text: [Themes: fantasy, war, action, fantasy]
  
  Two men battle in the center of the arena, fueled by the roar of the crowd. The midday sun beats down upon the combatants, bathing their skin in sweat, adding to the grime and dirt accrued. With each swing of the sword, or in one of their cases, a spear, sun glistens from the steel, sending golden rays to the sand beneath their feet. The sand, a sacred place to the warriors. The sand, soon to be painted red.
  
  The one armed with a sword sweeps low, then high, searching for a break in his opponent's defences. His attack finds nothing but air, save for a glancing blow on the other man's bracer. The crowd cheers with the blow, despite its missed arc. They hunger for blood, and the close call excites them into a fury. Rotten vegetables, and items of similar aroma, fly from the arena's seats. Curses accompany as well, directed at both members, safely shouted from their position some fifteen feet up.
  
  Blood! A thrust of the spear lands home, spraying red onto the sand. The spearpoint, buried in the sword-wielder's gut, pauses for a moment, then emerges out the back in another crimson spread. As the pierced man drops to his knees, the crowd instantly forgets the insults directed at the apparent victor. Their favor lies with the strong, with those able to drop weak men to the dirt.
  
  Suddenly, a hand appears at the spear's shaft, caked in blood and sand. Its knuckles turn white, holding a steady grip, not allowing the spear to move. With both hands, the spear-wielder can't jar it loose. His body erupts into movement, placing one foot in front of the other for leverage, attempting to gain ownership of his weapon.
  
  Still, nothing.
  
  Gritting his teeth, the man, impaled, rises from his knees, hand still on the spear. His opponent desperately tries to pull the spear from his gut, focused on the singular action. Horror spreads on his face at the sudden display of strength, highlighting his own weakness, overshadowed by resolve. How can this be? He should be dead.
  
  The sword strikes high, its outcome delayed in arriving. A flash of steel, rush of air, and finally a head drops, the body shortly following. The man, still impaled by the spear, collapses, all his energy spent in the action. He doesn't hear the crowd chant his name. He doesn't see the dozens of women exposing themselves for him. He doesn't even see the impressed look by his master. His vision turns a swirling black, filled with images of past glories, but more importantly, of her.
  
  [Author's Note: Strength of body, strength of will. Both are required. A man's freedom depends on his willingness to act, to rise against those who would place him in chains. Small choices add up, building towards differing outcomes. In the moment, one does not often know the implications of his actions. Inevitably, all is revealed. Author's Note: There are several "cinematic" links in the story. You will have the option to view multiple events happening simultaneously. While not adding to the branching, they do offer deeper insight into the story.]
  
  > A ship at sea
  Your primary sight is a man's back. Long have you been at sea, chained in the same seat, hands gripped at the same oar. Sure, you can look around, but what's the point? You'll just find other men's backs. You sure as hell don't want to make eye contact with the guards. They patrol below deck with whip in hand, daring the prisoners to test them. After a few hours from departure, no one bothered to let their pride guide them into action, even if that action was as little as meeting eye contact.
  
  Weeks now, this has been your reality. In the morning, they give you a small piece of bread and tiny sips of water, then you row. You do not speak, you do not interact with your fellow prisoners. You row. You're dispensable, only allowed to live if drawing breath is beneficial to your masters. You're nothing but a warm body filling a chair, allowing a businessman miles away to receive compensation. The sooner you accept that fact, the better off you'll be.
  
  A wave crashes into the boat, showering your mostly exposed body in freezing droplets. Nearby, a whip cracks, warning you to row harder. The brewing storm doesn't make rowing easy. Malnutrition and exhaustion doesn't help either. Still, you row. It's your reality. You see the man's back, feel the smooth wooden oar at your grasp, even feeling a small dimple in the wood.
  
  Each pull of the oar sends an intentional, sharp exhale from your mouth. Allowing the oar to travel forward, naturally, you take a deep breath in, preparing for the next burst of motion. Then, with another quick exhale, you engage through hardened back muscle, aiming to use as little arm as possible in order to avoid fatigue. Better to let your back, a larger muscle group, take the bulk. Those in shackles among you learned the same trick. Together, in a perfect rhythmic beat, the enclosed area of the ship fills with men's breathing. Row, exhale. Prepare, inhale. Repeat. There are no other thoughts besides breathwork and your hands on the oar. Nothing else matters.
  
  Another crack of the whip motivates you into movement. Simultaneously, thunder roars from the clouds above the boat in a slow, throaty rumble. Storm's brewing. You row.
  
  > Row
  The steady volume of rainfall grows increasingly larger in density. Strong winds howl outside the narrow gap your oar sticks through. The gap isn't big enough to see any sort of detail; it's typically just a blue dot in the left side of your peripheral vision. Now, however, it's black, occasionally flashing white with each lighting strike. Still, you row, the tumultuous water and gusts providing additional resistance. Above deck, you hear the captain shouting commands to the crew, preparing to guide the ship through the storm. Water splashes through cracks in the wood with rising volume. Each spray of icy water encourages you to row harder. Your rowing becomes the outlet in which you take your frustration out.
  
  As if there's nothing better to do, like helping the above deck crew, several guards patrol down the center of the room cracking their whips. Their fury has heightened with the storm's build. Normally, the whip is used on those slacking in their seat. Now, they use the weapon almost at random, snapping it on the exposed backs of men working their hardest, rowing with everything they've got. Twice, you are the victim of such prodding. The whip tears open your exposed flesh. Exposed flesh, which soon after gets stung with cold salt water.
  
  Suddenly, a massive wave crashes into the side of the ship knocking those standing, just the guards, from their feet. Unfortunately for them, the blow knocks them into the rowing slaves, falling at shackled feet. Despite the raging storm, time seems to stand still for a moment, and silence ensues. From their position on the ground, the guards look up towards the lines of slaves sitting above them. Then, as one, the slaves burst into motion. Feet stomp on the guards, keeping them in their prone position, clutching at their sides and face in protection.
  
  None have fallen near you, so you simply watch the scene unfolding before you. Small puddles of red join with the ever present thin layer of water on the floor, spreading out, slowly losing its color into the blue. A hand clasps your back, and you look up to find a ragged face behind an unkempt beard. Drops of water fall from the man's beard as he moves. Hazel eyes meet yours, and no words are spoken. He places an item in your hand and motions for you to follow. It's a small key. Free of your shackles, you quickly follow the man. Whoever he is, releasing you from your bonds is reason enough to do his bidding.
  
  By now, almost the entire room is free from their chains. Several guards lie bleeding on the floor, strung over the same seats that held you in place. One by one, the freed prisoners scamper up the staircase, the only exit, to the main deck.
  
  > The main deck
  Wind and rain greet you. The crew, busy with keeping the ship afloat, don't notice the herd of approaching slaves at first, not until several members get taken down, a few thrown overboard with strength built by the oar. Some of them shout for you to keep your distance. After all, their duty is to keep the ship above water. If it sinks, everyone goes down with it. The now-free slaves don't care. Each sailor, guard, and deckhand are treated the same. Hands, shackled for many weeks, tighten into fists, fists which find their place on the crew.
  
  The man who placed the key in your hand is leading the charge, no stranger to combat. His body is thin, but he fights with a fury far surpassing his peers. With each ship member felled, another slave arms himself with the fallen's weapon. A few whips from below deck quickly turns into many swords and spears shared among free men.
  
  Howling wind carries men's screams overboard, losing them at sea, threatening to give their origin a similar treatment. The tide of slaves crashes into sailors, desperate to muster up a defense. Eventually, though, each is overwhelmed by sheer number. You're met with a couple sailors along the way. Each, poorly trained for combat. Their skills lie elsewhere. The short sword you've armed yourself with makes quick work of their defense, finding gaping holes in their meager parries. The act brings a slight smile to your lips; it's been awhile, but it's good to see your skills haven't deteriorated too much since the shackles were clasped around your wrists. Your mentor would have a field day if--
  
  Your head instinctively ducks at the sudden movement in your vision. An axe plants itself in the side of the ship, not inches from where you just stood. A sailor, dressed in loose trousers and a simple shirt, unarmored, frantically tries to pry it loose, but it's firmly in place. As you bring the short sword up to finish your opponent, a wave rocks into the boat, knocking everyone to the deck. Lightning sends a surge of brightness into the air. Upon subsiding, the sudden flash keeps lingering images, ghostly figures, in your eyes for several blinks.
  
  "She's going down! Hang on!" a voice carries over the wind. The storm encouragement enough, you grab onto a rope tied to the side of the ship and brace yourself. Contrasting lightning, the world slowly, gradually turns darker. As one, the deck's combatants halt their skirmish, turning to face the looming darkness. A wave looms over the ship, building, rising higher and higher. Ominous it grows, flexing its size over the comparatively small vessel. Then, in a burst of motion, it crashes.
  
  A lone wooden coffin sits on a pedestal, surrounded by bright colored flowers. Candles burn at four points around the coffin, shaped in an imaginary square. You're lightless, floating above the pedestal as if a spirit. Simple stone blocks line the floor, and a small staircase leads up to the coffin.
  
  The coffin calls to you. The lid is cracked slightly, daring you to peek inside. Taken by an impulse not known to you, you float closer. As you approach, the candle's flames intensify as if oil was poured on top. The flowers, formally an array of shining yellow, red, and white, peel back at your approaching presence. They sink inside themselves, decaying and wilting on the spot. The air around you becomes heavy, filled with the moldy smell of spoiled meat.
  
  Death follows you, child.
  
  Your inner forearm suddenly ignites in flame. You scream, still floating in the air. The flame subsides, and left behind is the blackened image of a crow mid-flight. A woman appears at the pedestal's steps, dressed in simple religious robes. Her face is unblemished and youthful, but her eyes speak another story; they're black, piercing and born of experience. The woman's long blonde hair falls perfectly past her shoulders, to a small degree like the way hair floats underwater, the loose strands never appearing to fall in front of her gaze.
  
  Scratching softly appears from the coffin, like two rough stones rubbed against one another. The coffin, surrounded and filled with death, rumbles low, its vibrations filling the room. The woman watches silently, interested to see what you do. The scratching becomes louder, building to deafening levels. Following suit, the coffin's vibration intensifies, shaking the wooden structure uncontrollably, the lid on top threatening, begging to be tossed from its cracked position. In a thunderous echo, the coffin falls from its position on the pedestal, tumbling down the stone steps stopping at the woman's feet. Rolling from within--
  
  > wake up
  You awaken to find a man staring at you from above, peering at you as one would over a ledge. It's the same hazel-eyed man who released you. A burning feeling draws your attention to your arm: the image of the crow is tattooed on your forearm, aged as if it's been there for many years, yet your arm was void of ink mere hours ago. You start to say something, but immediately water rushes from within your throat in a coughing fit. After releasing the excess sea water, you speak.
  
  "Made it through the storm, I see."
  
  You see a slight grin from behind the man's beard. "An understatement, but true all the same. Are you well to rise?"
  
  Taking stock of your being, you nod. Swallowing sea water seems to be the worst injury inflicted, no broken bones or cracked ribs. When a ship goes down, it's not uncommon for stray parts to land on sailors, especially when brought about by a storm's wind. You find yourself on a beach. The sand glints in the morning sunlight, contrasting with light blue waves lightly touching the shore. Men lie scattered on the beach, along with broken pieces from the ship. The few unscathed like you, help those nursing their wounds.
  
  "I am Ulris Joren, but you can call me Joren," the man says, offering a hand to help you up. "A holy man from the west."
  
  "Which lands? The Helswith Desert?" you ask.
  
  "Farther. Into the rolling plains."
  
  The plains are not unknown to you. Commonly referred to as "barbarian" land, many different tribes roam the plains waging war with one another. Conquering brings glory to their god, or something like that. You really should have remembered more from your studies. The tribesmen are looked upon as simple barbarians to city-dwelling citizens, although they would likely place that label on anyone who hunts their own food and doesn't live within four walls.
  
  "You're a long way from home. Where is this place?" you ask.
  
  Joren scratches his head in thought. "Not sure, exactly. There are many lesser-known islands such as this in King Tristrand's land...his waters to be more accurate. With his entire nation a series of islands, it's hard to tell."
  
  "We'd better move away from the beach then," you say. "Tristrand's ships likely patrol these waters. No doubt they'll be searching for survivors after finding the wreckage."
  
  "Find a path in the jungle. I'll work on speeding up the others' recovery," Joren says, emanating the green glow of healing magic from his palm.
  
  Holy man indeed. "Neat trick," you answer, heading for the tree line.
  
  The jungle is dense. Vines hang from unseen, covered branches, twisting and growing around one another. Critters, out of sight, chirp, croak, and whistle as you meander through the trees. With Joren's healing magic, all the shipwrecked prisoners walk mostly free of injury. More importantly, no injury slows down the pack. There are twenty-two of you total, a fraction of the number chained to the oar.
  
  With no food and no water, your main priority is finding just that. Fortunately, you're all used to eating very little, which is, perhaps, the only benefit to being under the whip. Still, you needed to find something, otherwise the miracle of surviving the shipwreck would be short-lived.
  
  Single file, you lead the survivors, Joren behind you, through the thicket, knocking down stray foliage in your path with a walking staff picked up from the shore. It's not nearly as efficient as a blade, but you'd rather not go out of your way to touch your exposed flesh on the plants. It's bad enough wearing a simple loincloth and no shoes. Who knows might happen if an unidentified plant pricks your skin? You sure as hell don't want to find out, especially if Joren's magic doesn't extend to toxins.
  
  The jungle suddenly opens up into a clearing, giving you a full view of the surrounding hillside. Large stones scatter in lush grass like freckles on a spotted egg. That's not what draws your attention, though. A single stream of smoke, emanating from a lone smokestack immediately attracts your gaze. The smokestack comes from one of three huts arranged in a semicircle, a farm at their backs.
  
  "Smells like fuckin' dinnertime," one of the survivors bellows, his low voice unfitting for the thin body it originates from.
  
  "I wouldn't be too quick to raid," Joren answers. "We know nothing about the island's inhabitants."
  
  "Don't your people live for raiding, priest? The Great Warlord of legend would be disappointed."
  
  Before the man can react, Joren grabs him by the hair and pulls his neck back, exposing it into the open air. Joren holds his pointer finger out, igniting the tip with holy flame, and holds it mere inches from his neck. "Do not mistake my caution for cowardice. You know nothing of the Great Warlord."
  
  Joren doesn't wait for the man's response before tossing him to the ground. Several other survivors help the man to his feet. He spits on the ground upon standing upright. "Stay here and starve then. We're gettin' ourselves some food."
  
  > go with them
  "I'm with you," you say. Despite the circumstances, you desperately need food and water. The huts below offer both. Joren shakes his head, disapproving of the choice. You, along with most of the survivors, creep down the hillside using the scattered stones as cover. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. You move slowly, rather than swift, in order to blend in with the environment. Sudden movements have a way of drawing attention. You hope that moving deliberately will come across unseen over such a large span of land.
  
  No movement emanates from the huts, the same for the farm behind. Collectively, the group decides that making for the hut with the smokestack is the best bet. Who knows? Maybe food is being prepared on the fire already. The group surrounds the hut and bursts through the front and back door simultaneously. Surprised, a woman inside drops a pan she's holding, sending its contents scattered on the floorboards.
  
  "We'll be taking that food now," the survivor leading the group says. "Among other things," he adds with a wink and glance downward.
  
  Expecting the woman to continue her frightened state, you're caught off-guard when she places her hands on her hips and narrows her brow. "Now you just went and done the stupidest, motherfucking thing of your life," she says, bending down to scoop up the pan. She shovels the food back onto the cast iron, nonchalantly as if she doesn't notice the mob of half-naked men who barged into her hut.
  
  "You little bitch..." the man curses as he walks forward, removing his loincloth to make good on his promise. Whirling through the air, a flash of steel appears suddenly. At the same time, the man screams and clutches his groin area. You can't see, since his hands cover the area, but streaks of red spill from beneath. Then, you catch sight of it: a throwing dagger lies buried in the wall, pinning the man's appendage along with it. Several more whirls of air later, you lie bleeding out on the floor, two sizable throwing knives sticking from your torso. You bleed out, half-naked and unarmed, but at least with your manhood still attached. Your assailants, unseen. The woman begins mopping up the floor.