Frayed parchment continued its testament of Cleric Mia:

  “You know nothing – not a thing – about the outside world?”

  Many days had slipped since Roland was Shackled and thrown into the pit. He had thus far turned down the gaoler’s forced deftwork. This brought him yet another thrashing-heal-thrashing cycle each day. Yet still, Roland showed no sign of fear, even as Mia cared for his lasting wounds with a simple cloth soaked in warm water.

  “Naught a thing, good sir.” Mia dabbed at her ward’s brow. “I was born here. As was my mother ere me.”

  Roland shot Mia a sorrowful glance even as she dabbed a lash mark on his shoulder.

  “It is said.” Mia’s voice fell an octave. “… it is said that my grandmother was a priestess at the Shrine of Salmana.”

  “The holy women of the shrine haven’t been seen in ages. It was said they were all bound.” Roland glanced about their cold surroundings. “Rumors that I guess were true.”

  Mia had no answer.

  “Have you ever seen the sun?”

  “Only for a little while, through the welkinhatch above us.”

  “And what is it the demons have you… do here?”

  Mia gazed down at some odd, gleaming field Roland could not discern.

  “Oh, do you not get the messages? The Warden has been sending word since, well, as long as I can recall.”

  Just then, Roland’s neck brand began to itch. A see-through square spanning three times the grenzritter’s hand length appeared some three paces ahead.

  Mia knelt. Outside the slim cell bars that marked their home, the other miners had already set off to toil in the depths of this great pit where they lived, died, and everywhile, were born.

  “’Tis another day’s digging,” the healer called out. “You shall be part of team D. I… urge you to tend to your tasks.”

  But Roland spent several key moments watching the throng of Shackled pass, their Shackle-bindings all aged and well-set, oft passed down, on some needed limb or other.

  “How many people are down here?”

  “Two hundred fifty… fifty-one, by the last count.” Mia nodded, pointing at their newest dweller. “You should go to your turn. The thrashings will grow ever more… crafty with further stubbornness.”

  The once-unbranded grenzritter rose from his bed with a reluctant breath. "Alright, best to go get lay of the land at least."

  He strode by Mia, but halted at the door.

  “You are not a miner?” he asked.

  “I shall stay here, ready, should any mending be needed. That is the task set for me, spellcraft gifted to me by the Shackles.”

  “The priestesses of your order were healers. Practitioners of medicine, and they didn’t need these slave brands to do it.”

  Fourteen-hours of toil followed for Roland. Mia looked for a silver glimmer to show in her sight, calling her down to the mine floor, but no call ever came. If any cure was needed, it must have been done by one of the eleven other chosen healers of the refuge.

  Mia’s part was healing, aye. But while on duty, she oft tended to the dire-scorpionbee hives. Gathering honey from Cave-Dwelling Dire-Scorpionbees, thousands buzzing about a small nook far from the living place of the gaol. Each dire-bee had a wee designation window, hard to read for human eyes. All were level 1, as such wee creature’s growth was oft stunted by the Shackles.

  Slits of light gave only the faintest veiled glimpses of the sun. Dire-scorpionbees flitted through these slits, gathering nectar from outside and turning it into honey used for gaol-food. It was Mia’s side-hustle to gather this honey. Any stings were easily mended with Basic Heal, and for the most part, the dire-bees were kind to their human tenders, as much as beasts can be.

  On rare turns, a band of fell dire-wasps crept through the cracks in the wall. Few in number, thrice the size of a dire-scorpionbee, and Shackled at levels one to two, they sought to strike the bee hives.

  Nine such dread-wasps barged in just as Mia’s time drew to a close on this day. They honed in on one hive, lurking outside and tearing apart dire-scorpionbees as they flew out, or often as they came back with honey. The aim was not to take honey. Mia saw no reason why these wasp-beasts acted this way. Maybe they did not like their rivals?

  Left as such, the gaol’s honey store would be in peril. Mia wielded a Simple Wood Mallet, a level one weapon with low stat needs. It was one of the few arms permitted outside the clutch of the fiendish wardens, and Mia used it to thwack three of the dire-wasps to the ground.

  As she crushed the third beast (gaining a respectable +3 XP), Mia saw the nearest hive was buzzing.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Any dire-wasp could tear apart one, three, or even five dire-scorpionbees in as many heartbeats. When facing twelve bees, they oft team up with another to overcome the dangers. At fifty or more bees, they need three or more to be brought down. Nine dire-wasps could carry on until a whole dire-bee nest was slain.

  With three of their foes down, the dire-bees were starting to strike back. Dozens buzzed up against the dire-wasp glaring over their nest opening.

  Miniature Interfaces whirred as the grim-wasp thrashed. Two wing-friends came in to help, but were themselves swallowed by the flood of smaller creatures that swarmed out of their hive.

  A squad of three last dire-bees approached from the height of the nest. Too late to save their kin, but perhaps these three would get all the spoils of the defiled nest? Mia struck the biggest dire-wasp, a level 2 beast, off the nest with her hammer then smashed it against the stone before it could rise.

  Of the rest of the grim-wasps, one zipped off through the cracks in the wall while the last was quickly swallowed by the swelling flood of their lesser foes. For a dire-wasp could slay any one scorpionbee individually. But in swarm the hive-mates could surround a fire-wasp and stun it with the heat of steady wing-flaps, enough to then pierce the foe with their tails. Though many a dire-scorpionbee stung their fellows in the melee, the fallen were soon joined by tricefold numbers from the hive.

  Mia’s assigned initiate returned when the work was finished, and after shifts C and E slogged down to take over the endless toil. Roland sighed, dragging his worn-out legs to his bunk and settling back down just where he had been before in one great, heavy motion.

  “I’m exhausted,” he announced.

  “As I can see in your status screen,” said the priestess. “The debuff will pass after your next hour of slumber.”

  Roland huffed. “Nowhere near as exhausted as I should be though.”

  “It is the Shackle. It is the Menu by which brand-thralls must live their lives. It… lightens much manual toil. Were it not for the Shackles, the demands of this place would slay any worker within a year.”

  “It’s just… mining rock. Plain rock, without break or pause,” Roland said. “I handed my haul over to Demon Sentry number… eight, I think?”

  “Yes, that is what must be done at the end of every shift.” Mia moved nearer. “Hide not any stone or trinket you come across. But the main aim is to deepen this pit.”

  Roland sought to ask what, yet heard naught in return. No soul knew, likely not even their fiendish gaolers. The Warden, perchance, would know.

  “You should receive some pittance of experience from mining toil,” Mia said. “In time this builds up to levels, and sharpened skills that ease the delf-tasks. 'Tis not wholly unpaid work…”

  “What level are you?” the grenzritter asked.

  “Three.”

  Roland could but gaze at Mia.

  “Healing is a lesser skill than delf-mining,” Mia said, straight-faced. “And delfing less than fighting.”

  “How old are you?” Roland’s face showed a flicker of pity.

  Mia bowed her head.

  “Mine… mother… handed down our auld figures and calendars with hush,” she confessed after a while. “If we haven’t lost the count of days, I should be nearing twenty-eight winters.”

  “Three levels.”

  “Yes, good sir.”

  “In twenty-eight years.”

  “Aye. For Shackled begin earning experience the moment they are birthed.”

  The level one knight scowled. “Starting to see how the Demons keep control of this place. A man could go his entire life and barely scrape level ten. Nobody would ever be able to challenge the guards even in a one-on-one, and with everything under observation by these damnable brands, you’d never organize a prison riot of any size.”

  The grenzritter’s outland tongue was odd to Mia’s ears.

  “And in this far-off land, there’d be nowhere to go even if escape were feasible,” the knight concluded.

  “You are beginning to understand.” Mia spake. “The moment the Shackle was marked upon your skin, you were tied to the System. A brand-thrall. Surely the outer world has those.”

  Roland grimaced. “Yes. I’m aware. Even if I get out of here. My sworn knight is dead. And with this thing on my neck… I’ll never achieve knighthood. Never command armies. Never be allowed to take the oath at the cathedral within Fort Duran Du Loc.”

  Every new captive had to face their lot of lifelong bondage. It was that or, in time, the wardens would grow weary of stubborn thralls and let their HP fade to naught after the last thrashing.

  The pair sat in stillness for a time.

  “Say, are we roommates or something?” Roland asked when stillness grew too quiet.

  “The cot is big enough for two. You need not sleep on that stone slab…”

  The dealt-task granted by the demonic warden was laid down. The moon-time was also set, as were supplement foods for aid in Mia’s role.

  “My lord,” spake the gaol-priestess. “Your part here is two-fold. To delf-mine is but one duty. But there is another dealt-task for which I have been assigned to you.”

  Brand-slave Mia stood in the narrow cell. She shed her raiment with translucent flair from the Interface. Stand she did, naked, long and golden hair swept back over her shoulders to reveal all to her assigned mate.

  “Please, m’lord.” Mia knelt in full bow, her face near the stony floor. “To bear meek younglings is the task the demon-keeper hath set for me.”

  Knight Roland cast a fretful look at the jail door, ever-wary of, wary of passersby.

  “R-rise. What are you saying?”

  But brand-slave Mia bowed further still.

  “As were my mother and erdmother before, I have been selected to breed domesticity. Now Branded, all your sires shall be demon-thralls. But by joining with me, said sires shall be leal and obedient servants of the gaolers. I implore you, good sir; the moon's turn is fitting, as you can see from my Interface. Please, my lord, there is no better time.

  With the bare healer lying between him and the door, brave grenzritter Roland could not flee the scene. His eyes unwittingly fell upon the shapely form of his chosen companion. Deep longing filled the valiant knight...

  “Ahem. Okay. Well.” Jelena coughed, proof that even a former working girl could be flustered by divinely-sanctioned wedlock.

  Night had fallen over the camp as they read the long testament. The contents were technically apocryphal, but Menu metadata confirmed its age as among the oldest of church documents. The lurid descriptions that followed were most unchurchly, however!

  Calaf instinctually covered Zilara’s young eyes. Proving that he still possessed some modicum of churchgoing decorum despite having been utterly corrupted and led into a life of crime in more recent days.

  “Move. I wanna see,” Zilara complained. “It was just getting saucy.”

  “So. Priestess Mia. Mother of the Church.” Jelena chortled, just barely composing herself. “Spent her second meeting with brave Paladin Roland begging him to, ah, fill their party roster with a third member.”

  For his part, Enkidu stood quiet sentry near the tents. The wild man had little use for archival deep dives.

  “Missionaries didn’t talk about that story. They were all taking about holy purity and inherent chasteness,” Jelena said, cheeks a flushed brown shade. “If they had led with this, I would’ve converted even sooner. Ha.”

  “You already know that your knight and priestess come together,” Enkidu said with a characteristic growling tenor.

  “Yes. But not so… scandalously.” Calaf’s eyes scanned ahead. “Okay. We’ll skip a half-page, but the rest of the document should be safe for… innocent eyes.”

  Zilara gave the Squire a piteous look.

  Why would a ‘firsthand testimony’ portray the holy priestess in such a way? There were other congruencies with the canon stories. Dire-scorpionbees were thought long-extinct in these lands. Rather than their friendly keeper, the Cleric instead helped ancient Riverglen destroy a nest of the fiendish scorpions.

  All this was to say nothing of the portrayal of Brands. They were supposed to be secret holy weapons by which humanity could fight back against the forces of devilry. Here the demonic hordes possessed Interface designations as well. That was… not impossible, as the group’s unfortunate encounter with the sirenlike Piper demon would attest.

  Calaf felt an unsettling itch from the Brand on his left arm. He scratched at it, but did not mention anything to his comrades.

  The trio gathered around the slowly waning campfire. So dark was it that a utility light bauble spell was necessary to emulate candlelight. Still, the group continued to read this forbidden testament.

  not Anglish mind you. But it does count as a loanword in demontongue. Norse and French representing demonic linguistic influences is accidental foreshadowing, by the way. You'll also notice that Roland has a more modern speech. I avoid translating him into Anglish most of the time to represent his status as a foreigner, so to speak.