North of the warm Stygian delta lands lie the mountains of the southern climates, called mountains they are in truth mere mole hills when compared to their barbaric fathers of the northern lands but like all things of the civilized world what is written is truth.    Here lined up in rows are the gristmills that produce the massive quantities of flour and millet used to feed the great armies of the south, hundreds of slaves toil and die nameless and unhonored in their papyrus covered walls, chained to drive shafts at the earliest age possible and only released when death finally takes them.   It is here far from his northern home we find Cuthred descended from the finest Cimmerian stock, but now chained alone in this dark hell his mind shattered and broken beyond repair his body fashioned by pitiless work into a statue of bronze hard muscle..  Muttering black curses to beings only he can see the mad man plods on ceaselessly waiting for the meager offering that will mark his time of toil done, at least until they deem him ready to start again and then he will return to the monotonous task of turning the great mills stones.   

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