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Manuel spent half of his time working for the city and half of his time working for his owner. Ownership of slaves in the city was a more complicated matter for Feretris women, because whatever slaves you brought there, while they were in the capital, were also subject to the whims of the city. The city, on the other hand, did not want to piss any body off, and so generally did not abuse their power. They attempted to split the work as logically as possible among the resident and long-visiting slaves, with some preference shown for using the slaves of less wealthy women.

Manuel's owner was one of these less wealthy women, Charleze. She was not, in fact, technically his owner; she was the aging aunt of a compound owner, which meant that it was the compound owner who owned Manuel on paper. However, Manuel had never met this mythical niece of Charleze, and on any given day it was Charleze or a city developer that told him what to do. He may have figured out that he ended up in her hands as a sort of gift because of his blue eyes, yet he was too small for her tastes to be made into a more personal slave. Manuel was not even sure exactly what it was that Charleze did in the city, except that sometimes she received and sent off many messages.

Today Manuel worked for the city, which could mean any thing from sweeping the streets to unloading delivery carriages for a jack-of-all-trades such as himself. Today it was digging graves. Manuel had actually never done this before because it was a thing rarely needed. Sure, people died in the city and elsewhere, and there wasn't much of a precedent for simply burning their bodies, a tradition that had failed to filter in from northern trading partners. Yet most corpses were taken back to some compound or another, where they kept separate family and slave graveyards (so he heard). The oddness of their task elicited much comment from the other slaves and even a little bit from the women that gave them the orders. For the most part, however, it was all rumor and speculation. Either a lot of people in the city itself, or many people owned by (or related to) the capital, had died.

The graves were to be dug out in the countryside, where small farms were serviced by small market squares that connected to the inner city proper. Manuel had spent most of his life in the inner city with its stone roads and high traffic, though of course he knew about the outer city. They followed a stone road, one of the main trade routes that eventually led out to the compounds, until it was time to turn off unto a dirt road that led to the future grave-site. Work had already begun and the slaves arriving with Manuel were meant to relieve the current workers.

(Ok, I'd like to give you a chance to establish your character. Feel at liberty to control the NPCs here to interact with your character).

(lol that made me cringe and laugh at the same time D: I hate people who are so inefficient like that just because they know they won't be finishing the work! Grr! Rant!)

Many hours later, after Manuel had finished the first grave and was just finishing another, a man on horseback approached him. Although a few women had come and gone to oversee their progress, most of the time it was only men, with the manual laborers watched closely by more trustworthy slaves. None of them, however, came up the hill on horseback.

The horse depressed the newly upturned earth under its hooves as the pair picked their way between the workers, reaching the man in charge of Manuel's area of the grave yard. Manuel could easily see the black-wrapped bundle draped over the horses rump, as well as the carriage waiting below. The carriage held one horse, the missing horse being the one now up on the hill. One blond woman and a few men stood with the carriage, noticeably fair-skinned like himself.

"This man needs to be buried," the stranger on horseback said simply. The slave he spoke to stared at him a moment, so he gestured down the hill to the waiting carriage. "My master commands it."

Not wanting to get caught up in politics just to anger a mistress, the overseer shrugged and gestured towards Manuel. "Have him help you."

The soldier had dismounted to help Manuel, carrying the dead man's feet as if it were a precious bundle. Manuel could see that the other man was young, much like himself. His voice was far from upbeat as he spoke: "He was my friend and a fine soldier," he answered, looking Manuel in the eye as they lowered the bundle into the grave, "He died in battle." He seemed to think that every one should know this as fact, even if they couldn't share his pain. For once, Manuel had not been punished for being curious, but almost, in comparison, congratulated.

"What do you people do now?" he continued in a regretful tone, "just throw dirt over it?"

Manuel's overseer was tending to another slave but still kept an eye on the two. If they took too long filling the grave back up, Manuel would get yelled at.

The other man picked up the shovel that Manuel had been using.

The soldier began shoveling the dirt into the grave, accomplishing a bit more than Manuel for obvious reasons. Well, one of them had to work without a shovel so it may as well be the clueless slave. With both of them working it was going rather quickly, which negated the necessity of yelling. Filling the grave up also required patting the soil down, which the other man demonstrated. He had either done this before or seen it being done.

Therefore he seemed like somewhat of an authority on the subject when he carefully answered Manuel's questions. "They begin to stink," he explained. Then, more eloquently as he pounded on the dirt with his shovel, "We come from the soil and we go back to the soil. But I do hear that some of the gypsies burn their dead."

The differences between them became more pronounced as they spent time together, however little it would turn out to be relative to a life time. This man was the same height as Manuel, but somehow stood taller. When he talked, he did not talk as if to himself; even when talking to Manuel, he casually spoke loud enough for others to hear. Certainly, he did not speak like a woman, but he did speak with a certain amount of certainty, the kind that was completely foreign even to a higher manager-slave. A manager-slave might put fire in their voice, but that wasn't the same as a calm confidence.

(lol, did I really say "certain amount of certainty"? Oh well D: )

The stranger leaned on the shovel as he caught his breath. His gaze remained fixed on the mound of earth that they had just packed down. Although both of them were in good shape, he had done his part of the work as quickly as possible. He knew that the people waiting in the carriage for him could not wait forever. They must get into the city as quickly and as cautiously as possible.

The soldier realized that Manuel was talking. Ripping his attention away from the soil, he looked the slave in the eye in an attempt to focus. He succeeded with a delayed response; "Well, the first man had to come from somewhere," he answered pragmatically. Of course he was completely unaware of that fact that Manuel had never seen a birth before nor was he taught how that sort of thing worked. With the complete disenfranchisement of males in the family process, it was quite possible for a manual laborer like Manuel to have never even seen a pregnant woman. Pregnant women were shipped off to special compounds before they began to show. It wasn't a conspiracy to keep this information from slaves, but it just worked out that way unless you worked in one of the birthing compounds yourself.

He drew a breath as if to say more, but instead found himself eying the other slaves and shifting his weight from foot to foot. This slave was far too easy to talk to, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the danger here and of his status as the youngest and least experienced soldier on this voyage.

On top of that he caught a glimpse of someone signaling from the carriage. It was just a delicate hand poking out between the curtains while the guards around the carriage stood impassively. "I must go," he said before letting the shovel fall over the grave. "May mother earth bless you." With that, he turned away, and another slave crossed through his shadow to order Manuel around. The pattern of the graves was clear and simple, yet if you worked too slow or seemed confused, some hot-shot manager was bound to come up and lay it all out for you, nice and clear. The appearance of the strangers had broken this pattern only for a short while. Now that the soldier left, it was as if a shield had been removed from Manuel.

(I was thinking that they might meet him in the city later. All it would take is for the place they stay to be next to some sort of networking job center for the city slaves. Then because of the confusion of the woman's status it might even be possible for him to be officially assigned to her-- or to think that he is-- at least for a short while)

(that made me lol)
Mother earth, of course, did not reveal any new brothers and sisters for him. In fact, he was probably lucky that he didn't run across any human bones. Just rocks and hard clay clumps.

By nightfall Manuel would know that the bodies these graves were meant for would not be coming that day. Most likely he would be here tomorrow too, digging or filling them back up. Whenever he had completed one set of graves he had been pointed to another bit of virgin soil, so there was no telling how many graves were in the plan. They had dug until the sun had set, using torchlight to wrap every thing up and head out.

On the several-hour journey back into the city the slaves were all rotated from walking beside the wagon to sitting in it, and many took the opportunity to nap after a long day. As per usual, none of the slaves were allowed to disembark until they had reached the Ministry of Public works, to whom the horses and tools belonged and the entity which allocated city jobs to rented slaves such as himself. Then they were counted off and let go to walk home, some of them heading back into the country.

All of this meant that Manuel arrived "home" in the middle of the night. Home was a 3 story building in which his mistress rented a small string of rooms. She had very few slaves, just enough to do the shopping and the cleaning for her, and Manuel to rent out most days-- if not to the government, then to neighbors. All of the slaves slept in one room on folded blankets. Nobody had been particularly worried about Manuel, every one being asleep when he arrived.

The next day his mistress informed him that he was again to report to the Ministry of Public Works. She preferred to tell him every morning where he would go that day and so he never knew for how many days he had been rented out. He had been woken at the same time as always, just as if he hadn't worked into half the night.

As he entered the Ministry, a tall man was talking to the mistress behind the counter. At first Manuel might have thought it was his friend from the night before, but when the stranger turned around at the sound of the door, he was confronted with a much older face, wrinkles at the eyes and mouth. He, too, had light brown hair pulled into two tight braids in the back, but his eyes were brown, not green, and his frown looked well worn with practice.

He paused only for a moment before turning back to the counter. "I was instructed to find a city guide and my search has led me here. Please tell me what precisely I must do to procure what my mistress desires." The flowery words and foreign accent seemed to give the lady pause. She flipped through a ledger without answering him immediately. Whether or not he could read, Manuel would recognize it as one of the books they often referenced before giving him his assignments.

The lady behind the counter looked up from the ledger, eying Manuel. She must have recognized him, having seen him so many times before in this exact same place, waiting on her for the exact same reason.

"You must pay," she answered the frowning slave, still eying Manuel, "but if you've brought the money, I can get you some one right away."

It didn't take long for the other slave to procure coins from his pocket. They weren't the same as Feretris money, of course, but both countries traded based on the value of the metal in their coins. Usually such exchanges were done in regions much further north, but the capital also accepted foreign coins because they did much of the melting down and recasting. In other words, although the mistress gave him an annoyed look, she was able to weigh the coins and probably overcharge him.

"She can keep him until dawn, when he must be returned here," she elaborated, gesturing towards Manuel.

The older man turned, this time with a passive look. "Thank you. I'm sure my mistress will be pleased," he said in a monotone. Although he looked at Manuel, he didn't seem to care much about the young slave. All he cared was that he had found a guide. This was no time to be picky.

That caused the scowl to return. "Right now," he responded with a suppressed growl. He began moving at the same time and was nearly past Manuel before he finished speaking those two words.

As he held the door open, the older man kept his eye on the street, as if he expected one of Manuel's made up creatures to come gobble them up. "You've had breakfast?" he asked as they headed down the street. It wasn't a long walk. They were practically there the moment they started, coming to a stop at an hostel for travelers.