Tauga's feet stepped not without caution as they ascended the steps of the Rhyolite Temple. A schism of late had begun to send cracks through the accord of the elements, and the Monsoon roared above the mighty mountain, a display of power a little sharper, perhaps, than was their respectful due. It was nothing- just a wild wind, in the season therefor- but Tauga knew men, and Djinni behaved like men. The four elements had chosen leaders. The fault lines were there.

Nothing to her, of course, at least yet. Not in the shadow of the tetchy balance she had found with the mountain gods, and strove hard to preserve. She summited the Rhyolite Temple with the Teknarotu in tow, a laden sack of gifts upon her back. The metal-bender could carry hers, easily, in addition to his own, but it was humble and appropriate to bear one's own.

Tauga offered a fine copper goblet, and two jars of toaka gasy, hard rum. To this she added a sawshark skull, and some incense, and said prayers of penitence as they were subsumed into the stone, eternal magma bubbling as the volcano willed it. She had never been the type to pray, at least not 'til she was sick, but she prayed now- for peace, mostly, and the forgiveness of a crime against the mountains.

Then the two of them left, down through the valley between Ihuian's mountains.

Here the slaves were kept, or at least most of them that weren't settled on Axotal. They were Amestrians, many, of cities Tauga and the Alefprians had... Liberated. New warlords would rise to replace those petty lords they had toppled, but Tauga had made off with a substantial number of second-hand slaves and captured soldiers.

Others were from Itzamatul, which Tauga had been raiding of late, whole villages taken from that war-torn island and transplanted where they were needed to build her marquisate. The rest were gifts from the Saluractasa and other Grotling tribes, who were familiar with sacrifice. It had not taken them long to realise that Tauga was an avid and capable slaver.

Few Tlaca numbered among them; they were citizens of the islands and therefore free by birth. Nor were there Xerxians. The first refugees to land here had been granted freedom by virtue of there being no one left to own them, bar Erjang, the slave master, and though Erjang had not been a gentle woman, nor had she been cruel. Though some still begrudged her name for the tattoos on their shoulders or the work-scars on their backs, the fact remained that she had held their settlement together in Tauga's absence, and had communed with the Emaciator. The beach where they landed and she was now buried was Erjang's place, now and forever. The Marquisate's budding capital had found its name.

But that was all hundreds of miles away.

Tauga nodded to the Saluracta overseer standing outside the bamboo barracks, and he nodded back, exchanging an eyeless look with the Teknarotu that would have started a fight in any other species. Tauga's tendrils slipped up the stilts and under the door of the raised structure, sensing the slaves. 

Healthy. Mostly human and goblin. Mostly women and eunuchs. Mostly book-keepers and builders.

Apart from segregating the sexes to avoid trouble, for which primates had some knack, the males and warrior caste tended to keep themselves away if ever they had a choice (and giving them one was key in maintaining their obedience). Grotlings are careful breeders. Male slaves that did not meet their exacting standards for sires and were not needed for raw strength were typically castrated by Vosh, to ensure longevity and improve behaviour. Most had some aversion to this, and non-Grotling slaveowners lacking the patience to build up their female slaves were eager to capitalise on the natural strength of the men.

The arrangement suited the women. They gravitated to Grotling overseers, who themselves took no untoward interest in them, and thus spared themselves some abuse. If they were required to bear specific children for their masters, so be it; they'd be doing that for their husbands in any case, and all pain was dulled under the net of madness the overseers had cast over their minds.

All this would be easy enough if not for the urtelem.

Tauga passed the ring of stones on their way up the far side of the mountain, her Teknarotu escort performing an idle flourish with his mace as they moved. She caught the eye of a stoneman glinting through the rain as they passed, and she flexed a hand in her glove. [color=antiquewhite]"Peace,"[/color] she said.

Urtelem are not especially enamoured of cities. These are mostly capable of defending themselves, and the pace of life is faster than most urts are keen for. There is no room for wise rocks in a hill of ambitious ants. But the villages Tauga had stolen had not been undefended.

Cracking stone was not beyond her capabilities or that of the Grotlings, but it cost her men and time. Between the projectiles they launched at her Valtanansa and the runes they invoked on her ships, they had taken a toll on her and her thorny warriors. She would bargain with them if she could, even if it meant packing them on ships and sailing them to Axotal with their precious villagers, but that would infuriate the Grotlings. 

[color=antiquewhite][i]Problems.[/i][/color]

Fortunately, these sleepers in the rain were but locals. They had no old memories of the Itzamatul folk, though perhaps they sensed that something here was not quite sane, for they kept very close. The Grotlings had no trouble picking them apart from the surrounding stone, and the urts could easily scent the trail of cold, crushing intelligence surrounding each one. Watchers and watcher-watchers. 

If they kept each other at peace, thought Tauga, that would be just fine.

[center][h3]* * *[/h3][/center]