Peripeteia

We’ve lived in shadow for centuries, not daring to show our faces. Forced either to hide or lose our dignity through slavery, we are no longer the proud race our ancestors were.

We’re reduced to little more than beasts in their eyes, servants and tools to use at their leisure. Our fledgers are raised up to believe the lie, to believe they deserve subjugation. What god is there that allows this? We have none to blame but ourselves and the latrones who dare subjugate us. So we must overthrow our Daywalker overlords, overthrow the shackles that bind us, so we no longer must hide nor cow under the yoke of the Daywalkers.

My mate -- not wife, for as you know we Nightlings are not given the right to take wives-- was taken from me because our owner thought a fairer skinned Nightling would suit his home better. I was allowed to remain with my son because our owner’s wife took a shining to him.

Imagine that, your hold on your own flesh and blood being so tenuous as to bend to the will of an outsider. It was only by the grace of our owner’s wife loving children, regardless of species, that I was able to raise my son.

But yes, I raised my son. I taught him our culture and tongue so that he may one day tell his own fledgers. I sang him lullabies to soothe his fear of the night’s thunder and darkness. I watched him take his first, unsteady steps across the hard-packed dirt floor of our shack. When he was older and suited for it, I taught him Carvecraft, the gift given to Nightlings by our patron the One. He had a stunning aptitude for it, even managing to perform upper level casts without the aid of a Volnus. Of course, once he was strong enough our owners set him to work in the fields.

It is hot, back-breaking work, with little reprieve, working in the fields. If a Nightling is lucky, the males of the owner’s family will join in to help. The females may run water and snacks to the workers, Nightling and Daywalker alike. Sometimes a Nightling is unlucky, and is chosen by a master who delights in working them to the bone, using them in the bedroom, or using corporal punishment and motivation. Our owner was not unkind, but the same cannot be said of our brethren. How many shall suffer under Daywalker hands before we rise up against them?

I have seen men’s backs reduced to bloody rows of flesh. I have seen women laden with children born of force, not love. I have seen fledgers with hungry skeletons and shriveled stomachs. All these in the compounds and in the Daywalkers’ own homes.

My brethren, I ask when we must draw the line. How many more shall we allow to suffer the indignity and brutality of slavery? In which century shall we overthrow our tyrants?

My son is now a man. He has his mark of initiative carved into his chest for all to see. Our clan markings adorn his palms. He is a full-fledged Nightling now, and I fear I have nothing but a world of cruelty to offer him.

Some of you, more than others would care to admit, have grown complacent with this treatment. I’ll admit some Daywalkers treat their slaves kindly. A few even accept their Nightling servants as members of the family and treat them accordingly. But if you remember nothing of my words this day, remember that a thousand good masters do not outweigh one master who starves and beats his slaves.

The reason is thus: we were not made to be ruled. Our bodies are meant to answer our will and our will alone. The Daywalkers have disgraced us. Would extermination have been preferable to a life of servitude for us and our kin? Perhaps. One can never be certain in these matters, but of this I am certain: the Daywalkers can own us no longer.

The Daywalkers will own us no longer, but we must remain calm and retain the moral high-ground. That means no Nightling can kill his master. There will be no riots in the streets and no chaos in the cities. If we are to liberate ourselves, we must do it without promoting discord. Violence is not the answer, and the revolution will be civil. This is a war, make no doubt, but the goal is freedom and harmony. We do not want to make enemies of the Daywalkers. Rather, we should forgive them their trespasses against our honor and befriend them. They would make powerful allies. Add to that the fact we cannot, in good conscience and in good faith of the One, hold a grudge of this magnitude.

So my family, my fellows in chains, my fellows forced to the shadows, will you allow this barbaric disgrace to become our legacy? Or will you stand with me and force the Daywalkers to see the errors of their way?

In theory, the speech was flawless.

In practice, the speech was less perfect but still effective.

Igne Cincinnulus paced the tight space that served as his base of operations. The thin layer of water coating the ground sloshed with his every step but his mind was far away from the idle noises and damp chill. Droplets of water fell from the ceiling and a dusty, musky scent overwhelmed the space but it was a veritable haven for Nightlings. They’d finally been driven underground, literally, or rather they’d finally taken the initiative to hide in the abandoned caverns.

The city of Daybreak bustled without a care and without knowledge of the Nightlings hiding under their feet.

Igne felt a brief swell of pride in knowing that it had been his actions that led to this moment. Already hundreds of Nightlings have disappeared from under their masters’ noses, only to reappear in the subterranean caverns the rebels had taken for their own.

However, the pride was short lived. Thoughts and worries overtook his mind: that any day a wandering Daywalker would find their settlement and bring down the full force of the law. What Igne hoped to accomplish was treason of the highest order. Granted the king was a Daywalker and as such he felt no particular loyalty to the man, but he did love his country; this ate away at him as he paced restlessly in a circle.

“Salve.”

Igne’s head snapped up at the sound. A faint smile on his lips as he recognized the familiar figure that approached, he returned the greeting. “Salve,” he said. “How does the surface world fare?”

Brecke, his son, stern faced and serious, answered him like he would a war general. “So far the Daywalkers are unaware we are camped here. Our scouts in Dawntreader have reported encountering and assimilating a second group of rebels.”

Good. Numbers were always appreciated, though at the moment they had few supplies to go around thanks to the harsh winter. Igne met his son’s eyes, wordlessly prompting him to continue. Such a stroke of good luck surely came offset with an equally potent stroke of bad luck; Igne had always been the sort of Nightling to dig out the quills of a Guillbeast quickly, rather than slowly ease them out. He was glad his son shared the same mentality.

“In Daystar,” Brecke said, “the Enforcers have instituted a curfew on owned Nightlings and are performing routine tag checks. Apparently a Nightling in the Daystar camp burned down a storage silo, and the commander of the camp invoked the rite of decimatio.”

Igne watched his son’s face for any sign of emotion, but none was forthcoming. He supposed that was better; after all, the Nightlings looked to Igne and Brecke for emotional support and a figure to rally around. It was disturbing that the long defunct rite of decimatio had seen, however briefly, a return.

He sighed, coming to a decision. “It would be unwise to have untagged scouts in Daystar,” Igne said, “at least until security relaxes.”

Brecke nodded once in understanding, but didn’t leave. Honestly, Igne thought, he could have easily been a soldier, were history not so twisted. In three long strides, Igne closed the gap between them. Not softly but not unkindly, he asked, “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, though you needn’t ask.”

Up close, he could see the tell tale signs of exhaustion written in his young face, and also signs of burnout. His eyes were ringed with sleep deprivation, smudges of shadows burning under them, but a tell-tale electricity glimmered in his irises; judging by the fact he wore long sleeves despite the heat above ground, Brecke’s veins were likely discolored and shimmering with remnants of the same mystic energy; no doubt Brecke was sleeping poorly and straining his Craft. But again, such sacrifices were necessary, and neither of these was anywhere near severe enough to necessitate an order for rest.

Every able-bodied Craft-worker was needed, and his son was no exception. Plus, he and his son had an understanding. Brecke knew he was of more value to the cause rested and healthy than dead of Craft-poisoning.

All these observations occurred within the blink of an eye. “Very well,” Igne said. “I’d like you to lead a team to Starlight. Your objective is the same as always: liberate. Discede.”

“Vero domine.”

With that, Igne was left alone again, to ponder the next move.

The next ideal move would be to mobilize and break the Daywalkers’ control of Daystar, but logistically that wasn’t currently possible. It hurt to have to leave his fellow Nightlings trapped in such conditions, but it was a necessary evil.

Once they had the time to train more of their number, they could descend upon Daystar and easily relieve their brethren of their shackles. An unprepared assault would prove more disastrous than helpful, and would ultimately result in the Daywalkers feeling entitled to their slavery. More so than they already are, he thought with a slight tinge of bitterness.

Igne grunted as he returned to his pacing. Though he was admittedly thankful that progress was being made, it was far slower than he’d hoped. Every day that passed without victory was another day fledgers spent denied a proper future.

With a shiver, he turned up his collar to fight back the chill of the subterranean cavern.

The eventual victory, when Nightlings were no longer held subservient, would be that much sweeter for their sacrifices now. As much as it pained him, their freedom would be hard-bought with lifeblood.