[Sunset, same day as he was brought to the warren]

A grey horror had Omana.  In desperation, Qedhar swung toward the wriggling 
mass.  His daughter screamed and then lay still.  He looked down to see 
that, while he had killed the grey thing, he had cut off both her legs.  He 
enfolded her into his arms, but she didn't move.  He had killed her.

{No, no, please.  Omana... my daughter Omana...}

"Omanaaa!"  He struggled to sit up.  Pain lanced through him.  He couldn't 
feel his left arm.  He opened his eyes to look at stone.  He was in some 
sort of cave.  Memory rushed back and Qedhar buried his face in his one good 
hand.

A man about his age rushed into the cave.  The man was strangely pale and 
Qedhar wondered if there was something wrong with his eyes.  The man's hair 
was short.  A slave, then.  The man offered him a glass of water and Qedhar 
swallowed it greedily.

"Ahryuokeh?" the man said.

Qedhar shook his head in confusion.  What language was that?  "Tokah je bah na?"

"Aibegyoorpardun?"

"Tokah je bah na?...  Tuke' che beh na?...  Toke' ya mah no?"  He was 
running out of dialects and the man still looked confused.  Try another 
tack.  "Benna Omana bah sakai na?"

"Aimuhfrehdaidoantunderstandyu."  The man turned to another person entering 
the room.  She, too, was strangely pale, with eyes like the sky and yellow hair.

Where was he?  What tribe had people like this?

"Tehlbrilthatthestrehnjmanisawehk," the man said to the yellow-haired woman. 
 "Andinfohrmtheworinlehdi."

Perhaps this was the land of Gamal?  The woman surely looked touched by 
Gamal with that hair like yellow fire.

"Benna Omana?" Qedhar pursued.

"Benna Omana?" the man repeated, then pointed at Qedhar.  "Yooahr Benna Omana?"

"Yooahr Benna Omana?" Qedhar repeated.

The man shook his head, looking frustrated.  It occurred to Qedhar then that 
he was probably now a slave in this tribe.  He had better not anger this 
man, since he might be the head slave for his master.

The man pointed to himself.  "Thorin.  Thorin."

Qedhar pointed at the man.  "Thorin?"

"Rait.  Thatsmainehm.  Thorin."

"Thorin."

Thorin smiled and Qedhar felt relief flow through him.  Then the man pointed 
to Qedhar.  "Whatsyoornehm?"

"Qedhar dain Gamal," Qedhar answered, hoping he understood what the man wanted.

"Gamal?" the man asked, pointing to him.

Qedhar shook his head.  Such a thing was blasphemy.  "Qedhar."

"Keddar?"

Close enough.  Qedhar smiled.  "Qedhar."

Another man walked in then, accompanied by the yellow-haired woman.  The 
other man looked to be a hand of years older than Qedhar, perhaps a few 
more.  His hair was of a more natural colour, cut short as a slave's would 
be.  His skin was still sickly pale and his eyes were a strange green colour.

Thorin stood up from the fancy stool with a backrest he had been sitting on. 
 It was a strange thing.  Qedhar couldn't see how you could ever fold it up 
to carry with you.  In fact, there were many items in the room that appeared 
to be man-made that would be hard to move.

"Heedusntapirtospeakowrlangwaj," Thorin said to the newcomer.

The two talked in that strange tongue for a long time.  Qedhar took the 
opportunity to survery himself and his surroundings better.  Most important 
was that there was no sign of Omana.  He fretted, wondering if she had lived 
through the awful injuries the horrors had given her and the wounds he 
himself had been forced to inflict.

He saw his swords, the sword of Gamal still flaming, laying in a corner.  
They had placed Gamal's sword away from flamables.  The cave was strangely 
squared, as if someone had cut the stone.  The bed he was in was raised off 
the floor.  A table next to the bed held a cup and a pitcher of water.

He himself had been stripped and wore some sort of a woman's dress which was 
open in the back.  He hoped this didn't indicate anything about his master's 
sexual proclivities.  Qedhar had had a few men in his lifetime, but it had 
not been terribly enjoyable.

His left arm was missing from the elbow down.  Qedhar remembered having to 
remove it.  Bandages had been placed on the many places where the horrors 
had eaten into him and where he had cut himself on the rocks.  He peeked 
under one bandage and saw that someone had sewn his skin together.

Someone touched him lightly.  "K'dar?"  He jumped, realising the man had 
said the word several times and he had ignored him.  He realised it was how 
the man was pronouncing his name.  They were his masters now, he had no 
right to complain.

"Ah?"

The man pointed to himself.  "Bril."

"Bril," Qedhar repeated, obediently.

"Bril," the man repeated, as if correcting something.

Qedhar concentrated harder.  "Bril."

The man shrugged.  "Gudenuff."  He put his hand on Qedhar's shoulder, 
applying enough pressure to push Qedhar back into the soft matress.  The man 
slipped the covers off Qedhar.  The chieftain of the dead tribe of Gamal 
felt his stomach lurch wildly as the man slipped the dress up his body and 
started exploring with his hands.  Qedhar shut his eyes, willing himself not 
to think about what was probably coming next.

"Heezreeleenervus," Bril commented to Thorin.

"Aiwunderwhai," Thorin said.

Qedhar wondered if they were discussing who was going to do what to him.  
Incomprehensibly, Bril's hands withdrew and Qedhar felt his body being 
covered again.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  Perhaps they had decided he 
was too injured yet.

There was a knock on the slab of wood that covered the cave entrance.  Bril 
called something and woman walked in.

No.  A girl.  Perhaps 16 or 17.  She had that strange, pale skin that 
everyone in this tribe seemed to have and green eyes, like Bril.  But what 
drew his eyes was her hair.  It was the colour of fire and she wore it 
short, like a warrior woman would.  Both men stood when she walked in and 
nodded to her as if acknowledging her authority.  Ah, she owned them, then.  
But what was a girl her age doing with slaves?  She must indeed be a warrior 
woman, and a good one to have two slaves so cowed, especially at her age.

Bril rattled something off to her and she approached, smiling.  Ah, well.  
At least if he was going to be a slave, he had a very attractive mistress.

She pointed to herself.  "Trihnalee."

"Trihnalee," he dutifully repeated, then pointed to himself.  "Qedhar."  He 
dutifully lowered his eyes, then tried the question again.  "Benna Omana?"

"Benna Omana?" she asked, looking at the two men.

"Heezyoozdthatwerdbeefohr.  Purhaps,heemeensthelitlgurl?"

"Purhaps.  Canweetehkhimtoohur?"

"Shur."

Bril and Thorin lifted him gently out of the bed and sat him in an odd 
contraption-- a stool with a back and wheels for legs.  Qedhar grabbed the 
arm of the thing as they pushed him out of the cave and into a tunnel, also 
strangely squared off, and down to another slab of wood, which opened to 
another cave much like the one in which he had awakened.

Omana lay in one of the strange, raise beds.  The lump of her body under the 
covers ended above where he knees should be.  His stomach twisted, 
remembering it, and tears sprang to his eyes.  Her skin, where it showed 
around the bandages, was pale.  Her breathing was slow and ragged.

They pushed him over to the bed and he lightly touched her face.  "Benna 
Omana, alah je."  He lowered his head to her bed and closed his eyes, 
feeling the tears run down his face.  <My daughter Omana, forgive me.>

Respectfully submitted,
 Lynette R. F. Cowper
  Qedhar

NRPG: So, do you all like the view of the Medical Center through the eyes of 
a very confused foreigner?

 **********************************************************************
 * Lynette R. F. Cowper       *  Official INWO Rules NetRep & Goddess *
 * lcowper@io.com             *        Circle of Janus Secretary      *
 * lcowper@indy.net           *   VP of P.U.R.P.L.E. (People United   *
 * http://www.io.com/~lcowper/*   Respecting Purple Legal Equality)   *
 **********************************************************************
 *    I write of things which I have neither seen nor suffered nor    *
 *  learned from another, things which are not and never could have   *
 *  been, and therefore my readers should by no means believe them.   *
 *                                            --Lucian of Samosata    *
 **********************************************************************