Beginnings, part 1

You wake to a stony darkness. It is difficult to remember, for a moment, where you are. But the reek of human sweat does for your memory what your sight cannot: you recall the days of travel, chained to splinter-ridden wagon boards, the tasteless gruel, the urine and feces of your fellow travelers. The lash of the caravan drivers. The lash of the slavers. A slow change of climate, your surroundings hidden from you by the sides of the cart you rode in. And, somewhere in this nebulous space of thought, the arrival: nighttime, dragged from the wagons and across hard gravel, shoved more than led into a rocky opening, down stony corridors by rough, mail-clad men. Thrown into a black room, an iron door heaved shut behind you. No more light.

And now, you are awake. And, it seems, not alone. Around you, muffled grunts and breathing, and perhaps someone stirring.