Dousa, what a pathetic name. Given to Dousa by the man who bought him. He had no name before he was packaged and sold like meat. His father, also a nameless fool, sold him along with his two older brothers to a group of fisherman, money needed to support the ten children who would be left staring at them as they were hauled away. Dousa hated the smell of the ocean. He loathed the salty air that choked down into his lungs for the next two years of his life. Sold at the age of 16, he would become a man, a fisherman. A slave to the pearly blue, only to return to the solid earth, the glorious shore, ever couple of months.
Comforting himself away from insanity became a game out on the waters. The sea was a terrible place and he would be its victim if he let his guard down. When he wasn't being disciplined for disobeying, or beaten senseless by the other crew for reasons beyond him, he was vomiting into the blue from sea-sickness. Truly horrible, the unending hell he found himself in. To make things worse, he had work in the bottom of the cruiser to row with the other slaves. Grueling work, even for a slave. Though he was beginning to realize that, that was all he would ever be, a slave.
Until, that is, the queen's men were searching for personal slaves. His luck would have them spot him as he was snatching knots into a large net during his short period on shore. Figures his day on land would be spent working just as he did on the sea. At least it was stable, no rocking to turn his stomach inside out. For that, he was grateful. The men came over and talked with his master a few yard off, the master seemed a bit distraught with their bargaining, but he would give in and be handed a small bag of gold.
Dousa found himself being stripped naked in a large room, he was instantly covered in maidens who scrubbed his body from the tip of his fuzzy black hair down to the callused bottoms of his feet. He felt lighter with each diligent stroke of the many brushes that peeled away at the dirt that clung to him. Before long he was wrapped in a fine cloth that hugged his body warmly. Being escorted through the castle was beyond Dousa's wildest dream, let-alone be treated with such regard. He was shown into a room which the door was closed and locked behind him. Inside he found a dozen or so men who seemed to have been treated just as he was. Each wore freshly woven cloth and smelt of beautiful ointments. He wouldn't flatter himself with the thought that the rulers of the land had gone soft, and were treating the low-lifes with new respect. He simply took a seat and waited to see if anyone would inform them of what they were doing there.