[Orual]

Dôranna stood, only half-listening, as she had done every year. Most years she would tune the selection out completely, but since rumours had been circulating about her being chosen, she wanted to make sure that she heard if something did end up happening.

Fionel. Haven. Desolyn. The first three names were unfamiliar to her, but that was not surprising; there were thousands upon thousands of slaves in Nurn. Dôranna twisted a strand of long blonde hair around her finger, hoping that she didn't look bored. She was supposed to look frightened. She wasn't.

"Number 11547, Section 7. Dôranna Celebyavë." Dôranna could feel the gasps behind her, and prison-yard whisperings. Nobody was surprised, probably, and Dôranna least of all.

She realized that several moments had passed in what had felt to her like the blink of an eye, and that the slaves around her were staring at her. Lord Ekatran was looking for her, too. She tried to move, but her legs felt like jelly, and they were steadily melting. "Varda help me, I have to move," she thought in panic. She stumbled, and someone behind her grasped her and helped her up. She stumbled up to the podium. She tried to find her voice, but it came out as a hoarse croak as she said "I am the fourth chosen, O Lord, and I shall be quarry for your hunt." She coughed and nearly retched, but controlled herself and was able to finish her "speech". She had not thought that it would feel like this, after so many years expecting death, to be faced with it. She had expected to face it like her father would have wanted her to, like a warrior, proud and calm. Not like a water-kneed weakling. Tears of shame burned in her eyes as she took her place among the other chosen. She would not die like this. She would either escape, or die a death to make her father proud.