The whipping post
Crack! The whip snapped back with a piercingly sharp, unmistakable sound that seemed to pull the very breath from every onlooker's chest. The pit was all together silent in the tense moments before the whip came back down, yet again, against the slave’s back with that terrible thud sound. The slave did not cry out any longer, he no longer had the strength to beg for mercy. The slave only wept in dreary silence and drifted in and out of consciousness in between his lashings. That thud brought him back though, with every bitter blow, that much was certain. The slave would contort violently, his blue eyes flashing open, as he gasped aloud with pain. The whip came down across his body with no remorse, cutting deeper and deeper into his back. His blood flowed freely from so many horrid gashes that a pool had begun to collect in the mud around his feet at the base of the whipping pole. His shackles, which were the only thing keeping him upright, clanged above his head as he writhed, desperately struggling against the pain of every blow. It went on like this...
Crack… Thud
Crack… Thud
Crack… Thud
The Orc had stopped laughing some minutes past and was now struggling to breath as he brought his whip down again, and again, upon the man. His black eyes gleamed with the kind of pure hate only an Orc could know as he went about his work. The Orc seemed to be bringing down the whip with more and more frequency in spite of his ragged breathing as if he was pushing through, hoping to find some horrible breaking point as a reward for his perseverance. However the Orc pushed too hard and lost his footing in the muddy earth of the pit. He fell to his knees and stayed there for a few moments, catching his breath and snarling as he looked up at his work. His lips began to pull away, revealing a gastly set of teeth, as they formed into a wicked smile. “Dead” he declared with apparent satisfaction, the westron word uttered brutishly by his orcish tongue, was no lie. The man was now lifeless, still bound to the whipping pole by his shackles as the blood poured from his many wounds. The whip gave a final Crack! before the Orc tucked it into his crudely fashioned belt and turned around to address the other Slaves in the pit. “Dead.” he stated again. “Slave steal, slave die.”
The huddled miserable mass of Dunlending and Rohirric men dressed in rags repeated the Orc’s words back to him in practiced unison “Slave steal, slave die.” They then stood there in silence as the Orc laughed boastfully, making his way up the dirt carved stairs and out of the muddy pit. They watched as the Orc opened the stockade gate, stepped outside, and closed it behind him. They listened as the sounds of the door being barred echoed back down into the pit only to be replaced by a solemn silence. They turned then, collectively, Rohir and Dunlending alike, and looked not at the dead man but at the man in the rear corner of their group. A tall Rohirric man of middle age with light blonde hair, blue eyes, and the build of one who may have once been a warrior before he was a slave. The man they called “Wum”. They stared at him silently with sympathy and sadness, watching still, as he walked over to the dead man at the whipping post and collapsed before his remains. They watched as Wum began to grieve, as he cried, and then wailed. They watched as he desperately pulled at the dead man’s shackles, hopelessly trying to free him from the whipping post to which he was still bound. They watched as he finally stopped wailing and struggling. They listened and some of them too began to cry and sob as Wum whispered in his own language “lȳtel brōþor” before he lightly kissed the dead man on the forehead and brought his corpse into a deep embrace. They watched as he held the dead man in his arms and repeated, through bitter tears, the words “Far gesund, lȳtel brōþor.” over and over again.
