Chapter Text
Slave is the only name I have known. I have only known a life of bondage. I have not lived so long because of mercy; my masters knew I would be valuable as I grew, I have been. I was first sold as an oddity to a group of traveling entertainers, but they did not treat me as anything more than an animal capable of doing heavy work. I slept in cages with the animals and learned not to sleep too deeply because the cruel performers liked watching a good show when they were drunk. Many nights I awoke to a hungry bear or panther being let into my cage. I only killed one of the animals and nearly died for it when I was beaten for damaging a valuable part of the show. The men who bet on the bear to kill me also bet on how many lashings I could take before I died.
As I grew older and larger the owner of the show became afraid of me. I had a simmering rage in me as I saw all that I could not have paraded in front of me. The owner sold me off to a mercenary company that had a large contingent of slave soldiers that filled its front lines. I lived among the wretched of the world and came to understand the goblins who were the friendliest to me. They followed me into battle because I drew the fire away from them. One day our camp was set upon by a bold strike from the army we had been battling for days. The soldiers killed the mercenary leaders and ignored the slaves. I thought my freedom had finally come and I rejoiced only to smell the smoke as they burned the camps. I knew I did not have much longer to live and the rage in my heart boiled over at the thought of dying in captivity and having lived for no purpose. I broke the chains binding me to my companions and we smashed the door to our pen using the chains that bound us. We escaped alive, but my fellow slaves fled without me. I still carry my chains with me as a reminder.
Alone, I set off into the world. I am afraid of my new found freedom and find myself still nameless after all the years I have struggled to survive. All I own is the loincloth I fashioned from the banner of a fallen enemy and the chains I wear wrapped across my body. My life as a slave taught me to sneak food whenever possible because we were never given enough eat to keep us lean and hungry. It seemed that no matter how little I ate I still grew large. I have been called a Goliath, but I do not know what that means. I am slow to speak not because I am stupid, but because I have learned not to draw the attention of others. The only adornment about my body are the scars I wear from my life of abuse. I rarely stay long in one place because my size engenders fear and my silence begs questions from those who fear me. I do not want to fight, but I will defend myself and those who cannot defend themselves. My goal in life is to earn a name; until then I am just a nameless slave that will no longer abide a master.
I have my eyes set on a city known for its wonders and being unafraid of the strange and unusual. I have heard of Waterdeep and I hope that among its streets I will find my place. I was able to pay my passage by traveling as a guard for a caravan of Halfling traders headed back from their route among the small towns and freeholds of the Sword Coast. I have found myself sitting at the edge of the fire at night listening to the songs and tales of the caravan’s master, a particularly energetic Halfling named Roscoe Pepper. He claims his family is among the greatest trading families in Waterdeep and that is why he spends all his time on the road. It seems he rejects the wealth and privilege that his life has brought him. I wish I had the words to tell him how foolish he is for rejecting that which others have died dreaming about. I appreciate his need to feel free, but he does not see the chains that still bind him. Those who have never worn chains have the most difficult time seeing the chains of their own making that weigh them down as they dance through their days.
As the campfire mellows, I listen to the songs of heroic tales that Roscoe sings and I cannot help but wonder about the lives of those in the hordes of dead these heroes have left in their wake. I have only known one true hero in my time and they were truly evil in their quest for justice. I no longer fear the powerful because I have been the lowliest soldier in an army. Army’s exist because no one person is so powerful that they can stand alone against the masses. The lowest born general can defeat the noblest hero if he has enough lives to spend doing so. Even though I cannot find enjoyment in Roscoe’s heroic ballads, I find solace in my freedom to walk away if I so choose. Freedom is truly the greatest power anyone can possess.