Slave in the eatery

I am a slave in the world’s most popular eatery.  

I distribute trough worthy nourishment to Orcs, Goblins and other hideous creatures of the repulsive and foul stench that we call the eatery but in the slave tongue it is sometimes mentioned as hell.  
 
At times I am pleasantly surprised by creatures of another kind. The kind you would not see in this part of the land. The kind that understand how it feels to be a slave. I call these people escapees. They have freedom, they have liberty and they have found the one thing I and many of my fellow slaves contemplate about. The key to freedom, the key to the shackles around our feet, the braces around our necks, the helmets on our heads, the week and heavy amour around our bodies and so much more.  

I have dreamt about this freedom for as long as I can remember. Being free, being able to escape the clutches of the slave owner.  

We never see our owner, he only appears when it’s time to collect his bounties. He is an old man our owner. Battle Scars on his face, he was once one of us but he turned his back on us as the chance for greed became overwhelmingly impossible not to choose. His greed will haunt him one day and I shall stand there with my fellow slaves, looking down on his frail, old and worthless spirit and eliminate him.  

My feet hurt, my body is worn out, my arms ache and the skin on my hands have almost disintegrated with the chemicals that we are forced to use. 
My eyes draw no tears though as I know I can fight through this pain but I cannot say the same for the other slaves that have entered this butchery and left in body bags.  
These are the fallen. Lost souls to the damnation of slave work. Some say they’re spirits lived on and found freedom in another life. I want to believe it but in my heart I know that it is impossible.   

Dishing out grub in small box like troughs, these in-humane creatures that we must call “the general public” threaten us with termination and sometimes they may threaten us with a roaring shout that they may think is powerful but it’s audience is un-moved.  
Once they’re consumables have been devoured and golloped they navigate themselves to the nearest lavatory and flush it out of their system and return to us to grumble, moan and chunter about how foul and revolting the grub was. They will often utter that the grub was bitter and was at artic like temperatures. A hierarchy slave will bow down to them and grant there request for fresher grub and always express regret in their voice.  

These creatures are greedy and remorseless.  

They arrive in there chariots of foul play and the stench of their monstrous like interior can smelt from a mile away. Often they will have their demon spawn with them, little children, who hoot and riot when they don’t get what they have begged and pleaded for. 
 
These little monsters are hideous.  

 

There are those who are very unintelligent, these are called the brain dead dopes, they haven’t had the right tutelage it may seem but these people are the causes of many inconveniences. There stupidity is often remarkable. How can one being be so obtuse? Are they like this around other creatures? They petition for grub that is currently non-existent! We have displayed what is currently present to eat but these people continue to ignore these coat of arms and petition for items that have never been seen in this location. It can baffle one’s mind. 

At times there trough like food is not yet brewed, we will discreetly move them along and ask them to position themselves in our parking facilities. They will often bite and grumble at us for requesting said action. Their teeth, yellow as a rotten toe nail, their eyes, bulged and unhinged, their nose, dripping in slime and snot, their mouths, watering and dripping with sulphate, they move along so that the next empty soul can snatch the grub that they have requested.  

The hierarchy slaves are often walking around with fear in their eyes, a tremble in their footstep, dampness and blood trailing from there temple, shivers up their spines, they are a nervous wreck.  
They used to be one of us, but they were overpowered by the dark lord of wealth and greed. Many slaves have fallen victim to this but then find light at the end of the tunnel and become free. Once they are free, they are never heard from again. They don’t wear shackles or braces like us. They are given low quality uniform that looks expensive but I assure you, it is cheap. I have often seen them, scratching and clawing there torso and their limbs. It must not be comfortable, but they speak about it being better than being a part of this chain gang.  

Once a new slave joins the chain gang, I fear for them. Will they make it out alive? Will they be leaving in a body bag at the end of the day? The many questions that roam my crown, minute after minute, hour after hour.  

I and many people become slaves by falling into a false sense of security, believing that we will be paid well, that we will be able to have luxuries but this is not true. 
Once you are selected you are a slave until you find a way out. Sort of like a life sentence in the slammer with no chance of being let out.  

Our owner will send forth his council of dishonourable druids at any given time to make sure we are obeying the rules of eatery.  

These Druids bring no good, they only bring evil with them. They will slash our backs with words of fear and a promise of a sanction if we do not comply with their wrong doings.  

There will be days when the owner and his council will meet with each other.  
 

They sit high upon a throne of lies, torture and unholy wrongdoings.  
They will seek a dark room where light has no entry. Darkness traps them. They despise anything that is light. Even our scullery has no light.  
 

A knock on the tomb like door where they lay and their eyes will survey, glance and scan you. Sending a deep horror and anxiety into you as their orb like eyes emblaze you.  
The owner, he rises from his ghastly and bloodied throne, he will roar like thunder, questioning your intentions as his council proceed to ventilate verbal diarrhoea towards you as you deposit yourself into that forsaken and unholy room.  

I have heard rumours and whispers that one of the slave owner’s council of druids is an animation, a droid, a robot of some kind. At first I thought that this was a mythological lie, a flawed invention of the mind but as time on earth has passed and prevailed, i have noticed that the state of affairs may actually be true.  
When our eatery tries to modernize itself, this particular druid is here with an updated capacitor and unseen knowledge of the system that borders us. This druids eyes seem to flash, there voice and movement is slower than the average druid. I cannot see their skeleton but I do hear whispers of it being droid like. 

I must know more before the earth cascades into a permanent darkness.  

Sometimes it’s not as bad as things seem.  
 
Yes, we’re all slaves but some of us are more than just that.  
Some slaves are jesters who like to crack a joke when they get an opportunity.  
Some slaves are magicians who have dealings in the dark arts and other areas of the dark world.  
Some slaves are mythical creatures like ogres, vampires, cyclopses, centaurs and even, but not many, gnomes.  
 
There is one creature I sometimes have to be chained to, he’s part ogre, part Cyclopes. He’s tall like an ogre but is very slow, very stupid and has only one eye that is, according to a vampire, is made of glass. I hear whispers that his farts can kill a man if he smells it and his burps can cause earth quakes. He will scratch his arse, pick his nose, spit, curse and stare at anyone who passes him. He is known as a bit of a pest. He will gaze and stare at the phoenixes and swans of the outside world, he’ll ogle at them for as long as he possibly can without getting caught. He often gets caught with his trousers between his disgustingly fat legs and his belly out for all eyes to see.  
His scent is like rotten fish guts mixed with vomit. Most us of with noses have to wear gas masks when we are around him as the scent could literally kill us.  
If you haven’t guessed it by now, he hasn’t washed since he was an infant, in fact, it’s believed that he’s too stupid to wash himself. Someone would have to wash him and that person would be his bride who’s also a cyclops but smells just as bad if not worse.  

We are a very unique set of slaves as we have Orthrus within our group. Twins. One body but with two heads. They’re a bit dull but they make up for it in some ways. 
They’re very much the same but can be hours of entertainment when the warden isn’t around.  

Now The Warden is the business manager. He runs the place for the slave owner. He makes sure that we are bleeding and are un-happy during his shifts. He possess a whip that has extremely sharp spikes on it that sticks into our skin and rips it apart. The customer can never be wrong in his dark eyes but the second you question it, you’ll get lashes on every part of your body, from your face, back, chest, legs and if you have wings, he will set them alight and laugh as you suffer and scream for him to put out the fire. He is sick, rich and very corrupt.  
What the slave owner doesn’t know is that The Warden is stealing from him.  
He’s stealing money, contracts and even stocks that don’t belong to him. He does this by pretending to be the slave owner at business meetings with other Wardens in the area. The Warden is a shape-shifter. Once he’s seen a face, he can replicate that person’s physical appearance and even change his voice to suite his audience. He must be stopped but no one has ever come close to doing so as it’s nearly impossible. The Warden covers his tracks very well. He never makes a mistake, he never forgets and has so many creatures watching his back. 

The dining area welcomes all sorts of monstrosity, creatures coming from the deepest and roughest parts of the world. Typically, you see families of ogres, orcs, goblins and even creatures from the deepest parts of the ocean. They all feast in a trough like pigs and then will vomit from eating too much and then drink some disgusting beverages like blood, vomit, fish guts and even the juice from eye balls. They will destroy furniture from being too fat to fit into the chairs and tables. The floor will be covered in blood, vomit, piss, shit, and sweat as well as left-over grub from the trough.  
 
We have witches clean up after them because these creatures have to be treated like royalty otherwise they will give a loud roar at the Warden and The Warden will have to terminate one of the witches.  

These witches where once elves of high honour but got caught by the slave owner, hunting them for sport. He would then torture them and mutilate them. He would make them suffer, bleed, vomit and destroy any hope of happiness they had.  
 
Darkness surrounds me. I’ve become so used to the darkness that it eases my passing through the eatery. I can’t remember what light looked like. It’s always dark and miserable. Depressing time these are as the world has gone into uncertainty about its future.  
 
Darkness has become so normal that I often forget light is something real and not just part of my imagination. I haven’t looked into a mirror in what feels like a century. I have so many scars that are hidden by bandages that have ended up becoming bloody and dirty.  

I often have this dream that I will escape the clutches of death in the eatery and I will come back with every person who has escaped and fight back the warden and the slave owner. I would suspect they wouldn’t fight alone as they will brainwash anyone they can get there grubby palms on. 
 

It is rumoured that there is a book. A book that speaks of a revolution that will last for decades, centuries and even millenniums. It speaks of someone rising above the slave like conditions and fighting back the people who allows this corruption and will fight it till they die. 
The slave owner and The Warden have stated that such a book is the work of fantasy novelists.  

I was once told by a beautiful and goddess like enchantress that the slave owner isn’t the one who is in charge of everything.  
She spoke of an evil jester that paints his face with the blood of his slaves and the ashes of those who have died. The jester lives in the tallest tower in a land where the brave are tortured and murdered for crossing him.  
I hear that the land is covered in darkness and that light has not been seen in those lands for thousands of years.  
Those who enter are never seen again. 
The enchantress spoke of slave owners being made there, as If it was a factory where limbs, heads and other body parts of slaves are assembled by androids who appear to be human but have robotic features. Apparently they do not feeling anything at all. They are emotionless.  

I find it hard to be optimistic here.  
Some of the slaves turn on each other and start fighting. The hierarchy slaves unchain those who fight and send them to a hollow pit. There, they will be starved for 2 days and then, if they survive a beating from a hierarchy slave, both slaves will fight it out to the death to win food. 2 go in and only 1 comes out.  

The equipment we use to dish out grub is broken and doesn’t work. It also has blood, shit and I once reported this to a hierarchy slave and they ignored me. I kept roaring at them until they grabbed a dagger and punctured my dirty and rotting feet. I was bleeding profusely. Luckily one my fellow slaves managed to stop the bleeding with a bit of their dirty uniform, enough to make a bandage out of. I currently feel nothing in that foot. It’s deeply infected and continues to get worse as the conditions of the eatery are always in decline.  
 
Before the world went into a sudden, unknown and unforeseeable darkness, when the eatery first opened, it was a blissful, merry and almost like a sunny, sort of, warm environment to be around. Humans actually laboured and operated the eatery.  

I was only a measly child when the eatery was built. Rumour has it, beings from a different planet built it overnight one day but that’s just hearsay. 

We are just one of many slave trades in this dull realm. Often we are transported to other eateries that our slave owner has a hold off. We are transported in poorly functioning trap they call a carriage.  
First we are freed from our chains and then we are ushered out the eatery with heavy bags over our heads so that we don’t know the way out of this hell. Proceeding forward, they imprison us on the trap with heavy chains around our wrists and ankles and then rip of the bags from over our heads. Sometimes salves can be restless and start getting out of control by trying to free themselves. In cases like this, those who ushered us out take action by impaling nails into the salves hands. This won’t kill them but it often infects them as the nails are made from ice cold steel that hasn’t been cleaned.  

The trap is being pulled by angry slave trolls who are kept only for heavy work such as building work and at rare times, defensive against enemies from distant lands. These trolls, furious, evil and so ugly, not even its birth giver would say it’s beautiful. They can lift extraordinary weights and have muscles in places that don’t exist on other beings. These trolls have been known to rip slaves in half when slaves try to flee the eatery. They have such an excessive force that our slave owner breeds them in a testing room, somewhere in a classified, undisclosed laboratory.  

 
We have foes that come from far distant lands, lands that are equal in state of filth and blood shed from wars, battles and skirmish from ancient times. The Mighty Mammoths from Merthyr. These are giant mortal beings with a human like appearance but they are gargantuan! They are well built and are in the greatest shape any living being could possibly dream of being in. They once invaded our realm and massacre everything and everyone in sight. The only way to stop them is to fire a gargantuan iced arrow to their heart and they will fall. It sounds straightforward but these arrows are THICK and bulky! An old Roman Ballista is used to tackle these arrows as the ballista is the only source of weaponry obtainable for us to tackle these beasts!   

A new foe is rising in Brynmawr, the Barbarians of Brynmawr. Word has spread across realms that they are butchering those who block there path of broadening and flourishment. They are unforgiving and care not to those who are in need. They seek to only destroy, vanquish and be the leading distributer in trough worthy nourishments. They have slayed the Dragons of Dudley in the empire of England, they have brutalised the Behemoths of Blackwood and slaughtered the Goblin King of Wales. From all the hearsay, perhaps we may be next.     

 

You may wonder why we fight in these battles. Well, we have no choice. If you chose not to go to war then you are terminated on the spot. Shift managers tend to get creative when it comes to termination. Once upon a time, it was common practice for a shift manager to crush the spirits of those who refused to go to war by setting them free and then calling a troll to stamp on the slave and then engrave the slave. The slave would end up passing away from this sort of pain as its 100% guarantee going to kill you.  

Our most barbaric battle was against the great King Balor and his black hearted, remorseless barbed devils of Newport.  

King Balor was a savage and blood lusted demon from the outer worlds who preyed on the uncontaminated and those who would dare to trial him in war. His skin, red, like the blood of his victims. After a satisfactory victory, he would drink the blood of his victims and then inhale the scent of death around him. His eyes, comprehensive, wide open. He could see enemies lurking from a great distance and could detect scent from an even greater distance. His nose, grave, deformed and broken. His sense of smell was greater than you can imagine, he had a knack for detection.  
His lugholes, well, he had none. This was the most concerning thing in the battle, he had no ears but could hear an enemy’s footstep from such a distance that slaves often studied ways on how to get past him without being detected but unfortunately would get caught and have their life taken from them. His legs, muscular, well built and powerful. It was once said that he became King by kicking King Ghidorah, the Dragon Lord, so hard that his guts spilled out and died from his wounds. The amount of pressure and blast Balor puts into his kicks are murderous.  
His arms, jacked, buff, so buff that his veins would always be showing. In an ancient tale, it was told that he could lift an entire army of Dragons with just one hand. In many tales they described his punch like shockwave of power. So powerful that he once punched The Goblin Prince of Ebbw Vale so hard, he evaporated into thin air.  

The barbed devils where his minions, his slaves, his servants of demonic destruction. They had the sharpest of shank like barbs sticking out of them. These became very useful against Ghidorah, The Dragon Lord, as they could scar him, decrease and wear him out so that King Balor could finish him off. The Barbed devils come from a long lineage of devils but are the superior race of devil. They have wings that, when active, can create hurricane like gusts of wind. In the ancient books of old, it was stated that, once, the barbed devils destroyed many ancient cities by just flapping there wings. They would shatter cities to ashes with their fiery wind gusts. Before Balor trapped them into slavery, they would be led into battle by Bagrag, King of the devils but ultimately met his demise at the hands of Balor in the great battle of Wales.  

When it comes to war, our weaponry is actually better than the equipment we’re forced to use in the eatery. We have blades, sharper than needles. Arrows, made of steel and wood, they can pierce the most ballistic of armours. Warhammers, thick, stocky, built so that it can demolish a dragon’s skull as well as ambush and destroy foes armour. Axes so sharp that they can cut a single nail from a gargantuan beast. Our axes come in a variety of sizes, some small so they can be launched directly at an approaching challenger. Maces, built for those who want to leave permanent damage to an adversary’s face. It was rumoured that the slave owner once weld a mace so powerful, he once left Amon, the Dark Prince of Austria, crippled from an sneak attack to the princes beastly legs. Our shields, THCIK, heavy and are able to take an unforgiving amount of havoc. Our slave owner is mostly proud of the shields the blacksmiths are able to produce. Our owner brands them himself with his hand, dripping in blood of previously fallen slaves.  

 

There are speculations that the Morgen, Queen of the Earth Green Dragons, will be arriving to meet with our slave owner to discuss the potential option of joining forces in order to terminate the Barbarians of Brynmawr. 

Morgen is a Dark Elf from the outer regions of Newport. She was abandoned as a youngling for reasons we ponder but it’s said that she was found by the Green Earth Dragons and has never left them since. She grew up with these Dragons and eventually proclaimed herself the Queen of the Earth Green Dragons. She has fought in many wars and skirmishes with them and without them but what makes her so unique is the bond she has with the Dragons themselves. They trust her and seem to understand her. None of us, not even the slave owner could understand the amount of pain she’s been through. She is a valiant, cunning and well-rounded warrior. She defeated Grog the terrible, a blood thirsty, vicious Ogre from North Cardiff in the infamous battle of Cardiff Stadium where she pierced him with arrows made from Dragon teeth and then proceeded to behead him to claim victory. Morgen’s battles without the Dragons are the stuff of legends but with the dragons, she will always have the advantage. It’s believed that her father is or was a great warrior of Monmoutshire but it is unknown who her parents truly are or were. They say that her Mother was a high council elf of Cardiff, helping Dictator General Kop of Cardiff, during the great wars of ancient times. As Morgen is an elf, she is cursed with an unnatural long life due to complications with her birth givers. It is unknown how long she will live for and what her weaknesses are.   

The Barbarians are being led by Luna Craftwitch. A barbaric witch so evil, so brutal and demonic that she mutilated her last husband after he defied her orders. It’s been told many times that she can turn slaves into stone but I hear that it takes a lifetime for you to turn into stone. One of the new slaves that just came to the eatery has a stone leg and speaks about Luna as if she was King Balor but apparently she is extremely more barbaric than Balor was or could have ever been. She uses witchcraft and enchantments on the battlefield so violent, thunderous and ever so hypnotic that she can force someone to take their own life with mind powers that are unheard of in these realms.  

Morgen and Craftwitch know one and other all too well as they fought together in the battle of for the Empire of England. A bloody battle with more bloodshed than any battle in history. One of the slaves, who was here before I entered this hell, was part of the bloodshed. She describes it with such detail. Apparently the battle lasted 8 generations and only ended when Princess Kali of London and Prince Dartmore of Manchester beheaded each other in a colossal collision of swung blades to the head.  

The hearsay appears to be true as Morgen is approaching the eatery upon one of her Earth Green Dragons. A loud swoosh can be heard from afar as the dragon lands. Little monster try to pet the dragon but instead get toasted by dragon. I don’t think anyone is gonna fuck with Morgen anytime soon if she continues to align herself with these dragons.  

This is not ordinary Earth Green Dragon though, this is the last Earth Green Dragon that was present in the great war of Barry Beach, many generations ago. Back then the beach was called Bartholomew Beach, named after its founder Bartholomew the 5th, the war lasted 15 years and many dragons were being slaughtered for their skin. The war was fought between many breeds of Dragons as they called the beach there lair but they couldn’t fight of the perusing apocalyptic knights of Dundee. Many Dragons fled the beach as the Knights Spears had been sharpened so much and on the end of each spear led a poison that could vanquish a dragon. The Dragons fought valiantly but could not hold back the Knights which led to them fleeing the beach and living in the Rain Forest Mountains of Sydney.  

It’s currently the summer in this realm, the eatery is getting hotter as each day passes. Temperatures are soaring. Some slaves cannot handle the heat, especially our Ogre like Cyclops. His flatulence has killed at least 6 slaves this week alone, some cannot handle such a hideous scent that they pass away because the smell has its own temperature within this unholy heat.  

The Ogre like Cyclops actually goes by the name of Pud. He’s such a halfwit. Just yesterday he asked the slave owner when he’ll be set free. The nincompoop thinks he can come and go as one pleases!  Pity his wife one does!  

The floor we’re propped upon has many cracks and many holes, some holes are large enough to trap a slave! I once fell into a hole and couldn’t break free for at least 2 weeks! The Warden eventually ripped me out of the hole after word had spread around the eatery that I was contemplating death. Once the warden ripped my lifeless and limp body out of the hole he belittled me with an intimidating shout and vowed to me and my fellow slaves that the slave owner will be the one to kill us, not some pathetic hole in the ground.  

The Warden and the slave owner think alike when it comes to war, there strategies are very similar.  

Both have won many battles and have faced many wars over centuries that both have disrespectfully have lived. I do not respect either of them and if given the opportunity, I would slay both of them and free my people.  

The slaves and I have agreed that we will not stand and fight for them when war is on our doorstep. We understand that it will be the death of us but our strategic plan means we will be joining a group of rebellions who are located in a classified and confidential location within our realm. The Warden and slave owner are completely and utterly unaware of such rebellion.  

The rebels are following what is happening in regards of the rise of the Barbarians of Brynmawr. 
Word has gotten out that they are eating and drinking supplements supplied BY OUR SLAVE OWNER!  
Does this mean that if and when we go to war, the slave owner wants us to help the Barbarians? Are we to follow such brutality and ignore it? Whatever the slave owner thinks, WE ARE NOT JOINING THEM!  

When the eatery, eventually, bolts the doors and locks its secrets away, we are sent to slums and are forced to sleep upon beds of numbing, frozen, solid steel and mucky sacks. Our bodies, freezing, in immense pain and slowly turning blue, the nausea is unbearable and insufferable. The thought of a good night’s sleep has been forgotten here. Just endless suffering and unhappiness.  
 
Sometimes slaves wake up at ungodly hours and are forced into work by the warden and the slave owner. When it’s time for us resurrect from our unfortunate slumber, a hierarchy slave will sound a siren with such a harsh, booming and ear-splitting rattle that we all scream. It’s so sudden and unforeseen. The hierarchy slave with march us into the cookhouse, single file. One by one we must be scanned by a shift manager to make sure we’re able to perform our duties. If the scanner doesn’t recognise you then you’re forced to go to the, what is known as in the slave tongue, the black hole. Slaves who go there are forced into even worse conditions than the ones we currently serve under. I am one of very little slaves to be brought back from such conditions. In the black hole you are forced to work into customers shit, see what they have devoured and demolished with their hankering tastes. The unavoidable smell can make the strongest of man wail and throw up their guts. You’re also required to be a test dummy. They make us try samples of the latest grub. It’s often brought to you on dirty boxes that have been used by customers. The amount of times I’ve been forced to chow down these vile nourishments is impossible to count. Inside the eatery, we are forced to listen to screams of those who cannot take the punishment of this pain. Some slaves have been left unable to articulate because there windpipe has been desecrated by their harrowing screams. It is unfortunate but we can do so little to help them as shift managers will vanquish them until they are no more if they continue to scream. 

 A lot of us are petrified about this war with the Barbarians, the uncertainty is rising now that the Ogres of Oakdale are now joining the slave owner in this ferocious battle.  

These Ogres are beyond disgusting. Hygiene is a foreign word to them. The pungent smell of sweat, piss and other unholy scents can kill if not treated with the correct medicines. They live in dank caves in the realms of Oakdale, a small village near the town of Blackwood, it has a history of crafting some of the finest blades this realm has seen. The Ogres took over the village many centuries ago after eating all that lived there, not a single living being was left alive. As well as inadequate hygiene, they can barely dress themselves sufficiently. They have a tendency to wear very little clobber. A pair crude brown pants that just about covers its genitals is a common site for them to be seen in.  
When it comes to war, they use giant clubs, made from the finest wood in the world, Australian Buloke. This wood is so strong that a dragon’s fire has no effect on it. Its weight is impossible to tell as Ogres are the only species in the realm that can lift such monstrosity.  

Recently the eatery has had a fire safety inspection, it’s a must if we are to stay open to the general public. We don’t have many fire related incidents, in fact, since I was captured we haven’t had any. The slave owner tends to avoid fires as the possibility of his beloved eatery being incinerated is one of his biggest fears.  
To make sure our fire appliances are up to standard, the slave owner will discharge a troll that is very large in stature, it has a thick and large outgoing belly, a bruised and battered face, large grey scaly feet that have rope wrapped around them, its eyes, bold and bloodshot, it’s always angry and never smiles. Wearing a dirty white t shirt and leaving nothing to the imagination. 
 
The troll arrives in a large truck, full of different compliances and components that fit around the eatery. As the troll departs his truck, it unveils the equipment for the fire inspection.  
As the troll walks around, you can see that he’s unimpressed with the state of the fire equipment. One of the slaves accidently trod on the troll’s ugly, gargantuan feet. A massive roar can be heard throughout the realm. The troll picks up the slave and devours him. Eating the slave, limb from limb.  

After a good few hours of inspecting our equipment, the troll tells a hierarchy slave that we passed the inspection. The hierarchy slave pays the troll in dirty money as well as the guts of dead slaves and pitchers of blood from dead slaves.  

There have been times where consumers have become so enraged with the eatery’s failings that they lash out and try to ambush, pummel and batter slaves, all because something small had been missing from there order. Its instances like these where the slave owner had to bring in security. The slave owner will give a loud roar for Wrathful. A hybrid human with bear like features. You do not want to get in the way of Wrathful as he’s been known to break creatures’ limbs when they resist his unorthodox power. 

Not too long ago, I stumbled upon a receipt stapled to a statement full of recent purchases of weaponry as well as earnings from the eatery. How can someone be so foolish and leave such an important document lying around? Some of the speculation among us slaves is that one of the shift managers left it there for a slave to discover. Some slaves are petrified as there are potions and chemicals on the statement that are banned in certain realms. There’s powders and mixes that witches wouldn’t even use. The slave owner is preparing for the battle of his life. One that may even take his.  

The slave owner has recently been granted permission by the realms governing bodies to launch a game within the nourishments we disperse where consumers are able to win prizes. Essentially it’s the eatery’s way of a glorified provision lottery… Well, if you think about it long and hard enough, which, in some realms, you may have to do, it is exactly that. A glorified provisions lottery. 

Some of the prizes these ghastly creatures we call our consumers are pathetic and are, at best, hollow, crummy and paltry but they’re being exhibited and broadcasted as if they’re upmarket goods with high market value. The most a creature can win is a high a capitol of cash, but even then the creature wouldn’t have any clue what to do with said capitol. They would most likely traffic and merchandise the capitol to the slave owner who, in return, would give them, either, a position within his unholy council or everlasting and never-ending supply of our trough worthy cuisine.  
 
Since the launch of this lottery, the warden has taken time off from his duties and left one of the most despicable, most cruel hearted hierarchy slaves to operate and see the day to day running’s of the eatery. He goes by the name of Guardian. No one knows his birth name or if Guardian is his birth name. He is so cruel but at the same time, he can crack a joke with some slaves and even pretend to be your chum but then, at a dime, he will turn heel. Going forward, he will drain your soul with fearful, powerful and demoralising words that can undress a slave and make them feel shallow and week. Guardian will stand there, howling and roaring with laughter. His pride is unmatched and unrivalled. Many slaves aren’t able to take such heel turns and start to fight back. The most a slave could do to Guardian is a minor cut to his face with a spatula but Guardian knows us slaves are ever so week from such relentless and vigorous labour and uses this to his temporary power change by simply moving out the way and letting a slave fall over and break their face on the ground.  

When Guardian isn’t due to be at the eatery, another hierarchy slave, who goes by the name of Decedent, is left in charge. Decedent is a cocky, overconfident blabber mouth. Normally he can be found around the eatery spreading unholy lies, propaganda and misinformation among slaves in attempt to get them to brawl for the entertainment of the warden. He once caused a battle royal that lasted for 2 weeks. I’m not sure what started the battle but they say he spread a deadly amount of misinformation around the eatery that it caused a tremendous amount of tension and that the only way to solve it was a battle royal. Those who participated died. No one survived and lived to tell the tale, only those who watched are able to recall such barbaric chaos. The Warden does nothing about Decedent, he just lets Decedent have his fun and watch as we all turn into barbaric creatures. Decedent likes to think he’s an almighty powerful god, he paints his skin with a golden paint that makes his skin glow and his hair glisten and beam. He walks around with his shirt tucked into his trousers ever so tight and his tie neatly pressed. He’s the smartest dressed within the eatery but the least trustworthy. He may look like decent but it’s all for show. 

If you think Decedent was bad, you haven’t met shift manager Unbridled. She is one of the worst managers I have ever had the displeasure of seeing. Her voice is ear-splitting as she likes to SHOUT her nauseating words. When Unbridled articulates, it’s almost like poison is coming out from her mouth. Her words are like a sword to the heart, they hurt and can kill instantly. She has mastered the common English Language to the point where she will use it to tempt other slaves into romantic alliances. She will flaunt her best (also known as her worst) features and a poor, unknowing and un-educated slave will fall for her trickery. They will form an attachment and Unbridled will torture there deprived heart to the point where the slave cannot live anymore. She has done this countless times and continues to do this as a sport. The slave owner finds it hysterical that slaves even fall for her. Unbridled has a wretched, unpleasant and vulgar attitude. Those she has no respect for will feel the wrath of her ear-piercing vocals. She will attack anyone at a moment’s notice with words that are venomous and toxic. Unbridled is currently in a relationship with a very foolish slave, he cannot see what all the other slaves see. He was given warning about Unbridled and her venomous personality but it looks like he was bewitched by her intoxicating words. 

 

If you despise Unbridled then you’ll feel the same way about Exalted. He’s one of the laziest and sluggish shift managers in the eatery. How he became a shift manger is often questioned by slaves. He does the bare minimum when he decides graft and labour. His English is extremely poor, he cannot form a sentence correctly. A slave once gained access to his documents and Exalted claims to be from the town of Cattle. An extremely lavish town where properties can sell up to millions and in the extreme rare cases, billions! He must have conned his way up to the manger position because no one this stupid can be manager! If he’s a manger then there must be hope for Pud if ever had a desire to become a manager!  
Exalted often arrives in a wrecked chariot that is missing its doors and even has a damaged wheel. The dope is an extremely scruffy person. His shirt, often inside out and has left over food stains. His trousers are too small for him and we’re often left seeing his hideous, boneless legs that look like they haven’t grown since he was a measly child. His hair, an absolute tip! He claims a high end barber cuts it for him and he pays a hefty price for such a design. Well, I say he’s full of shit because it looks like he cuts himself and fell asleep half way through! His beard, patchy, I don’t think Exalted knows how to groom himself or even babysit himself!  
Exalted neglects the most important duties when he’s in the eatery and proceeds to blame us slaves for why certain posts haven’t been attended too. He will often just sit in the warden’s office and doze off until someone notices but even then he will blame the slaves for his own failures. He simply cannot take responsibility! 

I recently had a very unpleasant encounter with Electron a shift manager who appears to have everything under her command but bottles it as soon as adversity strikes, she flees like a coward into the manager’s workroom and hides away from everything. Electron was once a slave but she acquired such knowledge of other slaves and what they shun, the slave owner gave her a deal like no other and joined the slave owner’s unholy council of druids. Electron is the odd one out in the council, her uniform is always shambolic, disorganized, cluttered and always contaminated with the food from the eatery. It’s believed that Electron hasn’t altered or even changed her uniform since she first became a member of the slave owner’s unholy council. Rumour among us slaves is that she’s never even had her uniform cleaned or even scrubbed. Its stench is overpowering and can make slaves eyes pop out. It sounds so far fetched but the last slave with a nose to even get a whisper of electron walking by, their eyes and nose literally departed from there face. It’s that severe! The slave owner and even the warden doesn’t pity those who have the unfortunate task of talking to her.  

Our realm has recently started getting numbingly cold. The winter months are brutal as temperature can get as low as –18 degrees. It’s very bitter, some slaves can’t take the icy weather and perish. My body feels like fragmented and broken, I'm not sure how long these arctic like temperatures are going to last, my hands are slowly becoming one with the ice. The baltic and numbing temperatures are literally freezing my hands, making it unfathomable to work. Solid as a metamorphic rock, i can no longer feel anything in my hands.

The Warden has forced me to work as a treasurer for all the capital the Eatery is taking in as i can no longer be assigned to making the foul grub that we are imposed to produce.

The legal tender in which these creatures, we must call the general public, is handed to me in tatters. Paper finance house tender that has rips, tears and even fraudulent markings. I have discovered many fraudulent tendered papers within regular creatures that have a passion for our allegedly rapid and accelerated drive-thru. When i question them, they become very high tempered and easily offended. How dare i question the integrity of our consumer is what the Warden would belittle and squawk at me. Many times, these creatures give me coins that are covered in grot and grime and tend to have a distinctive smell that lingers in the cash desk. I would encounter situations where a creature would throw all their small change at me and cart themselves off to collect their troff worthy nourishments.

Our cash desks work at a snail's pace, the screen takes an endless amount of time to calibrate and the touch system that the warden has installed is useless at best. I find myself having to thrash the screen in order to make it calibrate faster.

The cold weather hasn't stopped Brynmawr though as they have infiltrated other restaurants within our realm and they may have done the same to us but i just don't see it! All the slaves i've been chained up to recently look as sorrowful and unhappy as i do. Where is this misinformation and sad lies coming from?

i know that we have recently taken in more broken-hearted and grief-stricken slaves as the amount of product we have to deliver has become increasingly back-breaking and ever so unfathomable.

The cold weather has brought the eatery new slaves. They seek shelter from the snowstorms, blizzards and the frosty nightmare of hypothermia. Those poor bastards have no idea what they've done, other slaves would try to stop them from joining but end up being whipped endlessly by hierarchy slaves.