Story: Mud
Year: 985 FY
Characters: Mel
Warnings: Slavery, ostracism, skip
acceptance of such as right. ...sorry, I'm really not sure how to describe his mental state here.
.


Mel knew he could run.

He was right by the gates, after all, and while his collar was off, they probably couldn’t stop him. He packed one hell of a punch when he put his mind to it.

He felt the mud underneath him, pulsing, as if it were begging him to reach out and take the chance, promising that he’d be free if only he tried.

And maybe he would, and maybe he’d get caught and killed or worse.

But even if he did, where could he go? Home had been off the table for five years, most of the other major cities were trading posts and too risky, the desert would kill him, the North would refuse him, and Heartwood…

Well, maybe Heartwood. But if the stories of the Blood War were anything to go by, even this was better.

He had nowhere to go, and there was only his miserable little oathbreaking life at stake. And, little though it was, he didn’t really want to lose it anytime soon.

Here, he was alive, here he was one among many, here his history meant nothing.

Maybe, someday, something would change. But for now, he was better off buried in the mud.