Ilvel woke with a start. He’d had that dream again, the one he’d been having for the past week. Always the same dream, and never any less disturbing. Worst of all, it robbed him of his sleep, and he wasn’t getting enough of that as it were. Muttering softly under his breath, he looked around him. It was dawn; he could see the light from the sun slowly conquering the shadowy ground of the city, street by street. None of it fell on him yet, but he found that he could warm his leg by letting it dangle from the space in between the strange wooden bars of his cage. That felt really nice. He kept looking around him, and stopped at his peers. The other slaves. His fellow brothers and sisters in captivity. He knew so little about them, and he’d been with some of them for such a long time. Made him wonder. Most of them were still asleep, but he found to his surprise that one of them was looking back at him.

Panicking, he set a mean frown and hissed at the other one.

What do you think you’re looking at, s’wit?

Q'lar was up early as usual. He never failed to get up before the sun even rose from the horizon. Most of the other prisoners were still asleep at that time. He waited for whatever orders were to be given now. He looked at the bars, oh how he hated this feeling. The feeling of not being free. He wanted to go back to his original profession, being a thief not a prisoner who does their bidding. He was sitting down leaning on the wall behind him. He looked at Ilvel as he talked to another prisoner. He looked pretty pissed off so he paid no mind.

Jo'ari was startled by the dunmer, she hadn't expected him to be so aggressive. She had watched him for a bit upon waking, she was quiet so it wasn't surprising he just now saw her. Jo'ari didn't know what to think of Ilvel, he was always so hostile to every one, but he never tried to secluded himself... never strayed far from other slaves unless commanded to. Jo'ari had been a slave for about 5 or 6 years now... she wasn't sure timekeeping was hard, but Ilvel had already been a slave, and she wasn't sure for how long. "Oh... nothing! You woke me up with your thrashing... don't be so quick to wake!" She added a small snarl at this, not a hostile one more off an angry tired one. She sat up a bit, and checked the lynx like fur that stood at the top tips of her ears, she was happy they had never been cut, she liked that her hair grew that way. "But now we're awake, so you may as well prepare for when the masters get here... I'm sure it won't be long"

Ayron was awoken by a loud hiss and the following one sided conversation between the Khajit. He almost threw a shoe at them; however that dark elf Ilven or Alvin or whatever was very mean and any attempt of friendly slave conversation was met with a cold glance that would ice Ayron to his very bones. So he refrained from his most likely horrid idea and now that Aryon was awake before the day of work began he was stuck with only his thought. Thoughts, not of home, but of escape and macabre murder of the foremen through out this entire Telvanni complex that even a skeever is too good for. As he closed his eyes he concentrated on his dreams of making it outside. Left, right, up little lift, right, and continue straight till you reach fresh non dank spore filled air. Outside lay woody roots of the strange mushroomed capped trees and the small town around the tower. The high and mighty Dark Elves, who employed the sorry lot that is the confined group beneath the soil, who live above us all even though they simple own a large slavery operation.

"What I wouldn't give..." Ayron muttered to himself, somehow waking the slave beside him.

Kharrn growled and rolled over in his cage, "Shut up and let those who can keep sleeping do so," the line was uttered loud enough to address the others making a fuss in the predawn quiet. Lately he had noticed that scrawny Dunmer jerking awake like a mage had hit him with a lightning bolt. It varied day to day on who woke when, but the noise always roused him out of his own sleep and soured his mood. The barrel-chested Orc rammed an elbow against the thick wooden slats of his cage and growled again as he tried to block out the noise and go back to sleep.

Michael's eyes shot open when he heard the Dunmer's hissing. "Would you be quiet!?" He stood from his cell and pushed himself up against the cage to stare at the Dumner. "The likes of you would be executed in the Empire!" Michael's attention then turned to the Orc. "I know it makes you feel tough to slam the cage but you're making too much noise!"

It quickly set in to Michael that he shouldn't be yelling at the others. He rubbed his head and groaned. "I apologize. I just get mad when I'm tired." He scratched at the wrist of his left arm, under the shackles. "Being a slave to the dark elves doesn't help my mood either." He collapsed back and sat against the bars in his cell.

Jitharee was ill at ease. The feeling had been sticking with him for several days now and infected his dreams, bringing little much needed sleep. Tension was in the air, it was beyond his reasoning as to how they couldn't taste it like he could. Perhaps it was the way the overseers cracked their whips extra hard this past few days or maybe it was the fact that the normal stench of the pens were becoming far more oppressive then it usually did, either way a storm was on the horizon and it was going to crash upon their heads soon.

Since sleep evaded him Jitharee sat in his dark corner of the pen, the one he had spent little more than a week to earn. Several broken noses and a dozen lashes got him his spot and it has been his for years. Sure every once in awhile he had to put the newer slaves in their place, a shiv here and a fist fight there, but it was firmly his spot. It wasn't worth the trouble for most people. Others began to awake, some made noise, some spoke, most kept to themselves, but for the most part all was quiet. Until the Orc rattled the door, Kharrn had never been the subtle type.

Emitting a deep hiss, Jitharee voiced his displeasure but otherwise kept to himself. Kharrn wasn't as good a warrior as him but made up for it in savagery and strength. The playing ground was even and there was little to gain for the squabble, both would get the lash. With little else to do Jitharee began to fiddle with his shiv, making sure it was as good as it could get. It was a simple thing, just a piece of scrap metal wrapped in a shed of cloth that used to be his shirt, long ago abandoned as little more than a hood wrap for the heat. The shiv was as good as it was going to be and as such stuck it into a hidden pocket he had fashioned long ago, the guards would do far more than whip him should they find it.

Gazing upon the gate, Jitharee waited for the day to begin.