Taking the long iron poker, Tarkith stirs the coals in the brazier, throwing up a shower of bright red sparks. Setting it aside, he takes up the leather bellows and aims the nozzle at the base of the fire. As he pumps, the flames shoot up high, sending a wave of heat rolling off the brazier into the otherwise chill dungeon.

From nearby, the blast of heat elicites a muffle whimper of fear. The captive girl in the dungeon with Tarkith can feel it and knows what’s coming. Not that there’s anything she can do about it. The rattle of metal tells the older man she’s still struggling against her restraints, like she’s been for the last ten minutes or so, and with the same amount of success; none.

Pausing with the bellows, he turns to glance back over one shoulder at the terrified maiden. She’s a slight, trembling thing. A slip of a girl, not more then 18 summers old. Part of a cargo of such maidens brought in by a recent raid from the lowlands. She’s naked, apart from the bronze collar already welded fast around her neck. The girl’s pale skin is covered with a sheen of sweat, partly from the heat of the brazier, partly from fear. Her straw blonde hair has already been shorn, leaving an inch or so of wild, irregularly cut hair almost like real straw on her head. Green eyes, wide with fear look around the dungeon, avoiding Tarkith and the brazier beside him.

The captive girl kneels on the stone floor in front of a heavy wooden post set into the stone. Iron bands circle the post are regular intervals, to which are attached thick metal rings. The maiden is bound to these rings, by her collar and at the ankles and wrists with tight rope. The final part of her bondage is a round leather panel covering her mouth. It’s merely the base of a long, thick plug pushed deep between her teeth, muffling whatever pleas or cries of fright she might make. Leather straps prevent her from removing the muzzle.

After giving his prisoner another long, leering look, eyes running over her naked, trembling figure, Tarkith turns back to the brazier, working the bellows again and raising the flames up high. After another minute or so, he sets them aside and reaches for an iron rod sticking out from the brazier. He lifts it, bringing the end out from where it was buried deep in the hot coals. At the end of the branding iron, an ornate symbol is worked from the metal, making the runic word for slave. By now, the metal glows red hot, bright in the dark dungeon.

Tarkith nods, finally satisfied with it. He turns back to the captive, iron in hand. Her eyes go even wider, her face paler, as she now sees, already suspected, what is planned for her. But there’s nothing she can do. She strains with her arms, tugging on the ropes holding her fast to the branding post, the tight cords digging painfully into her soft skin, but they remain unyielding. Meanwhile, Tarkith approaches, brand in hand.

With his free hand, Tarkith reaches down and sets it on the maiden’s shoulder. He applies firm pressure,  to stop her struggles, lest she twist or pull away and so mess up the marking. She closes her eyes, tears pouring forth while muffled cries struggle to get past her gag. He ignores these, concentrating on lining up the end of the brand, just above her left breast and below the collar bone.

With smooth, practiced motion, he brings the brand forward, pressing the hot design firm against her body. She bucks wildly, her screams loud despite the heavy gag, but the slaver is prepared for this and keeps the brand pressed in place for several more seconds. At last, he pulls it away, letting go off the girl with his other hand. She slumps down, sobbing brokenly, stunned by the pain.

Remaining on her chest is the livid red mark burned into her. Tarkith returns the brand to the coals and grabs a clay pot of some ointment. He takes some and spreads it over the brand, eliciting more screams from the newly marked slave. They fade as the ointment takes hold, dulling, though not completely eliminating, the burning band. It would also help ensure the brand healed cleanly. The white scars of the branding iron would become a permanent mark. Whatever the future held in store for the girl, the brand would always identify her as what she was now: a slave.

The doors to the dungeon opened and two more slavers came in. Working quickly, the untied the senseless slave girls hands and feet from the branding post. Lifting her up between them, they carried her out, to a cell where she could rest and recover for a few days. Then, once her strength returned, she would go to the auction block.

Meanwhile, another girl, struggling, fighting, was dragged into the room from the holding cell. As she was lashed to the pole the same as the previous captive, Tarkith went to work with the bellows, feeding the flames and bringing the branding iron to a red hot state, to mark her as well...