In-Depth Look: Neolibyans

CONCESSIONS

Steel blue sky, an implacable sun burns down on Tripol’s dusty streets. There is a soft breeze from the sea, carrying the scent of rotting algae and salt into the Africans’ noses. Later today, the wind will turn and drown the odor in the rain forest’s humidity. Both would be all right for the Tripolitans gathering in front of the marble-clad palace of the Neolibyan Bank of Commerce. Today, the richest of the rich, the Neolibyans, gather in front of the glass portal. Beggars gather along the roads, waiting. Africans in filthy rags stand next to those in luxurious garments. They watch the events, marveling at the cloth-of-gold and colorful fabrics that the Neolibyans wear around their hips, and point to the slender rifles and sabers. The spectators laugh about the turbans ending in shawls: rich skin, sensitive skin.

A large entourage pushes through the crowd: at its center is a palanquin of mother-of-pearl silk stretched between poles carried by white slaves. Their mistress walks in shadows. Every step makes her chest jewelry of glinting silver plates jingle. A bald white man approaches her with bowed head, she grouches something and points ahead. The slave scuttles away.

A murmur runs through the crowd. A Neolibyan carries a Machine Man’s leg armor, high boots of blue metal. It is said he had to sacrifice 50 Scourgers for them and that the armor is protected against all sorts of damage by ancient runes. A boy breaks from the crowd and runs towards the Neolibyan. Without breaking stride, he falls to his knees, sliding in on a cloud of dust, reaching for the boots. His hand touches them, the Neolibyan staggers, regains his balance, and kicks the boy. He rolls away laughing. The crowd cheers and dances.

The sun has reached its zenith. Sweat glitters on black skin. It smells of hot dust. A slave collapses and is dragged into the shadows. The people fan themselves, trying to get some fresh air. Some call “Balkhani, Balkhani!” Others join in, stomping their feet. The Neolibyans glance about seriously and with imperious looks, but there is an amused glitter in their eyes. They nod to the rhythm of the shouts. The massive glass entryway is unlocked with a crash. Within, slaves with naked torsos can be seen now, pushing against the gates, muscled males with perfectly shaved beards: the African ideal of the domesticated and trained Balkhani. Slowly, the gates swing open. The Neolibyans outside step back at first and then push each other into the cool twilight of the Bank of Commerce. They tear at each other, pushing and shoving until they are able to get some space and enter the vast lobby. They don’t spare a glance for the meter-high tapestries with their traditional patterns. Bare feet pad across the marble, sandals clatter. Saber scabbards and rifles collide, it’s as if a battle was being fought.

The stream parts and washes up the two stairs to the gallery and through the portals on both sides of the hall into the map room’s rotunda. The gallery surrounds the dome a little more than five steps above the ground and is filling up quickly.

The dome is lined with carvings in black and polished wood: ancestral spirits portrayed as staring totems stand next to geometrical patterns inlaid with bronze and silver plates. It is a marriage of the old and the new Africa. Through the circular opening at the apex of the dome, the midday sun blazes and throws a beam of light to the floor mosaic; made from countless cut semiprecious stones: it shows a map of Europe and Africa. Nails mark towns, and threads strung between them represent trade routes. They cover the artwork in a dense web, solidifying into thick strands at Tripol. Little flags are tied to the threads, marked with the names of hundreds of Neolibyan traders.

Dust motes dance in the light. Neolibyans lean over the balustrade, looking for their entourage or gasping for air when they are crowded in too much. Some debate loudly with wild gestures. Potential alliances are discussed, provisory promises are shouted across the room.

The chartists enter the map. Behind them, Auctioneer Thabul enters and raises his arms. He has been elected by a majority, and is at the end of a long career. Everyone shows him respect and trust. The din calms down to a murmur.

He bows in all directions, and the Neolibyans on the gallery nod back. Thabul steps to the center without touching even one thread. He opens the battle for concessions with an innocuous, probably promising route between Purgan Scrapper camps. The mood is still restrained, the Neolibyans waiting for the big fish: Tripol to the rest of the world. Some lose their nerve and enter the skirmish of offers on the gallery, shouting and cursing; Thabul watches them, coolly registering the continuously rising concession price, until he accepts the bid of a Neolibyan in a red and blue patterned loincloth holding a nondescript rifle. The man’s face is covered in sweat. It is cool in the map room.

One second of calm.
Everyone takes a deep breath. Then, route by route quickly follows, alternating different qualities. Waves of indignation shake the losers’ entourages, while the winners laugh or shout out their success.

Thabul dances around on the thread-covered mosaic, pointing to various countries, calling out the trade volumes and praising the advantages of this city or that sea route like a barker. The chartists at his side unerringly grab the flags, pull them out, and replace them with new ones. Thabul doesn’t give the bidders a minute’s rest, harrying the merchants from concession to concession. When the crowd is tired and wants to take a break, he offers profitable roads, thus adding fuel to the fire. It’s a game, and the world is his game board. The sun begins to sink. All of Tripol seems to be focused on the Bank of Commerce. Only those at the very front will get a chance to spend the night with slaves, wine, and delicacies from all over the known world. The Scourgers are barely able to control the heaving crowds. The people in the first ranks stare at the massive glass doors. Very soon, the Neolibyans will walk through them, some sad and unapproachable, others euphoric and generous. The latter will throw parties to let the people partake in their joy as tradition demands: the night of ecstasy. There! The Balkhani start to push against the gates...

TO THE TOP

The Neolibyans are merchants whose goals are profit, influence, and wealth. Anything that costs them time and energy without bringing any Dinars, they deny. That is why they never had any interest in a complete written history. But they have left their traces: in the Bank of Commerce and in private archives, ledgers and folders full of treaties and agreements gather dust. With some intuition and patience, it is possible to distill the Neolibyans’ history from them.

It starts roughly 50 years after the devastation of the African coast. The first reports were found in the African outback and were penned by the Libyan. He was a merchant, a shrewd accountant and very enterprising. He catered for the survivors and thus wove the network of contacts that would support him until the end. His trading posts along the African Mediterranean coast were like seeds that soon sprouted into strong cities. One of them was Tripol: according to history the Libyan’s home village started amidst the ruins of ancient Tripoli. Here the streams of commerce met – at least that’s what the books say – and brought unexpected wealth not only to the Libyan: tea, expensive fabrics, oil in amphorae, sacks full of grain, and metalwork piled up in the warehouses and caverns. The ancestral spirits looked favorably upon the city. Tripol blossomed.

The Libyan’s enterprises had grown too big to be controlled by him alone. The lists dating back to those days count hundreds of packers, helping hands, and scribes, some of them former competitors whom the Libyan had vanquished in wars of trade. Other cost items indicate that some of the profit was funneled back to the populace. The Libyan paid for the construction of meeting halls and had workers create fields or fortified canals. Africa’s decline had been stopped.

Now, its inhabitants prepared to storm a mountain of inherited Cultural waste, Clan enmities, and desolate structures.

THE FOUNDATION The Libyan hated every word that did not directly lead to a profit measured in Dinars. He didn’t talk about his family, about the weather, and especially not about his competitors. But sometimes, after a good day, when he walked through the rows of his scribes and saw that everything intertwined, that all numbers were correctly billed, he gathered his subordinates around him. His face became soft and relaxed then, and his voice sounded deeper. He asked them all to sit, and brewed and served tea. He waited until they all had sipped some. He looked around, nodded, and described the events that had led up to this point. He said everything was based on three things: exploration, diplomacy, and trade.

These three aspects were dependent upon each other, and it was only together that they formed the triad that beguiled the world like he himself was beguiled by his concubine Manhare’s zither music. He called them the foundation of every flourishing venture and said that nothing and no one could tear down the building based on them.

These teachings would become his legacy.
200 years after the Libyan’s death, his descendants called themselves the Neolibyans. As parts of his still growing venture, they embody his three aspects.

EXPLORATION

The Neolibyans’ ships cross the Mediterranean, and through their binoculars, the merchants see foreign coasts. Their expeditions climb the highest mountains: they explore the coldest pole and the least habitable desert. Blank patches on the map attract them as if exploring them had been the dying wish of their fathers.

The world is dotted with places, and each and every one offers sensual experiences, interesting business, adventures, inspiration, or ancient secrets. It is a pity how many of them are still uncharted! Every survey and every map opens new ways to the African people, markets, hunting grounds, and in the end, wealth: whether it is measured in Dinars or cultural achievements.

DIPLOMACY

Where a rifle tears holes and creates hatred that will last for decades, a friendly word will open doors. Diplomacy allows Neolibyans to do business without having to come in the company of a retinue of Scourgers. It forges ties. It brings safe passage in foreign lands and dangerous regions. Without diplomacy, culture can neither be creative, nor build bridges, cross borders, or gain new perspectives.

TRADE

Once foreign countries have been explored and listed, once hands have been shaken and gifts have been given, once friendship has been confirmed over a cup of tea, market research can begin. All resources and services are listed, and demands within the population are detected – or created. The explorer assigns the new route to the Bank of Commerce, and in return is paid the expected trade volume for two years in Dinars. At the next auction, it will be offered as a concession like all the other routes. Its explorer will be back at the bow of his ship at that point, raising his face into the surf and dreaming of foreign lands.

In the Libyan’s worldview, trade chains the parties to each other. Be it Clans, Cults, or Cultures, trade unites them in a cycle of goods, forces them to act reasonably, and imposes basic modes of civilized behavior on them. Those who do not make their counterparts welcome, do not care for their well-being, do not listen to them and put their own pride before any compromise, will soon be shunned.

It is also helpful that all these blessings will also go towards generating some Dinars for the Merchants.

RAIDERS

It’s not trade alone that makes the Neolibyans the most successful merchants in the Mediterranean area. They owe part of their riches to the northern peoples’ artifact grounds. With their towering merchant ships belching smoke, they bring Scourgers and Scrappers to the Frankan and Purgan coasts, rumbling to shore with their Surge Tanks to get to work on pristine scrap fields. Their maps are unparalleled in their quality: usually the auctioneer makes them take along a Cartographer who measures and maps the old roads so new concessions can be derived and sold in the Bank of Commerce.

Scourgers are absolutely necessary for such expeditions. They man the guns and race through the ruins in their four-wheel buggies, the Koms, searching for savages and running them down: killing or capturing them. They are unrestrained like hyenas and bite every calf that doesn’t recoil fast enough.

This is very problematic, as through this violent behavior they damage the Neolibyans’ reputation with the local population. The merest sighting of a Surge Tank thundering through the land can call to arms a whole union made up of dozens of Clans. Almost every night, flaming arrows rain down on steel armor plates or Scourger patrols are attacked in the wilderness. The time for the measured tones of the diplomacy aspect hasn’t come yet, or perhaps it has been over for quite a while. Whatever the case, get some slaves!

THE BANK OF COMMERCE

450 years ago, there was only one mud building here. Its walls were chalked and finally tiled, additional scriptoriums were built. Messengers came and went, treaded furrows into the mud floor. The whole neighborhood arose: with warehouses, an archive, and a workshop to make stamps and writing utensils, all for private use by the Libyan. In time, the old mud building was replaced by a two-story office building with a front of finest Purgan marble.

The site of the enterprise kept growing even after the Libyan’s death. Today, the Bank of Commerce is situated there – a small city of its own in the heart of Tripol. Here, hundreds of chartists copy charts and maps, and an army of Scribes registers and categorises the flow of goods. In the archives, sales quotas and profits for every route and concession are recorded, from the first day of use up to the present time.

On the first day of the first month of a new year, the Bank of Commerce hosts the great auction. Neolibyans leave their estates in Purgare and Bedain or interrupt their big game hunts in Pollen’s spore fields, they come from the Atlantic coast and from Anubia’s shores. No one can afford to miss the auction. Exactly at high noon, all concessions fall back to the Bank of Commerce.

The auction takes all day. Offers of coveted and profitable routes alternate with those of risky and undeveloped concessions. The Neolibyans engage in a heated bidding battle, discussing and forming alliances with former arch enemies. Powerful monopolies and alliances are created on the spot in the rhythm of the auctions and shut down again the next year in the same place.

Those who get a concession control the sector they bought completely, without any price battle or harassing fire from their own people.

The riches gained through the auctions go to the Bank of Commerce’s vaults and from there into the pockets of craftsmen who expand Tripol. Large sums are also given to impoverished settlements at the outskirts of the city: Neolibyans hate poverty in close proximity to the capital.

BEDAIN

Bedain, the Scrapper island with its legendary port of Syracuse, is the entryway to the African continent and a stopover for Neolibyan looting expeditions. Here, huge plants and massive works of engineering are unloaded, dismantled by experienced Scrappers, and shipped off again. The Neolibyan Khadala has made Syracuse her home. She runs wharves where Scrappers labor day and night to maintain her armada of boats. Her stores are stacked to the roofs with artifacts that her Scourgers have stolen from the Crow. The Chroniclers know that. Khadala and her estates are surrounded by Shutters, waiting to make their move.

BUSINESS

Tripol’s boulevards open up to markets with colorful booths offering art from all over the world. Cloth sways in the wind, there is a scent of aniseed and cumin, rifle smiths beat chasings into golden fittings. The sunlight gleams on doorknobs, belt buckles, and jewelry. Next to them, the booths offer painted amphorae or pots, teacups, embroidered cushions, curtains, and grinders for the spice preparation. Lots of artifacts from the freezing North are on display, resembling entwined tubes and are surely of decorative value only. The people calmly walk the streets, inspecting goods, weighing them in their hands, and smelling them. They loudly haggle and laugh. On the corners of the streets, they sit on cushions, smoke hookahs, and drink tea. Tripol offers a gaze into the Neolibyan soul. Here, they celebrate their wealth and exhibit their aplomb. Both are cornerstones of their lives. The need for success and the desire to be one of Tripol’s richest are the prime movers that make them work even harder every day.

GLORY AND OBLIGATION

The only hierarchy the Neolibyans accept is that of the Dinar. If you have a lot, you are more important than a person who owns less. But that is not the whole truth. In fact, only the Bank of Commerce knows the exact wealth of any given Neolibyan and its accountants are sworn to absolute discretion. The only wealth that matters to the Neolibyans is what they can observe: large entourages dressed in expensive garments and flamboyant equipment or even Surge Tanks all speak of a remarkable business success. Those who have that kind of success are consistent Magnates and can even become Sheikhs. But no matter where a Neolibyan stands in the hierarchy, they all are obliged to be true to the concessions. If someone denies the auctioneer and keeps exploiting a lost concession, poaches in a competitor’s domain, or breaks an agreement, the Bank of Commerce makes no distinction based on wealth. The culprit will have to answer to a tribunal of six Neolibyans, three of them nominated by himself, the other three by the accuser. They study the relevant paragraphs of the agreement and weigh up the guilt. Usually, this is an unruly process. The proceedings are far from civilized.

The members of the tribunal shout and appeal to their counterparts’ obviously clouded mind, and yes, maybe he has had a little too much of the hookah. They laugh, they insult, they flatter. But in the end, they always come to an agreement. No one supports deal breakers in the Neolibyan Cult: they are quickly unveiled and dealt with.

NEW WAYS The Cult is growing, but the number of profitable routes does not. Many Neolibyans leave the Bank of Commerce empty-handed after the annual auction. Most of them entered the retinue of one of the richer Neolibyans as caretakers or caravan leaders. Those who own a ship sail away, searching for new markets. For the rest of the empty-handed ones, there are only unloved alternatives. They can venture into regions that the Bank of Commerce has declared free of concessions. This is very risky: profit is not guaranteed, and the population acts as aggressive as a swarm of wasps. The Auctioneer cannot demand any money for such a marketplace. The artifact grounds may be plentiful, but who knows for sure? So far, any African who has approached them has gotten skinned.

Some merchants look for adventure or are simply distraught. They go for that bit of audacity that will surround them the next year in Tripol. The competition will eat their heart out. Let them rot from boredom on their routes.

RIFLES

The rifle is a status symbol from back in the old days that the Neolibyans have transported into the present. Modern rifles captivate by their elegant, slender shape and the extremely fine chasings of their barrels. Gold and jewels are popular elements – as long as they are fashionable. Tripol demands that its visitors dance along to its traditions: if you don’t want to be considered a villager from deep down south, you have to adapt to the capricious whims of the metropolis.

It does not matter if the rifle is usable – what counts is its appearance. It may be real, but battles where the victims fire back are reserved for the Scourgers. A wellorganized hunt – well, that’s something different entirely.

HOMESTEAD

Just as the Libyan brought wealth to Tripol, the Neolibyans support their home villages. They equip the Scourgers, becoming an aspect of the great symbiotic relationship within the African people. The African people could be satisfied by this, but instead keep demanding more.

If business is weak, the Neolibyans do not only have to right their course of action for themselves, but also for their Clan, for they risk the social decline of their village. Bring riches, show the neighboring village that our children are better than theirs! The competition between the villages and Clans is fierce, and all the bragging is done at the cost of the Neolibyans.

It pushes them, but it does not mislead them. Stoically, they start new building projects on their ancestors’ land, erecting baths, workshops, power stations, clean water distilleries, libraries, and schools. In the end, they profit from it, for the dear family offers them their children. Is there a spot for little Kete in the scriptorium – you know, he has this lame leg, but a steady hand! At the age of three, Ghamale was already able to add two and two: wouldn’t she make a wonderful Scribe?

The more Dinars are spent on schools and teachers, the better the basic human raw material. The Neolibyans are making an investment.

A DROP OF BILE

Scourgers sacrifice their body to the battle and to their people’s well-being, but the Neolibyan is seen as a cowardly trickster who prefers to hide his belly behind high walls and lets others do his dirty work for him. Even though the Neolibyans guarantee the land’s wealth, in their home villages, every Scourger – even the lowliest one – ranks above them.

It is tradition, the warriors say, for them to partake in the village’s wealth and by way of this also in the wealth of the resident Neolibyan. Actually, the Scourgers are the ones that are supported by the merchants. Weapons, ammunition, vehicles, Petro, food, lodging: they get whatever they demand.

But no matter how the Scourgers harry the Neolibyans at home with their greed and malice, on Europe’s coasts, they lose their influence. The Neolibyans, looking down on a people of compliant slaves and inferiors, are the overlords of the Mediterranean cities.

Giant palaces of stone and scrap, stacked with weapons, jewelry, tea, oil, coffee, spices, and other goods, show the Neolibyan Cult’s wealth with their pomp. Here, the Scourgers hold their fire and act respectfully, feeling their power wane. Far away from home, they become supplicants.

INDENTURED

At the age of 11, young Africans can join a Neolibyan’s entourage to travel the world and gain experience. If they show promise, they have to face the Auctioneer in Tripol at the age of 17.

After their Neolibyan has vouched for them and recounted their accomplishments, there is a discussion about the basic principles and ideals of the Cult, the importance of the concessions, and the responsibility towards the family.

At the end of this discussion, if the Auctioneer embraces the applicant, he is considered accepted, but if they only shake hands when he parts, the accomplishments enumerated earlier are not enough. He will have to remain in his mentor’s entourage for another year.

BIG GAME HUNTING

The warehouses are stacked, the ledgers are full, and concessions have been secured for another year. But some Neolibyans still feel a certain gravity of the soul that keeps throwing him back to bed, makes him brood and smoke and drink tea until his employees shrink back in fear of the evil spirit that may have possessed him.

It’s the craving for the vastness of the land, for adventure and greatness. Some in Tripol might find satisfaction in endless columns of numbers, others go aboard ships and travel to Europe. They exchange their finely crafted and delicate rifles for highcaliber guns with telescopic sights, shoving bullet after bullet into their bandoliers and wearing them proudly. It feels heavy around their hips. They are ready. The rounds of their rifles hammer across Pollen’s tundra, through Borca’s forests, and across Purgare’s cinder deserts like thunder. Every crack makes mammoths fall or tears apart Gendos. The Neolibyan and his entourage scream in joy.

But they’re only animals. You slaughter animals, you don’t fight them. The true challenge, the proof of their superiority, lurks deep inside the spore fields. Screaming Dushani stealing a piece of your soul with every step you approach them, Pheromancers luring you close and pressing their hot flesh against yours to turn you into a soulless puppet, Psychokinetics who appear in front of you a thousandfold in the kaleidoscope of a fracturing space, commanding swarms of ticks: This is where you’ll find worthy game.

The most exalted of all creatures lurking in what the Europeans call the Sepsis is the Biokinetic, whose flesh devours bullet after bullet, developing sores that push the lead out of his body while he keeps advancing on you, groaning and creaking. Those who return home with a malformed or even horned skull reap incredible glory.

IN FOREIGN LANDS

The Neolibyans control the Mediterranean. Trading emporiums with up to ten members each maintain bulky transport ships, real sea monsters made of steel and rust. They carry hundreds of African Scrappers and their equipment to the European Mediterranean coast and return to Bedain weeks later with tons of artifacts. Business is brisk, the risk is adequate. At least, that’s the sentiment amidst the hordes of Scrappers who tear apart the ruins and wreckage and Scourgers who are armed to the teeth, knowing full well that without the Neolibyan they’d never get back home.

BORCA

Crossing the Alps is expensive, almost priceless for Surge Tanks, and the resistance is enormous. Over the last few months, the Clans have become increasingly bold, and the European Scrappers react grumpily to any of their African counterparts. With bulky rifles, they sit in the ruins and defend them jealously. But the Chroniclers are the true devils. They put the people at odds with the Africans by telling horror stories: a child has disappeared? Who might have devoured it?

The Judges stay true to their allies, but at least they can see through the charade. Although they accept Africans in their territory, they do not permit them to exploit the ruins, and their leader, Archot, has banned his citizens from trading with Neolibyans. The Cluster vibrates consent.

Those Clans far away from the Judges’ mediating hand are full of distrust for the Africans. These scented strangers in their colorful wraps and oversized scarves look weird, and they are armed as if they were planning to conquer the whole region. But their goods – especially the spices, tea, fruit, and Petro – are in high demand on the dusty red plains or forests of Borca.

FRANKA

The relationship with the Frankans is relaxed. The ruins have long since been looted, and slave hunts like those in the Balkhan have always been too expensive in the swamp. Trade is restricted to the coastal cities, some of which have been freed from Pheromancers by Spitalians and Anabaptists on their passage to Aquitaine.

Some sailors venture inland on the rivers to buy exotic oil and adenoid secretions. Others look for remains of old expeditions: according to the Bank of Commerce, more than 20 Surge Tanks have been left behind in the swamps by failed Neolibyans, all of them fully laden with scrap and Petro. They would be a worthy find.

POLLEN

For years, Wroclaw has been Pollen’s most profitable center of commerce, and has even become one of the Bank of Commerce’s most prized concessions. However, the main customers are not the inhabitants of Wroclaw or the Piast, but Africans going on big game hunts. Even far from home, they do not want to deny themselves their tea, their Psychovore seeds, their Anubian healing salves, and their precious cut gems.

PURGARE

The land of the Psychokinetics is a place for adventurers. To kill one of these deadly and powerful Psychonauts counts among the main attractions of a tour through Europe. For merchants, the west doesn’t have much to offer. It is very demanding with regards to people and material. The corrosive gases from the volcanic vents damage the lungs and the Surge Tanks’ filter systems, expenses that are only barely covered by trading with Clans like the Romanos who dig through the treasures of their past to sell for a few Dinars.

East of the Apennines, though, one can sell Petro to the Anabaptists. War has always been a profitable business. In this region, alas, it’s the only one. The decreasing intensity of the conflict has not gone unnoticed. The first expeditions have already gone to check out the marketplaces in the Anabaptist’s cities.

HYBRISPANIA

The Hybrispanians have already paid the price for their hubris. Only the Scourgers seem to be incapable of understanding that. As long as they do not retreat, the Neolibyans will not be able to deal with the locals beyond their estates at Al-Andalus.

The Hybrispanians do not make good slaves. In the house they pose a danger to the whole family with their acquired hatred for the Africans, and on the oil fields they are the torchbearers of every revolt. They can be used in the mines, but it’s hard to deal with them.

BALKHAN

The Voivodes are good customers with a penchant for grandeur. The Neolibyans know exactly how to cater to their needs. In return, the Voivodes give them wood and slaves – and what slaves they are! Spitalians stand next to Hellvetics and Palers (bah!). Definitely better than the stubborn Jehammedans and Balkhani that the Scourgers bring back.

PIRACY

The Neolibyans claim dominance over the Mediterranean. In fact, it is the key to the Cult’s commercial success. To maintain this dominance, the Bank of Commerce hires Neolibyans without a concession to secure the coastlines. In giant ships surrounded by nimble Scourger torpedo boats, they go on combat patrols. To allied foreign city-states, the Bank of Commerce offers protection money agreements for those who want to travel the Mediterranean unmolested. Ships redeemed this way receive passports that save their crews from slavery should they be boarded. Ships without approval are asked to enter the next port.

If the crew resists this order, the ship is subjected to a softening-up barrage, boarded, and sailed to Bedain by a crew of Scourgers. On the shore, the prisoners are bound, taxed, and sold by Neolibyan experts.

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