The longest journey, part I: Rohan's Escape

The ground beneath Rohan’s feet trembled and pulsed with the frenetic energy of the crowd. The stands of the Horned Arena, old and rickety, groaned under the weight of the frenzied spectators who bounced in unison, their cheers and roars creating a deafening, almost ritualistic cacophony. It was a grotesque celebration—a dark, rhythmic chant that reveled in the bloodshed, eagerly anticipating another death, another drop of pain. Another dead man. Another faceless corpse added to the grim tally of his victims.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, making his ears ring with a high-pitched buzz. His heart raced, pounding furiously as if it were celebrating the hollow victory on its own, detached from his wearied spirit. Through his sweat-streaked vision, the blurred shapes of the destitute inhabitants of The Pit melded into a chaotic, grim tableau of dirt and despair. Their voices rose in a rhythmic chant, repeating his name like a litany: “Rohan, Rohan, Rohan…” In that fleeting moment, he felt a sense of importance, of fleeting grandeur. He was a victor, a lord of this grotesque arena.

But that brief surge of triumph was fleeting. The sensation was abruptly cut short by a harsh, jarring tug on the iron collar around his neck. The sudden pull stole his breath, forcing him to collapse to the ground to avoid choking. His muscles, sore and numb from the grueling fight, protested every movement. Even if he were not exhausted, he would not have risen willingly. It was his final act of resistance—making them exert effort, dragging him back to his cell with as much difficulty as possible, making them share in his suffering, even if just for a moment.

He closed his eyes, letting the darkness engulf him. A wry smile tugged at his cracked lips as he thought, “This is my reward…” The thought lingered with a bitter edge, “…let’s see how you handle this, you bastard Joe. Can you manage it this time?”

The dim light from the corridor cast long shadows on the walls of Rohan's cell as the door swung open with a harsh creak. The figure of Joe, small and wiry, filled the doorway, his presence a stark contrast to the dark and oppressive atmosphere within. Joe’s sneer was almost as prominent as his swaggering bravado, his booted feet stamping with an air of contempt.

“Damned… you can’t even move your cursed legs!” Joe spat, his voice dripping with disdain as he delivered a sharp kick to Rohan’s side. The pain shot through Rohan’s body, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. The little man’s taunts and kicks were an all-too-familiar part of his grim routine, each one a symbol of the power imbalance that defined his existence in the arena.

Rohan hated Joe with a passion that burned hotter than the arena’s lights. Every word, every sneer from the little man was a thorn in his side, a reminder of his captivity and the degradation he endured daily. Joe’s hands, rough and calloused from handling chains and whips, gripped Rohan with a brutal efficiency, shoving him further into the confines of his cell.

As Rohan was forced into the dim interior, Joe leaned in close, his breath hot and rank against Rohan’s face. “I see you’re smiling, slave,” Joe mocked, his eyes glinting with malicious satisfaction. “You all are so stupid! Do you think that just because they’re shouting your name you’ve become someone? You’re nothing, I tell you. Believe me, there will come a time when someone will take your head, and I’ll enjoy it. By Ukdurs, I’ll enjoy it so much! Maybe I’ll even convince the boss to free the one who manages to do it!”

The venom in Joe’s words was palpable, each sentence a twisted promise of future suffering. His voice was a shrill screech, filled with the sadistic pleasure he took in tormenting Rohan. As Joe spat in Rohan’s face, the slave wiped the filth away, his eyes hardening with a mixture of rage and resignation.

But Joe paid no attention to Rohan's anger. The last thing Rohan saw before his cell was once again swallowed by darkness was the smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across the halfling’s face. He tried to lunge forward, his instinct to grab and crush the life out of him, but his body betrayed him. The iron chains around his wrists and neck felt like boulders weighing him down, and his limbs were too weak from exhaustion. His head slumped between his shoulders, the movement slow and defeated.

The stench of sweat and filth clung to his skin, an oppressive odor that never left him, making him dizzy and sick. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth, mixing with the dry bitterness of despair. This is where he would die, locked away like an animal, and no one would ever remember him. His name, once feared across seas, would fade like whispers on the wind.

There was a time when he thought escape was possible. He had been strong once, invincible, a warrior and pirate who thrived on the thrill of battle and the freedom of the open sea. For years, the name Rohan "the Sea Wolf" Dale had been synonymous with fear across the Aerithia Archipelago. The sight of his ship’s black sails had sent shivers down the spines of merchants and rival crews alike. His sword had tasted the blood of many, and his hands had claimed more lives than he cared to remember. Freedom had been the air he breathed.

But now, all of that seemed like a dream, a distant memory from another life. The walls of his cell were his new horizon, cold and unyielding. His muscles had withered from disuse, his body a mere shadow of the man he had once been. Even Joe, that pathetic little halfling, had been right. Sooner or later, someone would land the fatal blow. Tomorrow, next week, or in a few months—it didn’t matter. Time had ceased to hold meaning for Rohan. He could no longer measure it by the rise and fall of the tides or the passing of days at sea.

Time had stopped the moment he saw the ocean for the last time. He could still remember it clearly, the sun reflecting off the waves, the salty breeze filling his lungs. That was the last true taste of freedom he had, and since then, everything had changed. His chains weren’t just physical. They had shackled his spirit, crushed it slowly under the weight of The Pit and the violence that consumed him day after day. He was no longer Rohan the Sea Wolf—he was Rohan the Slave, a name shouted by the crowd one moment and forgotten the next.

It had all unraveled the moment he made the fateful decision to raid that ill-fated ship. The Phantom Tide, his beloved ship, once a symbol of terror across the Aerethia Archipelago, had pursued countless vessels, but the Black Chains’ slaver ship had been his undoing—a choice that haunted Rohan with relentless fury. He could still see the blood-soaked deck vividly, his crew falling one by one, their agonized cries swallowed by the cacophony of battle and the sickening crunch of splintered bone. The memory of young Aric's final moments was the most haunting of all. The boy, only nineteen, had been Rohan's first mate, his protégé, and the son of the only man Rohan had ever truly respected. Malik, Rohan’s mentor and closest friend, had sacrificed his own life to save Rohan’s just a few years prior. Now, his son had followed him into the void, a casualty of reckless ambition and hubris. The Sea wolf and the Phantom Tide were no more; the crew was decimated, his freedom shattered, and his legacy obliterated, all washed away with the blood of those he had led to their deaths. In the aftermath, all he had left was the bitter, unending taste of regret, a constant reminder of his hubris and the price he paid for his greed.

Perhaps he deserved death after all. Or perhaps he had died on that blood-soaked deck, his body abandoned on the cruel stage the Black Chains had set that night. Maybe he was now in The Underworld, trapped in a nightmarish limbo where the angels of death subjected him to endless trials before allowing his tortured soul to move on. On the other hand, perhaps the unrelenting silence of his cell was starting to unravel his sanity. The oppressive stillness seemed to seep into his very bones, warping his perception until he could no longer distinguish reality from delusion.

How else could he explain that unsettling, almost imperceptible creaking of the cell door, a sound so faint it could easily be mistaken for the whisper of his own imagination? The noise was irregular, a dissonant note in the otherwise stagnant air of his confinement. His mind, frayed and exhausted from endless hours of solitude and despair, clung desperately to the glimmer of hope that the creak represented.

And then there was the light. A sudden, sharp beam of illumination pierced the suffocating darkness, slicing through the narrow crack at the entrance to his cell. The light was harsh and alien, a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom that had consumed him for so long. It was as if the darkness had been pierced by a divine ray, a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance for redemption.

The cell door creaked open wider, revealing the dim, flickering lights of the arena’s corridors beyond. Rohan’s eyes widened in disbelief, his mind struggling to reconcile the sight with the grim reality he had grown accustomed to. He could hear the distant whispers of the arena crowd, their voices a haunting echo of the chaos he had been a part of for so long.

A wave of hesitation washed over him. The arena, with its maddening roars and unrelenting brutality, seemed like a cruel joke now. The thought of risking his life, the only thing he had left in this world that had forsaken him, for a chance at escape was terrifying. He could almost hear Joe’s mocking laughter, feel the weight of his chains, and sense the crushing finality of his cell closing behind him forever.

Yet, as he stood there, the light casting long shadows across the cold stone floor, something shifted within him. The oppressive silence of his cell, once a symbol of his defeat, now felt like a cage, a shackle that held him back from a potential chance at freedom. His resolve, buried beneath layers of despair, began to stir.

Rohan took a deep breath, pushing himself off the floor with a groan of pain and exhaustion. His hands, shaking from the weight of his decision, reached toward the door. With each step toward the unknown, the whispers of the arena grew louder, mingling with the sound of his own pounding heart. He knew the path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty. But in that moment, the desire for freedom outweighed the fear of the unknown.

For better or worse, Rohan took that last step and he immediately knew.

This would be the longest journey of his life.