Peon Thuk’s Personal Log: 1 (with Overseer Fable’s assistance)

My name is Thuk. A Peon of Marshstrider clan.

It’s been a few moons since I started my new position at the Farm. My Common is still flawed, but I’ve never felt stronger urge to record my experience. Me and my fellow Peons were denied high knowledge back when we were with the clans. I was born an Orc, yet my first written word is that of Human.

I want to write down my story so generations to come will learn hope, dignity and vengeance are all possible, regardless of how downtrodden you are.

It all started when my clan was taken by the Empire. We were stripped of clothing and weapons, shepherd like naked cattle into carts and cages. The superior castes were all expecting death, for that is their courageous way. Me? I cursed myself, cursed the fate that granted me a crippled leg at birth. I couldn’t even fight and die for my clan. I was useless. I was only a Peon.

When we arrived at the fortress (I know it’s nicknamed the Farm now), adult males were quickly separated from females and children, and Peons like us were taken to another location. I couldn’t fathom what awaited us defenseless slaves, no doubt we will be labored and abused to death just like when we were with the clans. To our surprise, we were clothed (tight though it might be) and provided food. The Humans treated us with obvious disgust, but there were no rain of fists and insults like old days.

After we were properly fed, the Humans welcomed their supervisor, a slender Human who looked so frail that my former masters could probably knock down with a roar, yet he strode with weight belied his size. There’s power in this male, something maybe only a shaman could see.

The supervisor was followed by another man doubled of his girth and only half of the momentum. They did not walk up to the podium as expected, instead the two walked to our circle of filth, and we scattered.

“Welcome to the Empire,” The supervisor shocked us with fluent Orcish, precise grammar that’d put many of Warrior caste to shame, “My name is Fable, High Overseer of this fortress. I supervise all operations in related to non-Human races within and without of our glorious Realm.”

He paused briefly. “I gathered you here to offer you a choice.”

Straight to the point. I like him already.

“The goal of our primary operation, codename the Farm, is simple: Complete rehabilitation of non-Human races so they could blend into our society, and we will do so with any method, at any cost.” Fable’s elegant voice rang deep, “I need able people with knowledge of non-Humans who could assist me in this goal. You have been chosen for this purpose, as my advisors and executors for the Orcish department.”

I quivered at those words. Each of his statement glazed with icy calmness, as if he could turn lies into reality with sheer confidence alone. My clan’s elder Orzimo, one of few who had treated me kindly, was the only other individual whom could speak like that, this Human has power too, but he’s clearly no shaman.

“Should you agree to commit, you will be provided with authority and benefits beyond other Orcs, including your former masters. You will be granted sustenance, personal lodging, and salary. You will share same credential as other Human and non-Human employee who’re working here.”

Fable gestured, and his minions held out racks of uniforms, tools, badges, even weapons, “I’m also consulting with our Emperor on providing compliant non-Human with full citizenship, so they would be welcomed at any corner of the Realm.”

I gulped. Personal lodging! Does it mean I no longer have to pile up with other Peons in a tiny tent? Some Humans shifted their posture, probably understood enough Orcish and were uncomfortable with their superior’s proposition, their agitation prompted me to raise my hand, like a Peon speaking to a superior, “What exactly will we be doing?”

Other Peons fixed their eyes on me, congregated attention burned my cheek. Fable replied with the same proficiency he exercised earlier, “You will provide me with information on each clan’s strengths and weaknesses, their current locations and potential travel routes, identities of high ranking members, their roles and affiliations. I want to know your favorite cuisine, entertainment, rituals, and sense of beauty.”

We knew it.

We may be Peons, but we’re (mostly) not stupid. No Human would extend such grand reward without a steep price. A betrayal for a comfort life, such deed is punishable by death or a life of shame in any culture, any kingdom, even someone as lowly as us understood. Personal lodging is nice and all, but was it worth betraying my own clan for it? I might not be a Warrior, but I am an Orc nonetheless.

Then it dawn on me. Who’s there to punish me? Peons were bonded eternally by infamy, cowardice does not insult us further, nor does heroism bless us. Betrayal is unfamiliar to Peons because it’s not worth it. Honor is a demand, a standard upheld by the higher castes, judicators now in chains instead of in power.

So what was so wrong about us Peons making a life for ourselves? And… personal lodging, think about it! Even after so many moons I’m thrilled by the notion.

Yet, the largest of the Peons snorted, long red hairs waved with his disdain, “Kill us and be done with it already, we will never betray our clans.”

His companions, those who hid in his large shadow obviously didn’t share the red head’s bravado, cowered at the notion of death. No wonder these sniveling creatures were excluded from battle.

Fable turned to face the red-head. For the first time, I saw astonishment on His face, “You are Rasheek, the Red Cyclone, are you not?” He said to the Peon, “I learned about you in the academy. You personally caused the destruction of our 5th Sacred Regiment, and abolishment of three others.”

The red-head snorted again, “Don’t recall any of that.”

My jaw dropped in shock. Rasheek. THAT Rasheek? He was a hero, a legend! He slew countless Human in his career and for a time dominated the Cinderpine region, provided safe haven for other defeated clans and seeds of rebellion. His presence was an honor to us Peons, as much as someone such as us understood it.

Yet, one day he just disappeared, and Cinderpine was overran by Humans soon after. No one outside of his clan knew why, until now.

“Where’s your wife?” Fable asked, “I heard you and the Scarlet Tempest were inseparable.”

Rasheek shuddered, but said nothing.

Fable looked down and saw Rasheek’s knee, a nasty scar written across its cap. He understood. We all understood. “She left you, didn’t she?”

Rasheek looked away. Fable’s words were clearly more painful than what caused his physical scar.

“I heard of such common practice amongst Orcish cultures,” Fable glanced at us inquisitively, “Wounded veterans, regardless of merit, would be demoted to Peon status.”

Even before Fable suggested it, I already noticed some of us were bulkier, more “ready” than the rest, evidence of combat experience, of war, but here they are, shuffled with lowborns like me.

“That’s how Orcs do things, the strong stays with the strong, and when you’re wounded beyond healing, you become a serf, regardless of your previous accomplishment and sacrifices.” Fable the Human spoke calmly of Orcish custom, thus reality wounded Rasheek far more than his kindred, enough to bring sorrow to his eyes previously ignorant of tears.

Fable continued, “Fortunately, squander is not my sin. Your own clan neglected you, I won’t be so wasteful. Help me in ways you can, and I will indulge you in ways I can.”

And again the stubborn Rasheek challenged his tears and Overseer alike, risking our dream, “If we refuse?”

Fable pulled out his long sword.

Peons like me stumbled, while those former warriors stood their ground, welcoming a fight to death. To their awe, Fable dropped the blade to the ground and kicked it, shining metal arrived precisely at Rasheek’s feet, spun on its handle.

“I grant you a chance to fight for your life and freedom,” Fable declared.

Rasheek fell silent, so did the Humans after their gasp of fright. The blade rotated slower and slower as the Red Cycline debated with himself. If Rasheek chose to submit, everyone will have food, cloth, and personal quarters. Should he rebel, all of us will die with him, all because of his stupid Warrior pride!

The Humans knew Rasheek, how he singlehandedly slew legions, even Fable was bewildered by his legend; wait till he heard our side of the stories. By the look of every Peon, we’re absolutely certain that Rasheek would pick up the sword and fight his way out, leaving behind a storm of cerise befitting his fame. But in the end, it wasn’t Rasheek who spoke up first. It was Nog, a fellow Peon of my Marshstrider clan.

“Will we, will we…” trembles interrupted him repeatedly, “Will we be able to choose a mate?”

Fable looked at Nog evenly and decreed with a single word, “Yes.”

This broke us.

Nog wore his sweat and misery, desperate and pathetic, yet his plea echoed in all of us. Peons were not allowed to breed, for our blood was poison, having a soulmate of our own was beyond a dream, which Rasheek immediately attest in agony, plain to daylight. He curled his fingers, grasping something corporeal, failed in hiding his aspiration, “Will my wife… rejoin me?”

“That is entirely up to her. If you become a Farmhand, you’ll have ample power to protect her from harm, so long as both of you followed our regulation.”

I asked out of insecurity, “Master Fable, Why us?”

“Until you are officially assigned into our ranks, you may address me by name.”

I nodded, “Fable. Why us?”

“Our ultimate ideal is to combine all races and cultures into one unifying Empire. Communication is key. I need people who could build bridges instead of destroying them.” Fable narrowed his eyes, “Can you imagine the Warrior caste sit down and chat?”

Nope.

Rasheek stuttered, “How do you know we’d be loyal? That we won’t betray you?”

“I don’t.” Fabled confessed plainly, “You will first be trained and tested, and you will be put under supervision anywhere from a month to an year, before we determine your usefulness. Make no mistake, we preserved you out of practicality, hopefully one day we’ll preserve you out of kinship.”

He eyed the large man behind him, the latter stood attention, “Overseer Cyb and a few others will be in charge of your training. You’re welcome to abort and rejoin the rest of your clans at anytime, should you find our agreement… inhumane. Report to me any mistreatment, no matter how insignificant. My door is always open.”

And we needed no more convincing. I walked out of the crowd and reached for that pile of Human attire. The rest of followed.

I still shivered at the thought of my first meeting with Fable. What truly rocked my resolve that day was Fable’s complete lack of propaganda. He did not sway us with passion or morality like a leader addressing a dumb following, merely presented all benefits and losses, and entrusted us to make our own decisions. He did not scold us like meek fools. Like Peons.

Was it a strong-arm coercion? Most definitely, but Fable did not lie, he fulfilled every promise made thus far, even Rasheek reunited with his wife after some struggle. I earned my room, a warm bedding, and my table is always covered with food. Bread and milk took some time to get used to, but anything is better than thin porridge and rotten meat.

He listened. He listened!

Fable must have learned about Peons’ plight at home and knew our eventual conclusion, though it wouldn’t have made a difference otherwise. He didn’t need all of us, simply acknowledged that we had our uses and paid us justly. Compare to our old masters, it’d take a miracle for them to even complement our value.

I cursed myself my entire life. I finally realized I didn’t have to. I shouldn’t have to. My abusive masters were the one who deserved damnation. Some of them such as Orzimo treated me well, but they did so out of compassion and pity, never respect. For all of his benevolence, Orzimo did nothing to change the caste system.

An eye for an eye, I was taught.

I deserve more.

I demand more.

We ALL demand more.

(Continues in https://www.furaffinity.net/view/35899234/)