if it’s just a thing. Its master called it an ‘important tool’ once, and it grew in The Mongrel’s head from there.

It shook its head, tool, dog, it didn’t matter. Tremoring hands collected up the glass, returning the colors back into the dark. The Mutt knew it was in for it. Trying to brace itself, it handed the pouch to the man in front of it as it bit back a bitter, heavy feeling it only vaguely understood as sadness, this was all it had. Clawing through the sadness was also a growing fear.

“ZAN! BRING OUT A TRASH CAN!” Balor bellowed. There was no glass in the windows of the slave quarters, so Zan would have been able to hear him without the yelling.

About 30 seconds later Zan appeared around the corner of the brick building. The breeze kicked up and The Mutt could smell the metallic scent of blood on the slave. It risked a slight glance up, not enough to see Zan’s face, but enough to see his lips dripping with blood.

Before The Mongrel could react to the blood, Balor snatched the waste bin from Zan and approached the….. the tool, yes tool.

“Take off your trousers, put in your leather bite.”

The order was as crisp as the autumn air and it scrambled to obey. It folded them and laid them neatly to the side, allowing the gentle thrum to soothe its nerves. The taste of the thick leather that it kept on a cord around its neck filled its mouth. A taste that signaled pain was soon to follow, a taste that always turned its stomach with dread.

The leather was one privilege the others never got, something to bite down on during punishments. It wasn’t for its own comfort though; it was simply to protect its tongue from any accidental bites. That was the only part of The Mutt its master valued after all….

The younger Tallisian man crouched in front of it. “Put on your blindfold, I don’t want to see your creepy eyes or feel you staring at me.”

The Mongrel did as it was told, almost automatically. Another wave of the band’s warmth flowed through its veins. The world around it dulled only slightly with the loss of its sight.

Its acute hearing picked up the subtle tinkle of the glass in the pouch, followed by a sharp pain in its thigh, then another, and another. To The Dog’s horror and relief, it realized one by one, its glass was being embedded into its flesh. With its stunted healing the wounds would almost certainly get infected, but it would at least still have its glass. The one thing in this world that caught the sun and gave it to it, the warmth it was desperate for.

After the last one-it had been keeping count- It heard Balor stand, something thudded in front of it, and then another hollow thud that it recognized as the trashcan.

It came as no surprise when there was more pain. The Mutt came to expect pain and humiliation whenever Balor was around. It could feel the noble use his shoe to press down on its freshly bloodied thighs, driving the glass deeper.

It gasped. The Dog gritted its teeth, it could feel some of the pieces break inside of its flesh. It was desperately trying to hold and vocal sounds of pain in as Balor ground his foot into its thigh. Sounds would only cause the bands to add to the cacophony of pain. For now it took some small comfort in their gentle thrum, a small reward for staying silent.

“Remove your blindfold.”

The Mutt did as it was told once again. Once its eyes adjusted, it realized the source of the first thud was a knife sticking out of the ground.

“Now, dig each piece out and throw it away, one by one.” Balor’s voice was disturbingly amused as he snapped for Zan to lower to his hands and knees to provide a stool for him to sit and watch.

The mongrel felt like its stomach fell out of its belly. This was too much….. The hesitation caused the bands to begin their warning tingle. It reluctantly picked up the knife to avoid the pain.

A single, unbidden tear slid down its cheek as it began to slice into its own thigh to dig out the first piece. It recognized the shape as its favorite, but the blood coating it denied a final look at all of the little cracks and bubbles inside of it.

“I don’t know what you’re crying about, dogs own nothing,” Balor scoffed.

The pain was excruciating but it barely registered as it placed another shard into the bin. ‘Just a tool.’

The knife and glass were slick with blood and Balor had pushed the pieces in deep. This all made the removal process arduous and painful. Some pieces broke inside of it as well, further complicating getting everything out.

Finally, after what felt like hours, it fished the last piece of glass out of its thigh. It made a small tink in the bottom of the bin. It was probably only 2 hours judging by the sun, but it felt like an eternity.

Balor stood, getting off of Zan. “Don’t worry, I’ll be telling my father when he gets home as well. He will definitely be interested in knowing about this little hoarding habit you’ve picked up. I’ll let you two rest for now, I’ve got big plans for the two of you this evening, so clean yourselves up.” He whistled as he walked off with the bin of bloody glass.

It was incidents like this that made The Mongrel wonder if Balor even remembered that they had once been friends at all.

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The distant crowds roared with excitement as the blindfolded Drar slave was led up the stone stairs by an armed guard. He didn’t need his sight; he could tell everything by sound alone. He was grateful for the break from restraints though. His Master had been in a mood lately, and he could not recall the last time he could move his limbs freely.

He could tell when they reached the top of the stairs, the crowd's roar ringing strong and the sun warming his skin. The smell of the blood-soaked dust rose in the air from beneath his feet.

One of the guards roughly shoved him further into the arena. “Move it, mongrel,” he growled.

He obediently stepped forward, not reacting to the name. That was one of the terms he was called. Dog, mutt, mongrel, cur, slave, it really didn’t matter to him, he had no real name. Obedience and pleasing his master were all that mattered to him. He was just a tool, and tools didn’t care about names. It was easier to simply not care

His opponent was dragged in soon after him. He could tell a lot about them without being able to see them, though the crowd did obscure a lot as well. Dog could also assume his opponent was larger than him, didn’t take a great academic nor animalistic senses to know the latter. Years of consuming poisons had stunted his growth and normal Drar abilities.

“Reminder this is not a death match or an execution match. Refrain from killing your opponent,” the overseer announced to the two fighters. This was a fact that relieved the dog greatly.

The Dog bowed gracefully to the overseer, then to his opponent, and then to each side of the arena. The other did the same, presumably. It was hard to hear the whisper of fabric that would give these movements away over the crowd.

He at no point had been given permission to remove his blindfold, so he kept it on as he took his stance. He didn’t need his sight anyway, though it would have helped.

The fight itself was over quick, hardly worth the fuss of getting cleaned and to the arena. He wasn’t as strong or as large as other Drar, but he was fast, faster than most. Due to his master blindfolding him for hours every day, his senses were much keener as well. If he could outmaneuver his opponent and end it fast, he would win. allowing the fight to drag out would be a recipe for disaster though, he could tell the other slave was strong, even for a Drar.

-

“You idiot mutt!” his master hissed, digging his nails into the slave's jaw. “Why wouldn’t you remove your blindfold?”

“No one told this dog it could,” The Mutt replied stoically. He kept his face neutral as best as he could, struggling to contain his confusion. His master felt unusually tense, and usually he made him fight handicapped. He knew pointing out that usually he wasn’t supposed to would be interpreted as back talk.

“Corvius,” a man interrupted.

“Coming, just give me a moment.” His master turned back to the slave. He pulled the blindfold off, and the Mutt instantly dropped his gaze to avoid looking at his master’s face. “You are to stand there, you are not to move, you are not to speak.”

“Yes, master.”

His master produced a small object that resembled a lapel pin without a back. The top of it was marked with swirling sigils. Mutt knew this object well and braced himself. There was a sharp stab in his chest, and then the world went black.

Once the pin was embedded in his flesh, it blocked his hearing, sight, and smell completely. There were some versions that blocked all 6 Drar senses, but thankfully his master rarely used those. Those were terrifying.

It felt like hours, but it was probably only minutes when he felt someone grab and excitedly shake his hand. The softness of the touch confused him, but he couldn’t help but savor it. It was small and warm, and it felt like a child’s. He almost never felt a kind touch, so this was a novelty he would remember for a long time.

He then felt a rougher, but not unkind, set of hands turn his face this way and that. All he could tell was that it was not the familiar grip of his master. The child continued to poke and pat here and there.

 Too soon the hands withdrew, and the touching stopped. With it, the warmth dissipated. He wondered who they were, and what they wanted with him. Most importantly, he wondered if that warmth would ever return.

His master pulled the pin out, and he blinked, adjusting back to the world. He could still feel the ghosts of the warm hands on his skin. He could also smell the faint, fading scent of the two visitors.

“Good Dog, you behaved yourself well. The father of your future master is pleased with your progress as well.” His master rarely praised him, and the words melted into him, bringing a warm sensation to his chest that he could never quite identify.

He brought the hand that the child shook closer to his face. The scent was warm, kind even, and it held a tone of softness, however he could pick up some loneliness in it as well.

‘His future master,’ he thought wistfully. ‘HIS master….. There was a light at the darkness now.’ He would work extra hard from here on out to be as perfect as possible for that warmth.

The warm hands from his dream lingered on his skin when he woke, contrasting to the cold of the slave building. The faint scent of his future master momentarily replaced the smell of damp brick and heavy air that always hung in the slaves’ outbuilding. It was still very early, he shivered as the wind blew through the bars of the glassless windows.

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The dog rose quickly, ignoring the slight protest from his ribs, and followed his master to his study. He knew the room well, the scent of various poisons at various stages of completion was almost a comfort, almost was the key word again.

He was safe from beatings in this room, as there was too much fragile equipment to be knocked into here. However, this room held the promise of a different type of torture.

“Sit cur.”

The bands thrummed their reward as he pushed through his instinct to resist. Normally, Dog wasn’t allowed to sit on furniture. Using any furniture would get him punished, but this particular chair was an exception. It had plates along the arms and legs and back that his bands would be able to bind to.

He obediently placed his arms and legs in the appropriate places, swallowing his nerves. This was a routine done twice a week that started a few years ago, when it was deemed his resistance to poison was strong enough to start taking Divinity’s Downfall. That was the world’s most deadly poison. He could only handle a drop still, and even that made him weird.

To the mutt’s surprise, his master did not bind him in place. Instead, he even took his blindfold off. He sat a tray containing about 30 vials in front of him. Each had a number on it.

“In these vials contain your most commonly misidentified poisons over the years. You will grab one, tell me the number. I want you to smell it then drink half. I want you to tell me what it is, and its appropriate antidote if there is one. You may begin.”

The mongrel picked up a purplish one first, he knew that it had to be berry derived, which narrowed down the list. He fingered he might as well knock the easier ones first before moving to the more challenging clear ones. A sour smell emitted from the vial as soon as it was uncapped, balla wood berry juice. A taste of the liquid confirmed his suspicion.

“Number 27, balla wood berry, also known as devil’s fruit. It’s deadly at about 3-4 berries. It’s in the same family as Divinity’s Downfall but is the least deadly of the group. The antidote is dirt of the fire or syrup tea made from the leaves of the Lel bush and sap of the mesa tree boiled together.” The Mutt rattled off the information. It came almost as a reflex, much to his surprise.

Still lightning ripped through his body, and he had to catch a scream before it could leave his throat.

“Want to try that again? What does a lowly tool like yourself have to be proud about?” his master hissed, withdrawing the ring that controlled his bands. It was a pain that though familiar, he would never get used to. If it touched him too long the pain would eventually get so intense it would knock him unconscious. This was a protection against a slave ever trying to steal it to free themselves.

Evidently his voice sounded too proud of himself…. Rule 3. Mutt didn’t try to understand the rules, he just obeyed, which was rule 1. Where other slaves were allowed to take pleasure in correct behaviors and obedience, even encouraged to, he was to be empty, nothing more than an object. No emotions, ever, were to show.

The test continued, vial after vial. He eventually realized the lower the number of the vial the more often he’d missed it. Each poison began to compound the last inside his body until he finally got to the last one. It was a clear liquid; the odor was so slight that even he couldn’t discern it. “Number 1,” the dog called out, hands tremoring. Before he could spill it, he dumped half of the glass tube onto his tongue.

The liquid was nearly tasteless. He closed his eyes to focus on the texture and flavor, it had a slight saltiness to it. That was useless though, it wouldn’t be able to be picked up once it was mixed into food. He focused harder, there had to be something distinct there he could use. Then the trick hit him, he realized over the 45 seconds or so he was holding it in his mouth, it was making his tongue slowly go numb.

The dog wanted to almost laugh. In the 20 years he had been doing this, he had never once gotten this one correct. All the grief and beatings over this one liquid and it never occurred to him to hold it in his mouth for a while. he choked back the giddiness and gave the identification to his master. “Caecus,” he said, evidently too smugly again. Another charge ripped through him, searing every inch of his skin without leaving a mark. That’s the only thing he could figure as to why he was being punished again.

“Come on, tell me the rest,” his master ordered cruelly without pulling the ring away.

Dog quietly gasped air, trying to get enough into his lungs to speak, to hopefully end the agony. “colorless….. odorless…. Tasteless…. it is almost…. impossible to detect,” he choked out between pants. His only consolation was the gentle thrumming warmth of the bands as a reward for obeying. “It does take a rather…. large amount….. fire dirt is the only antidote,” he gasped out, vision blackening. He was on the verge of screaming when the ring was pulled away.

The Mutt drooped in the seat, spent from the pain, the poisons, and the uncharacteristic cruelty of his master. It didn’t make sense to him; his master never used the ring as punishment like that before.

“Well done.”

His master sounded and smelled pleased! This made the dog’s heart swell. He wanted to smile badly but he quickly caught himself. His master hadn’t praised him since that day 5 years ago. Well except for when he offers himself to be hurt in the place of his betters. His master always says protecting his betters is very good.

Two words though, and everything bad that had happened just melted away. His heart felt like it was going to explode, he was so happy, he only wished he could smile. He had earned a praise!

“Thank you, Master,” he said simply, bowing.

He pushed all the happiness out, emptying his emotions. A tool shouldn’t be happy. The last thing he needed was for his master to read his mind and see all that nonsense.

“I have some preparations to make, be back here in an hour,” his master instructed.

“Yes, Master,” he acknowledged, bowing again as his master walked out of the room.

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Dog looked over and saw that Boy was still asleep. The kid was only about 13 and was also never given a name. Nobles preferred to name their slaves themselves, so slaves his master bought to train and resell as silver bands were rarely named.

He couldn’t just let him sleep like that. He shook his head. He knew that the two silver bands were kept more separate, but Dog didn’t understand why no one would have looked out for the child even a little.

Dog walked over, gently shaking him. All Boy did was roll over. ‘This would be so much easier if I could talk’ he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes.

“Why are you bothering with that failure?”  Zan laughed, but Dog completely ignored him.

He slapped Boy harder, turning his cheeks red. The kid reacted but did not wake up. Boy had been on food restrictions for 4 days now and was just exhausted Dog figured. The older slave scooped him up to carry him into the washroom.

“Hey! Don’t just fucking ignore me!” Zan spat as the dog brushed past him.

Dog had practically raised him. Boy had been bought at the age of 3, Dog had been 12 at the time. Corvius couldn’t be bothered with things like potty training and teaching him how to speak, so Dog was put in charge of that.

Hauling the kid to the washroom and setting him on the floor, he splashed some cold water on his face, which finally startled the younger slave awake.

The mutt quickly scrubbed him down and braided his black hair so that it wouldn’t stick to his neck while working. He also took a mental note that it probably needed to be cut this evening.

Dog quickly patted him dry and dressed him, just in time. The latch being opened echoed through the outbuilding, he quickly tied his blindfold over his eyes before helping the kid up. It was time to begin the day.

By the time he finished dressing him and they returned to the common area, breakfast had already been distributed. It was no surprise to Dog that he didn’t have a tray, since he was fed separately because everything he was allowed to eat was laced with various poisons to work up his resistance. The mutt, however, found it concerning that there was as still nothing for Boy. It was beginning to get dangerous, especially with the amount of extra work being piled on him.

Dog didn’t even feel the crime fit this level of punishment, or even made sense with the offense. From how he understood it, Boy was cleaning the mirror on Balor’s dresser and accidentally pushed too hard and cracked it. It wasn’t like the mirror isn’t easy to replace. What Balor was angry about was the old superstition that if a mirror is broken, its owner is cursed. Balor was convinced, because of this, that Boy had tried to kill him.

Balor was the Master’s son. He was lazy, dimwitted, and sadistic, nothing like his father. At least with the master, the rules were clear, and everything had a reason. Most of the slaves and even servants avoided him, however he seemed to take a particular shine to tormenting Boy, and Dog, of course, but that went without saying.

The Mutt sat Boy down next to Ruby. “Please look after him,” he requested in a quiet, gravelly voice, now allowed to speak. His voice had been shot a long time ago from screaming in pain, the poisons, and just plain disuse.

“I’ll get him going,” she grunted, slipping the dazed boy a piece of her toast.

Mutt headed off towards the main house to report to their Master.

 As he walked up the hill to the mansion, he noted the sun was a little higher than usual. This was becoming an all too frequent occurrence; this particular servant would often delay unlocking the door.  She would use the trip to the slave house as an excuse for a smoke break. It didn’t really affect anyone except for him, who had to report to the master right away, but it was getting old.

As he reached the door, he tried to push his worry for Boy aside. It would be a distraction, which wouldn’t help the situation. He was really hoping to perform well enough to request his master interfere in his son’s punishment of Boy. He took a steadying breath and opened the door.

“What took you so long?!” his master snapped as a greeting, well… at least an acknowledgment of his arrival. The mutt inwardly winced. Today was going to be one of those days, he could tell already.

“This mongrel deeply apologizes,” the Drar dropped to his knees, bringing his forehead to the floor in an almost worshipping bow. He knew better by now than to try to explain.

Balor provided a sharp kick to the slave’s ribs; he could tell by scent and sound it was him. Additionally, Balor always wore a special pair of shoes that came to a metal covered point which made his kick pretty distinct. A second blow came, and he did the best he could to not react as he could feel a bit of blood trickle across his ribs under his loose shirt. Facial expressions were off limits for him and would only make things worse, as was moving and making sounds.

He conjured the feeling of the small warm hands, calming himself, they were the reason for this right? He was held to impossibly high standards for them. ‘I am just a tool, tools don’t feel,’ he told himself, just like he did every time. It was a reflex at this point, as natural as blinking. It was easier to convince himself that he didn’t feel the pain than to try to cope with it.

“That’s enough!” the mutt heard Corvius snap.

“Father, I can beat it for wasting your time,” he heard Balor say.

“I don’t need your help,” his master said in a pointed tone. Sometimes he almost felt sorry for Balor, he tried so hard for approval his father never gave.

“Fine,” Balor sulked, giving the mutt another firm kick in the ribs before walking out. He almost felt sorry for him…

“Up,” his master ordered harshly. “Follow.”

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