As the world choked on pallid dust, and the moon burned bright with fire and death, the Varn strode across the world as titans. Each man an army unto himself, each woman an arsenal of sorcery and guile. They ruled over lesser men, those incompetent former custodians, and wrought order or chaos to sate their whim. There existed only the masters and the slaves.
In the pens, so too did hierarchies arise. It is man’s nature to build, to seek leadership, to bend knee. The most savage could rule for a time, often falling to the most intelligent, or treacherous. Yet, by strength or intellect, whether brute or plotter, a slave remained a slave, and all remained in shackles beneath the whip.
Yet the whip served indiscriminate justice, its judgment rendered by wanton mongrels. The overseers were those blind enough, or fool enough, to believe themselves the whip’s master. They too were but slaves.
All too often, the whip’s victims proved powerless. Impotent. Worthless. But the Varn do not bear the lash easily, and under duress, with passions inflamed, the blood of titans might manifest.
