ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

[Dion]

A collaborative story based on Marches of Man, a roleplay set in a fictional medieval world.

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich.

Theme song for the arrival of Ketill

---

---

The road from the fortress of Coedwin had seen a few changes, not in it's appearance, but more so in the surrounding areas. As Ketill traveled, he noticed the shifts in the air. Though they were common, as you traveled from the warm South to the colder North, they gave him an unbecoming feeling, as if something that was coming in the future was going to go awry. But, Ketill thought, he also knew he had the Monarch at his back. A Servant never walks alone, they said, and that much had been true. Besides his brothers in arms, the other Servants, it was a comforting thought that where ever he went, the Monarch went, and as such he always felt blessed. Even in troubled times. But now he had received news, while on duty in the large fortress of Coedwin, that he was being recalled by the good lord Jachsen.

---

It was believed, apparently, by not only lord Jachsen but also the king, that the assassin had appeared in order to neutralize the expedition before it happened. This was in fact the first real lead they had on the banner - if the Sawarim sultanate cared so much as to send an assassin, surely they held the banner. This was not only a religious expedition for that matter, but had immediately turned into a political one too. None knew of the true intentions behind the assassination, but ignorance was bliss, and it was easy for the church to see less practical but more holy reasons in this assassination. Everyone knew lord Jachsen, and his wife, were both pious Monarchists. In fact, the princess-lady of the North was related to the king, and thereby stood in close relation to the Monarch. She was, after all, a daughter of the Monarch on Earth. Perhaps, the church thought, she'd been the intended target instead. No matter. According to what little Ketill had heard, the man was caught and his head put on a pike as a warning.

It had been a year ever since, and preparations for the expedition had just completed. It had taken a year only because there had to be a gathering of money, resources and of course, the churches approval. This came in the shape of the king's blessing.

Almost immediately, in the very earliest stages of the expeditions preparations, the help of the Servants was asked for by lord Jachsen and the king, and one name in specific was asked for by lord Jachsen; Ketill Grímhilðrson. The close ties to lord Jachsen that Ketill himself held were reason enough, but he was also a seasoned veteran, who knew the Sawarim enemy better than most. His scars were proof of that.

He had not been warned of this request however, and thus he was caught by surprise when a year after the request, he was told by the grand master of the Servants that he was released from service at Coedwin, and was to travel to the Barren Halls to receive a new task as advisor of the Expedition in name of the Servants. It would serve them well, it was thought, to have some holy knights.

Without question, he agreed, and left the day after.

---

It had been nearly two weeks travel, including a visit to the capital of Broacien. For such a small country, Broacien had treacherous roads and mountainous regions, especially in the south, where the sand dunes grew tall - though, not as tall as the deeper territories of the Sultanate - and in the north, where a natural border with the tribes was made by the Monarch in the form of these mountains.

During his visit to the Hoffburgt, he spoke briefly with the king in a rather formal ceremony. He was blessed by the Monarch on Earth, which gave him a better feeling about the journey ahead of them at least. Furthermore, he received some more practical notes about the expedition from the kings marshal. Supposedly, there were a mere ten knights and professional soldiers. It was relieving to know that there would be some professionals, though it was discomforting to know there would be so few.

Then, there would be five main leaders. These were divided, of course, into separate groups. There was lord Oliver, a young lad with ambition. His father was a noble in the far reach of the Murkran territories, and thus he was noble and therefore deemed fit to lead. From what Ketill knew, the boy was young, ambitious, brave and a good fighter - but not tactically gifted.

His father had bargained with the king to give his son this position, and as such, lord Oliver was set aside by Ketill early on as 'the noble blood that gives us a name'. A useful person to have, if you need him, but otherwise unremarkable and annoying. But he reserved judgement until he met the boy at least.

There was also two quartermasters, one that took care of armor, weaponry, and necessities for battle. The other one took care of necessities for travel - food, horses, carriage, camp followers, traders, money. The names that were given were of little importance, but what was important was that they came from the Hoffburgt merchants guild. That meant they were influential - and wealthy. Possibly they were investors in the expedition.

Regardless, they would be interesting, required, and above all, not of noble blood. The people you'd seek out if you needed a certain item.

The other three were simply put a leader of the militia, a veteran man called Gregor who had served in the wars before and had ever since taken up positions in various villages, training the militia for a small fee. He was known to be pious, zealous even. A capable fighter, good strategist, but a pain in the ass to get along with. He had brought the rest of the people - 80 militiamen. Though, in Broacien, militiaman just meant peasant with a sword. Or club, bow, spear.. cannon fodder.

The second was a slavemaster of the Coedwin region. He was Sawarimic in descent, though he did not follow the Sawarim faith. A dishonorable man that traded in slaves. He was only brought along because he had promised to pledge slaves for free if he was granted the opportunity to join the expedition. His reasons were unsure, but the slaves a welcome addition.

The last person was a priest, a bishop of a region in the North. He was put forward by lord Jachsen himself, which was interesting since there were many bishops to choose from, and Ketill knew this bishop in particular personally. Perhaps that was done on purpose, but Ketill knew that lord Jachsen did not like this bishop. It gave him food for thought, on the road for the rest of the travel to the Barren Halls.

---

When he arrived, he was greeted by the lord himself. He took Ketill to the main hall, where his wife was also seated in one of the thrones. Ketill followed him closely, and when he walked up to the center area in front of the thrones, bowed lightly to the princess while the lord took his seat.

“Ketill, your arrival is timely. The expedition is ready to leave - they wait for your command,” the lord spoke, glancing at his wife as he did.

“I see. There is no time for idle chatter then, my lord?” The lord shook his head, to which Ketill nodded. Understood.

“Although, there is one thing I might offer you yet,” the lord then added after a moment of silence. He looked upon the steward, near the large double doors that lead to the main hall, who nodded and left quickly. “.. for your prolonged service and loyalty to my family, Ketill, I would like to offer you a servant of your own. Though, I know you are not of noble blood, it seems fitting that a Servant of the Monarch has someone to share his burdens with.”

As if on cue, the doors swung open again and a olive skinned woman was lead into the halls. Certainly not a northerner. Not from Murkran either, though perhaps the Redsand province. Unlikely but possible. Maybe from the Sultana-

“.. took her in a year ago, and she's served us well. Though, she's yours now. Do with her as you wish - that's your right as a Servant, I suppose,” the voice of the lord interrupted his thoughts, as he had been staring at the woman for a good 2-3 seconds.

“.. thank you my lord.” Ketill said, looking back at the lord now.

He bowed quickly and turned around, facing the woman. His feet moved towards her rapidly, and with a firm grasp he took her arm, taking her along with him. There was no time to be wasted if this expedition was to be successful, and she would only complicate matters in the short run. He took her to the guest room he had gotten assigned to him, and closed the door behind them.

Furiously he began packing his bags again. “Your name?” he asked, with a certain masculine, forceful undertone in his voice. He was not angry with her, but perhaps it was possible to discern that he was not satisfied with the situation either.

It did not cross his mind to have this new slave of his pack his bags for him, or at the very least help him. She was, more or less, left standing in the corner of the room awkwardly, possibly depending on herself to make a move - or none, if she wished to be lazy about it. “You're not from here, you're not from Murkran, spare me the lies. You're from Redsand or the Sultanate - which is it?”

@Odin

[Dion]

It was the closest she had come to freedom in a year, yet Najla wanted no part of it. The details the steward had given her were sparse, and likely carefully planned, and as such, her conversation with him had left her confused and unsatisfied.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” The steward had never been cruel to her, but he did not like her, and now she was wasting his time.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t-” she caught herself before she could say ‘understand’ once more, knowing it would only irritate him more.

“You’ll be outfitted and readied tomorrow, he should be arriving then. Go rest.”

Najla disobeyed him. Her night was fitful, and to Najla, it seemed the steward had only told her that which would worry her. He had told her of the man she was to serve, and that kept Najla awake deep into the night, praying that a Servant of the Monarch wouldn’t harm her, or even that this Ketill would either be kind or stupid enough to allow her freedom someday. The steward had also told her that this was to be a holy expedition, nothing beyond that, and yet that was enough to keep Najla awake as well, pleading that the Monarchists would fail before she was made to betray her faith.

----

Najla spent much of the next day under the steward’s eye, being prepared for her new task. Thankfully, this included a chance to clean herself up some, and even some newer clothes to travel in. She asked no more questions about her future during this time, knowing the steward would offer her nothing else. Instead, she was given instructions from time to time, and Najla limited any questions to those instructions. Her prayers last night had eased her mind some, having convinced her that this was more of an opportunity than a setback, and with a diminished fear of her future, Najla was less keen to know it.

The steward had called on her when they had seen Ketill arrive, and she was simply told to wait until they could bring her in. She had been ready for some time, given a few necessities, her hair braided out of her face, though Najla expected that she would be made to wait longer as they spoke inside. Apparently everyone was as eager to leave Barren Flats as she was, for it took little time before the steward walked back through the doors, motioning for her to follow him.

Though she could hear Lord Jachsen’s now-familiar voice as he introduced her, it was but a background to the rush of thoughts as she eyed the man. She only looked upon him for a moment, instantly casting her eyes downward when she caught his gaze. He was indeed a Servant, and the easily recognizable marks on his forehead caused her to bristle, though she did not have long to relish her anger before he approached.

Hearing the swift strides of his feet, Najla looked up moments before he grabbed her. His grip was as unrelenting as his pace, and he was far taller than her, leaving Najla struggling to keep up as he pulled her along. When he finally released her, she instinctively reached up to touch her arm, as if worried it would bruise.

“Your name?”

The harsh tone jolted her, and she glanced around the room as if suddenly becoming aware of her surroundings, only taking a breath before her response. “Saina.” It had been the name she gave upon her capture, and then her name for a year. It was a name of no importance to her, simply a common one she had conjured when she needed any name but Najla.

With that, she began to help. The harsh tone of his voice had not escaped her, and based on the way he was rapidly packing, she could guess as to why. Her movements were quick and clean, and she only hesitated as he asked her another question, again in the same tone. Najla was hardly surprised that he could tell, assuming that his time fighting her people had familiarized him with their faces.

“The Sultanate, my lord.” Her eyes flicked upwards, studying his face cautiously. She was watching his expression for any changes, the slightest flicker of a frown or snarl to gauge his reaction from. Instead, she found herself studying his scars at first, then the marks on his forehead, both of which seemed to provide her with enough answers. When her gaze moved from his forehead to his eyes, the like of which she had rarely seen, it lasted but a moment, and she looked down again as if embarrassed.

Her judgement of him had only taken a moment, and in spite of all her questions, it did not occur again. She continued to help him pack his things, all the while making sure to stay out of his way. Her work was swift, as she was trying to meet Ketill’s furious pace, and it did not take long before she had closed a couple of his bags. It seemed Najla was just as eager to leave as he was, for though she was certainly more fearful, leaving this god-forsaken keep had been a prayer of hers for a year now. She stood by the door with these bags in her hand, simply waiting, either for another command, or to follow him out. It was an odd sensation, to maintain such a timid attitude and wait around for another’s commands, but a year of this humiliating process had made her exceptionally good at it.

@persianversion

[Dion]

“Saina?” he said, following her intonation. He mimicked how she spoke the name, though he did not do so perfectly, it was closer than many Broacienian man had hoped to get. Years in Coedwin had accustomed him somewhat to the strange sounds the Sawarim people made when speaking at times. She said she was from the Sultanate, and he merely nodded. Though he withheld some of his judgement, he appreciated the honesty at least. Many, many Sawarim prisoners would've lied if they had been given the chance. When she studied his response in the face, or rather, studied his marks and scars, he noticed but did not speak about it. It seemed natural to him - a captured woman would be wary of a new master, of course, and especially so if she was a Sawarim woman.

“You are either brave,” he spoke as he continued to pack his bags, putting a dirty white linen shirt into one of the linen sacks before pulling the cords and tightening it, closing it shut. “Or very stupid to tell me that you are from the Sultanate. Admittedly, your countrymen all seem more brave than stupid, as proven by my scars, so I'd be inclined to believe it's misplaced bravery.” He stopped packing momentarily and seemed to be having a moment of clarity, or perhaps a moment of thought. Finally, he veered upright and turned around, grabbed the linen sack he'd just filled with clothes and lightly threw it in the direction of Saina.

“Let us not play the fool, then,” he said, looking her directly in the eyes as far as he could, given she had a tendency to turn her gaze away. He turned immediately after, continuing to speak to her while he grabbed the two heaviest bags, leaving only a few of the clothes-filled sacks for Saina. Not that he didn't want to take those too, but his hands were full with the heavy leather bags. He wasn't sure on how to treat this woman, but just because he now had a servant of his own, didn't mean he could rest on his laurels and make her do everything.

He headed out the door immediately, keeping up his rather harsh pace. He was a man that wanted things to do - at the very least something on his hands, as simple as cutting a stick, or carving wood, bone, or even sharpening a sword. Anything was better than doing nothing. Meanwhile Saina looked like she had not seen hard, laborious work for years. It made sense, since she was a woman, and a slave kept in the house. But had she had less luck, and was captured by a farmer, she'd likely look much stronger.

No matter.

He continued on his way through the castle, not even checking if Saina was behind him. When he stepped outside the keep, he motioned for a stableboy to bring his horse, and when his horse was there, he slung the heavy leather bags onto hooks on the saddle. When Saina would approach, he'd simply motion for the bags and hang them from similar hooks. It was easier to ride that way.

Ketill glanced at the horse and then at Saina, before leading the horse closer to her. He held out his hand, though not with the common 'noble-like' courtesy of a gesture. It was rather manly in appearance, and seemed more like he wanted her to just listen than that he was offering her a hand. “You ride,” he merely ordered, grabbing a hold of her hand when she gave it to him, or if she did not, forcefully grabbing it. He'd then hold her hand as she got on the horse, likely seated sideways. It would be slightly uncomfortable since the saddle was meant for a male, but ultimately preferable over walking. He thought so, anyway.

And with that done he walked out of the castle, across the sturdy wooden bridge. The drawbridge was almost always down, since none dared attack the keep, and the northern tribes were barely a threat nowadays. When they passed the heads on the pikes, Ketill looked upon them with a gritty look on his face. It seemed cruelty and death did not phase him anymore. Right outside the keep was the camp of the expedition - a few hundred tents, though this was nothing compared to the army of Broacien.

A short, ten minute walk led them across the grassy hills to the camp. They were greeted by- well, nobody in particular. It was late in the afternoon, but most of the men already seemed to be resting, laying in their tents, talking to their fellows. Ketill led the horse through the camp, and admittedly the pair did get quite a few strange looks, some staring at them.

Ketill looked around, staring right back at the people, and that was often enough to force the men, and sometimes the women, to look away and busy themselves with other things. It was.. unsure, whether the looks were because of the fact that he was a Servant, whether it was because of the fact that there was a clearly Sawarim woman with him, or perhaps it was because of the duo together? Whichever it was, Ketill did not particularly enjoy the attention they gave him. He upped the pace even more, the horse following suit. They approached the center of the camp, where a center circular tent was set up. It was obviously the commander tent, where the five commanders, and soon Ketill, would meet for the discussions about the way to go about this expedition.

Upon arrival, he led the horse to a secluded spot nearby the tent and offered his hand to Saina again. As much as she would likely believe so, he was not a brute. Not in every way and form of that word at any rate, because some might argue he had some characteristics of a brute. Never the less, he did help her off the horse. Once she was off, he headed into the tent.

Inside the tent was a large table with a map on it. It was detailed, obviously expensive. It listed every major settlement, but also the small ones. Even the settlements across the border from the Sultanate were listed, though the map did not extend much further than the border region. There were markers placed here and there, but no concrete plan was visible as of yet. It seemed Ketill and Saina would walk in right in the middle of a discussion.

“It's a mistake, I'm telling you. The men don't have the morale for that route, the camp followers can't follow us in that treacherous territory, and you know how important female company is for the men. Furthermore, we'd be completely cut off from our supply lines! It'd be an early doom for this expedition, sir Oliver, and I've invested too much good coin into this expedition to have it fail because you think a shortcut is in order!” an older man with a greyish beard and thinning, equally grey hair yelled at a man in thin, leather armor. It was apparently the young nobleman that led this expedition. Or at least.. intended to.

“Give the boy a break, he's merely trying to help. Meanwhile, our good friend the slave trader hasn't even shown up yet. Where is th- oh, we have a visitor. Ketill Grímhilðrson, I presume?” the old veteran, dressed in peculiar armor, spoke. His voice was rugged, as was his appearance. The eyes shifted, looking at Ketill first, before their eyes all fell upon Saina. “And.. you've brought a Sawarim woman?” he continued. It was obvious from the tone that she was not appreciated that much.

Ketill put his hand in the small of Saina's back, pushing her forwards slightly towards the table, before he stepped forwards too. “Yes, I'm Ketill. And this is Saina, my servant. Courtesy of lord Jachsen.” Though Ketill was a few years junior to the veteran, and to the merchant, he was not so sure about sir Oliver, nor about the missing slavedriver or the other merchant. “She'll serve me, hence I brought her here. Did you wish to object? I thought not. Now.. let's discuss the expedition.” His voice seemed to command respect, though it could be said that it was not his voice but the three dots on his forehead that did the trick. Regardless, Saina was for some reason allowed to stay during the talks, with nobody objecting. Perhaps the slavedriver or the other merchant might've objected, but they were not there.

---

_{The veteran, leader of the militia}

---

An hour, maybe an hour and a half later, the talks were concluded. The issue was resolved - they decided on a shorter route that would not incur such a trouble to the traveling men or the camp followers. It saved time, and was less of a hassle. After that mess of a discussion, Ketill wanted to rest however, so he decided to retire to his tent. Saina of course, was meant to come with him.

As they arrived at the tent it became apparent that lord Jachsen had spared no money for him. The tent was large - though, not as large as the commanders' tent - and fitted two 'beds' comfortably, the beds consisting mostly of two piles of thick furs. One on each side, with a good meter between them. It was not as large as a room in the castle, nor as private, but it would be better than most other men, who slept on grass.

Without speaking much, Ketill went to his 'side' of the tent and sat down on the furs, which were stacked high enough to sit at least somewhat above the ground. He undid some of his light armor, putting it besides the stack of furs, while he looked at Saina. She must've feared what was to come - especially this night - and if he had been a different man she'd have been right to fear him. But instead, he looked at her with eyes that spelled indifference.

“Tell me, Saina,” he spoke, rubbing his wrists slightly before pulling off the leather vest, baring his chest which was covered in scars too. Small, mostly, but some larger. A sign of battle to be sure. “Will you run? You have ample time, at midnight, none will be awake to alarm anyone, and you'll be gone when I awake and realize your escape. It seems smart, it's what I would do.”

Promptly he'd lay down and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the cloth of the tent. It was simple white linen. It reminded him of himself - simple. “I hope you realize that there's a reason why you've never seen any Sawarim people here. People, not just Servants, don't like your people. You'd not survive long, or possibly be taken a slave again. I don't know why you are here, but you've crawled into the den of the bear, I suppose. I think you'd do best to stay. Think it over. If you are gone by tomorrow, I will not hunt for you. I know the others will do that for me.”

@Odin

[Dion]

Had it been anyone else, Ketill’s words may have drawn a laugh, though it would have been a humorless one. Now, they brought out only the faintest grin, leaving her eyes without a trace of humor.

If I was stupid, I would have rode north alone to see if my brother was dead. If I was brave, I would’ve slit my throat when they caught me.

That shadow of a grin faded instantly as the bag flew towards her, and Najla caught it just in time. His next words drew no grin, and she could only hold his gaze for a few moments before dropping it again. She only waited until he turned to go, and she followed him as best as she could, practically trotting in order to keep up with him.

She handed him the bags, all his but the one small bag of necessities the steward had given her. She had not looked through it yet, but assumed it was simply clothes. She could not hope for much more than that.

Ketill’s offer was met with hesitation and a hint of a frown. Najla obeyed regardless, taking his hand and pulling herself up onto the horse. It was strange, she thought, that a kind gesture could be done in such an abrupt way, yet she supposed he simply didn’t know how else to do it.

She adjusted herself on the seat, for though it was slightly uncomfortable, it was the most at ease she’d been in quite some time. It had been a year since she had been allowed on a horse, or even to touch one, whether it was due to chance or the stories of Sawarim riders that filtered to the north. Najla gripped the horse’s mane lightly, and for a brief moment, wondered what would happen if she simply rode the horse as she remembered, all the way back to her home. It was a brief, thrilling thought, interrupted as they approached the bridge.

She could see Jalil’s head still, though there was nothing but skull left of it. This was better than the beginning, when she could see the skin start to rot and had to wonder when she’d stop being able to recognize him. That time had long since come, yet Najla did not take her eyes off the skull for quite some time. Her expression did not change, and her eyes grew no sadder, but in her mind she was begging it for forgiveness.

I shouldn’t leave you, not here, not alone. I'm sorry, but i’ll get you home someday, I promise. Believe that, please believe I’ll never leave you.

Only empty eye sockets answered her, yet Najla felt no stupider for it. Finally, she tore her gaze off of her brother and to the camp before her. Instantly, her mind moved from prayer to habit, and she began counting off the tents, trying to guess how many people were part of this expedition. The knowledge would go nowhere yet, but at least it kept her attention away from the looks the pair were getting. These were nothing new to her; she had been a Sawarim in Broacien for a year now, which meant a year of these looks. Even still, she didn’t like it. She didn’t like the idea that any of these people would be familiar with her face.

As surprised as she was that Ketill had aided her off of the horse, Najla felt even more surprised when he moved to help her off. This time, she took his hand without hesitation, and followed behind him into the tent. Instantly, they were greeted by shouting, then stares. Najla simply kept quiet as he pushed her forward, her eyes firmly on the floor, allowing Ketill to speak while she tried to look anywhere but the map or the men.

Again, Najla found herself surprised at his actions. It was clear that he didn’t trust her, he’d be a fool to, so she couldn’t understand why he had brought her with him. What was clear however, was why the others had allowed her to stay. He had a commanding voice, and his words were curt, leaving no room for objection. No doubt her new master would be a powerful leader in this expedition, and already Najla was trying to see how that could help or hurt her.

She stood for the rest of the discussion, and after a few minutes of it, began to feign boredom. She picked at her nails, bit her lip, all the while her ears were closely tuned to the men’s words. They offered little of help, mostly arguing about routes and the like, yet she listened hungrily. After some time, when it seemed the men did not notice her presence, she began to examine them, allowing herself to stare and judge without fear. She examined the map then too, though she did this much more cautiously, trying to fit their words into the map so she might have a better idea of their strategy. It grew exhausting to stand and listen to these men argue for so long, but Najla did not stop listening.

When the discussion was finally over, despite her exhaustion, Najla was almost disappointed. She was finally gathering information again, this time in closer conditions than ever before. Already her mind was racing, trying to remember where her cousins stationed their spies in Broacien. She could no longer rely on her own, they were long gone, but if she could just get to one of her cousins people…

The thought did not last long, for it was interrupted by a sharp fear as they entered the tent. Najla froze by the tent entrance, watching Ketill fearfully as he stripped himself of his armor. She had thought of this, or at least, had tried desperately not to. It was the first time she did not take immediately avert her gaze, but instead watched him carefully, watched his motions, waiting.

As he began to speak, the fear in her eyes began to fade. Her expression turned first to one of obvious confusion, as her brow furrowed slightly, but eventually even this faded altogether. Najla had not moved from the door, and she waited until he laid down on his bed before she moved to hers, sitting down gently on the edge as he spoke.

There was a silence when he finished. Perhaps she was trying to decide a response, or see if it merited a response at all. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, her eyes on the ground.

“I will not run, my lord.” She spoke these words awkwardly, as if he had asked her to repeat a promise to him.

“I have been in the north long enough to know what they think of my people. I have no skills, no weaponry, and no courage. You needn’t worry about me, my lord.” She looked up at him at her last sentence, and though her voice was still soft, they were a vipers words. She had every intention of becoming a danger to him and all of this expedition, so long as her God was behind her.

It did not take long before Najla spoke up again. Her words were tentative, yet she spoke as if the question came pouring out of her, as if she could not hold it in.

“Do you require anything else of me?” The question itself seemed innocent, yet the implication was clear. She simply wanted to know, to rid herself of any fear. For while it seemed, at least so far, that he had no intention of touching her, she knew these Monarchists to be a brutal, savage people. Perhaps he feared dirtying himself if he touched a Sawarim woman. Hoping silently that this was the case, Najla waited to be told to water the horse, fetch him some food, or even shut up and sleep, anything that would dispel this notion.

@persianversion

[Dion]

“Weaponry, courage?” he mused to himself at her answer, curious as to why a regular woman would find need of a weapon purely to escape. Had the story not been that she was a merchant? What would a merchant need from a weapon, or courage? Surely some coin would suit her better.. He was called back to attention when she inquired about anything he needed from her. Though none of her fears were true - he did not fear dirtying himself, as he had touched many Sawarim men in his time on the battlefield, in struggles between death and life. He also did not have any intention of touching her in other ways, though surely it was within his power to do so. “I require many things,” he said slowly, still staring up at the covers of the tent.

“.. but no, none of them I require from you. Do as you wish - stray from my tent, if you want. If you wish to find yourself on the end of a dagger tonight, stray far, far from my tent. Many of the men here do not like your kind.” Himself included. He wondered if lord Jachsen had known this, and had given her to him as an insult. He could not fathom why that would be the case but lord Jachsen knew that Ketill was a simple man with little need of assistance. A servant was beyond that. And if the Monarch favored the strong, then surely the Monarch favored those that worked for themselves and did not need other people to do that.

Even in Coedwin they had had slaves, purchased from the Sawarim slavedrivers that sought passage through Coedwin lands to the north. Mostly they had been women - like Saina - purchased to do mundane tasks like cleaning, or serving the more noble Servants that sought refuge in Coedwin, or had found themselves stationed there. Sometimes they had purchased a man, for the harder labor like moving crates, but those were expensive, and the coinpurses of the Servants were not as endless as it seemed.

It seemed also that Ketill had a rather uncaring attitude towards Saina. While he had stopped some of the stares they got earlier, and while he had helped her on and off his horse, and while he had 'defended' her in the commanders' tent, he did not seem to care whether she stayed or not. Despite a lack of formal acknowledgement that he was setting her free - which he was not, she was still by all means a slave - he did tell her that he did not care to go look for her if she escaped.

And to add to that, he also knew of the deceitful nature of Sawarim people, at least when it came to their attitude to the foreigners. On more than one occasion they had captured Sawarim warriors, and more often than not they'd either slit their own throats, or lie and deceive until they found a room for escape. He knew better than to trust her, and as far as he was concerned, she was lying about everything she told him. For him, to whom honesty was a very important value, this already marked the beginning of a long and straining relationship - lest she escaped, of course.

For that matter she might have wondered why he had not gotten rid of her already - sent her away, given her to another man, or even denied her when the lord offered her to him. The reason was simple, though Ketill himself was unaware if the Sawarim woman would've understood even if he explained. It was hard to deny a gift from a lord, even if it put you in a bad position. Telling the lord he did not want her would be equal to slapping the lord in the face and as such, a bad idea. Sending her away or giving her away, similarly, seemed to be a bad idea.

Without saying as much as a word more, he turned to the outside of the tent and looked at the canvas, before falling into his slumber. He left the woman to her own devices then, a sign of what was to come. Though she belonged to him now, he had no intention of spelling out her life for her.

---

The next morning, Ketill had awoken early. He left the tent without making much noise, dressing himself in the gambeson he usually wore quickly. He shot a quick glance at the other stack of furs to see if Saina was still there, but it'd not change his course of action. He walked to the edge of the camp, to a nearby ditch, and lowered the hem of his pants, relieving himself. Peasant or noble, everyone needed to go at some point.

Once that was done, he returned to the commanders' tent, where he found lord Oliver standing over the map. “Lord Oliver,” he said, approaching swiftly and bowing lightly. The lord nodded at him, and greeted him in kind.

“Ketill, I trust you slept well?” lord Oliver inquired.

“The beds in Coedwin are softer, but I slept as well as you'd expect from sleeping in a camp. We leave shortly, yes?”

“Yes, shortly, I was just looking over the map once more. If you wish, signal the quartermaster that he should prepare the camp for our departure.”

“Of course, milord,” Ketill answered dutifully, and bowed slightly again. He stepped backwards and then out of the tent.

When he left, he made quick way to find the quartermaster - the one that took care of day-to-day things, not the two individuals that were sent as advisors and investors. With a quick order he instructed the man to begin preparing to leave camp, and within a few minutes the quartermaster had send out messengers that would alarm everyone to begin packing up camp.

With haste, he made his way back to their own tent. Inside, he would most likely find Saina, if she had not run off on her own. “We are leaving,” he merely noted, beginning to retrieve some of his items. Though there weren't many, as they hadn't unpacked last night, and as such it'd be an easy job. With a few quick motions he grabbed his belt and zipped it around his waist, tightening it rather tightly, before grabbing his sword in it's sheath and attaching the sheath to his side.

“What can you do, anyway? You were a merchant, so you cannot cook, cannot lift. Maybe you can write, but I have no need of a writer. What can you do besides eat food and drink wine?” he asked her, though his voice was stern and commanding and not at all friendly. What you'd expect of a master talking to his slave, perhaps. He did not look at her, merely looking at his sword as he worked with it, before it was finally attached. He took the shield that was placed nearby in the tent - courtesy of lord Jachsen - and held it with his left hand, before turning to Saina finally. She might've been talking to him, and he would've been listening. When she was finished explaining what she could do, he didn't acknowledge what she said.

“Fetch my horse,” he merely said. An order, not a question, clearly.

@Odin

[Dion]

Najla did not stray that night. He had told her to do as she wished, and she moved to do just that, already exhausted by her fitful sleep the night before. She had expected that her night would be just as restless as the one before, fearing that it was going to be haunted by dreams of her brother. It seemed that her God had blessed her then, for her sleep was uninterrupted by fears or dreams, and she awoke only after her new master had.

He had moved quietly, yet it had been enough to wake her. She could hear that he was getting dressed behind her, and so she remained on her side, her eyes shut, feigning as if she had never heard him awake. Perhaps he would see it as laziness, but Najla seemed to prefer that to immodest. Her eyes only opened when she heard the rustle of the tent flap, and she sat up quickly, her eyes flitting across the tent, only to see that he had truly left her alone.

He was truly a strange man. He hadn’t touched her the night before, which had been a profound relief to her. Even this she could envision a number of reasons for, he was a Servant, and thus a more pious man than most, or perhaps he was simply sick of Sawarim faces, or didn’t like hers. Whichever it was, it was a welcome relief. What truly confused her was how uncaring he was towards her. Perhaps he truly saw her as no different than his sword or horse, simply less useful.

Najla could think of dozens of reasons for his attitude towards her, yet none were satisfactory. Thus, she slipped out of the tent, allowing these reasons to become something of a game as she walked through the camp, towards the edge. It seemed a dangerous move to walk alone throughout the camp, yet Najla could think of no alternative besides relieving herself in the tent. She walked as far as she could from prying eyes, thankful for the few bushes that provided her shelter. Once finished, Najla did not linger out in the camp, she could feel the heat of their whispers as she walked, and continued on with her list of reasons in order to distract herself from them.

The empty tent was a welcome refuge, and she took advantage of this emptiness, undoing the small bag the steward had given her. As she suspected, it was mostly clothes, a small roll of clean bandages and some healing salve, and thankfully, a spare pair of boots. He had given her a pair before she left, but Najla knew these were likely to wear out far too soon. She changed her clothes rapidly, though it was just into another tunic and hose, it made her feel slightly cleaner. There was no hairbrush, and so she undid her braid and brushed through her hair with her fingers, ignoring the pain of the tangles before tying it back up once more.

Leaving the bag on her bed, Najla slipped off the edge of the stack of furs, gently moving onto her knees. She closed her eyes and began to whisper a Sawarim prayer, one that she had not been able to speak aloud for far too long. These had been only been spoken in her thoughts for some time now, and that habit still remained, for as she prayed, her ears remained trained on any movements outside.

While Ketill had seemed not to care if she lived or died, Najla did worry what a Servant would think if he returned to see a Sawarim prayer being uttered in his tent. She whispered it quietly, praising God and his wife, thanking them for every blessing she had received and asking for more, not for her, but for her family, her brother. The whispers ceased as the slight rustle of the tent entrance began, and she quickly moved to sit on the edge of her bed again. When he entered, Najla found herself nodding at his words, turning back to grab her bag and shove everything back inside.

“What can you do?” She glanced up at the question, halting her packing to watch him as he tried to fit his sword into place. The question was somewhat surprising, but she supposed it was a valid one. After all, she had seen nothing that he wanted of her.

I can ride. I’m a fair archer. I can read, write, even do figures. I can sneak into cities and take on identities. Her train of thought quickly halted. She could no longer do those things, or at least, no longer knew if she could. There were only a few skills she still retained, though they would provide little use to a solider.

“I can ride.” She replied, returning to her bag. “I used to do figures for my father, though I’m afraid I’ve lost that ability.” Having packed her bag and drawn it closed, she looked up at Ketill once more. “Little that you would have use for, my lord.”

Her short list received only a command in response, at which Najla didn’t hesitate. She nodded and stood, slipping out of the tent wordlessly.

The camp was far busier now than when she had slipped out before, as men gathered their things, folded tents and, like her, rushed to grab their horses. The horses had been fed and watered, likely by slaves or servants, and it was under the watchful eye of the militiamen set to guard the horses that she moved to saddle it. She had never done it for herself before she had started traveling, yet it was a familiar process. It did not take long before she was calming the horse down to allow her to tighten the cinch as much as possible.

She had been aware that there had been eyes on her, but the busy camp had prevented any of the whispers that her morning adventure had brought. Now, she could hear them again, though these seemed louder, and far more angry than curious.

-Sawarim bitch

These were the first words that traveled to her clearly, yet Najla only had to ignore them for a moment longer before her work was done. Untying the horse, she grasped the reins and began to lead it back to the tent. This time, the whispers did not change, but followed. She did not look, but sped up her pace, hoping to return to the tent before her fears were realized. Najla managed to get closer to her destination, but she was not close enough before the whispers became a voice, loud and nearby.

“Oi!”

Najla turned her head, only to see the source – or sources- approaching her rapidly. They were only two men, obviously peasants, though someone had seen fit to thrust swords into their hands. Before she could say a word, they were at her side, too close for comfort. One pulled her arm, ripping her away from the horse’s reins, which the other took. Najla tried to pull out of his grip, but he was latched onto her, his face too close, his crude words now directly spat in her face.

“You’re that desert whore, huh?” Najla shook her head desperately, still trying to pull her arm out of his grasp. He only gripped tighter. Her eyes were wide and panicked, her movements frantic as she tried to pull herself out, but in his stare she saw only hatred.

“I never thought I’d see one of you.” His friend spoke up behind him, and the man holding her grinned, though without any humor. “Soon we’ll get to fuck one of em.”

At this, Najla pulled her free hand back, driving it into the man’s stomach as hard as she could. There was not enough force to really hurt him, but it was enough to cause him to let go. She slipped out of his grasp and moved to back up, but turned to find his friend standing behind her, waiting. For a moment, she considered running, leaving the horse behind and sprinting as far away as she could, but the chance was snatched from her by the sounds of a sword being drawn. She was forced to turn again, and came face to face with end of the steel. She had angered him.

“Stupid whore! I’m going to slit your fucking throat!” His friend grabbed her hair and pulled it back, exposing her neck to the man, before leaning in. “You’ll meet your pretend gods while I’m still raping your corpse.”

She did not stop struggling. She desperately tried to elbow the man behind her, fighting furiously to thrust her elbow back, kick him, anything that would cause him to let her go and slip away, to no avail. Najla called for them to let her go, though there was little pleading in her tone. Despite her frantic movements, she hardly sounded afraid.

She was afraid. Her heart was racing, her eyes wide, and it felt as if there were no thoughts in her mind, nothing to go on but her instinct. Unfortunately for Najla, her instincts seemed desperate to pierce her on the end of a sword.

“Let go of me! Dirty fucking bastards, let go! I’ll cut off any cock you pull out, I swear it!”

Her threats were meaningless, but she continued to spew them just as the men did insults, and was silenced only briefly when the peasant wielding his sword slapped her sharply, the sound cracking across her face.

@persianversion

[Dion]

Ketill watched Saina leave, before lingering in the tent. He did not have to worry about packing it - the servants would do that. He also did not have to worry about packing the belongings he had, because he had little with him. As he looked around the tent, he looked at the furs that Saina had slept on, taking note of the bag that laid there. Curiously, he walked closer, and casually leaned in, grabbing the sack and opening it with his right hand. He rummaged through it momentarily, before simply turning it around and spewing the contents over the furs. He stared at them, looking over the clothes and bandages, as well as the boots. They were in pitiful state. It seemed almost as if the steward had given her nothing but leftovers from the other slaves, though he imagined Saina was used to that for now. He was about to put the items back in the bag, when he heard some commotion outside, a little further away from the tent it seemed.

He dropped the now empty bag onto the furs again and walked to the exit flap of the tent, opening it and peeking his head outside, before stepping out completely. Saina had been gone to fetch his horse for some time now. He wondered where she was, though curiosity as to what the commotion was took the better of him. He stepped off into the distance, towards where the voices were coming from. He could not quite hear what was being said - or rather, yelled. As he stepped towards the voices, coming ever closer, he noticed that some of the others were beginning to follow him, probably also curious about what was happening.

Ketill turned a corner at a tent, and came upon what he considered a rather unsightly scene. He stopped in his tracks and looked at the scene in front of him. A man, holding on to Saina, while the other one seemed to be brandishing his blade. Precisely when Ketill turned the corner, the man reared his hand back and then struck out at Saina, hitting her with his fist in the face.

Immediately he continued his pace, quicker now. The onlookers that had followed also joined, going to look at what was going on. Probably not going to stop any of the attackers however, as Saina was clearly a Sawarim woman, and Sawarim followers were not protected under the law in Broacien. Not that there was much of a formal law in Broacien at any rate, but most men and women agreed that Sawarims had no rights. Which was strange because even slaves that weren't Sawarim in religion had more rights than Sawarim followers.

When the man reached back again for a second swipe at Saina's face, he was unpleasantly surprised to find Ketill coming in from the side. A powerful punch flew past Saina's face, missing her by an inch, and instead hit the peasant man in front of her that was trying to hit her again. The single punch was enough to send the man pummeling backwards, landing on his behind. He used one arm to rest and sit up right, while the other dropped the sword and grabbed his jaw, which hung loosely, apparently broken at the hinges. Almost immediately Ketill stepped up again and grabbed the man by the shirt, pulling back his arm and launching another fist into the poor mans' face.

His friend immediately threw Saina to the side, and jumped forwards a few steps and then lunged onto Ketill's back, though he promptly received an elbow in the face from Ketill, forcing him off. The man reared backwards and set a step back, and then immediately reached for his dagger. While Ketill punched the man on the floor once more, breaking his nose with a sickening crack, the other man jumped onto Ketills back again and began trying to stab his chest with his dagger.

Through sheer luck, or perhaps a skill in battle - which arguably wasn't that unlikely - Ketill managed to grab the mans arm and twisted it, throwing the man over his shoulder onto the other one. He veered upwards and stepped back then, and reached for his blade, but found his arm stopped by a hand. As he looked to the side, he noticed the veteran militia commander, who happened to be the boss of these guys, standing there looking at Ketill with burning eyes. He was not satisfied, as the two peasants slowly got up, one holding onto his broken jaw with a painful look in his eyes.

“Those were my men,” he sneered, finally letting go of Ketill's arm with an aggressive motion. “I will have your head for this, Servant. You of all people should know Sawarim people have no place here, much less a woman.” With that said he marched off, and the fight was now clearly over. Ketill stared at the mans back when he left, before turning his eyes to the two peasants in front of him, who also drooped off slowly, accepting their defeat. The crowd dispersed, and Ketill turned to Saina then.

“Get my horse,” he simply instructed, seemingly not acknowledging what had just happened. He then walked away back to his tent, ahead of Saina. As he walked back he questioned why he had intervened, and grasped his head as he felt a headache rising. He wondered if he'd made a mistake. She was a Sawarim follower, the militia commander had been right about that. She had no rights here. But was he truly a savage man like that?

He entered the tent again and looked at the bag that still laid there. When she'd walk in he'd turn to face her. “You have nothing there but rags. You'll need something more proper if you want to continue serving me,” he simply told her. He walked towards her and stopped in front of her, looking her in the eyes then. “I'll straighten that out when we visit a city. For now, grab your items and get to the horse. You're riding again.”

@Odin

[Dion]

She flinched as she saw the man’s hand coil back, ready to strike her once more. Involuntarily, her eyes closed to prepare for the blow, yet she received no pain, only feeling a wind across her face, and at this, her eyes snapped open just in time to watch the man fall backwards. The gruesome sight of his hanging jaw was jarring, but Najla had no time to be disgusted before her apparent rescuer stepped in front to block the sight.

Distracted by the sight, Najla found herself thrown to the side, and she fell to the ground roughly. There she stayed, a hand reaching up to gently touch her cheek, watching the scene unfold in front of her with wide eyes. She looked horrified, but at the crack of the man’s nose, she did not flinch.

It was only when the commander grabbed Ketill’s arm that Najla finally scrambled up. She kept her head down as the commander spoke to Ketill, not wanting to anger him any more. She did not look up to see the men leave or the crowd disperse, only glancing up when she was given an order. She nodded, grasping the horse’s reins and following Ketill towards the tent, making sure to keep her eyes forward and off any staring soldiers.

Is he angry with me? Perhaps he had heard her insults and would punish her for provoking them. This however, seemed a worry born entirely out of fear, for surely if he had wished to punish her for her actions, he would not have broken a man’s jaw. Was he worried at the commander’s words? Najla was, knowing that a Servant would be a difficult target for a militia commander to harm, yet a Sawarim slave would be far too easy. Why had he done it?

Her mind raced as she followed him to the tent, and she tied the horse outside quickly before following Ketill in. She dove under the tent flap, only to stop just as she entered. His words about her things caused her to look up for the first time, glancing at the emptied bag. It did not surprise her to see it emptied, after all, he had every right to look through her things. What did surprise her were his words.

Continue serving? He still wants me here? After all the trouble I’ve caused him?

She spoke none of her concerns, but when he approached her, they were all too easy to read. Najla met his gaze as he spoke, and even though he had given her a command, she did not move. She stood with a slight frown on her face, and her eyes searched his. This time, her gaze did not venture to his scars or the marks on his forehead, but remained locked onto his. It seemed a strange sight, for she was far smaller, still shaken, and her cheek was beginning to turn pink, a sure sign it would bruise soon. He, on the other hand, had proven himself to be a skilled warrior, though she had assumed this already, and she had just watched him break a man’s nose. However, for a few moments, Najla showed no fear or deference to her master, only a desire to understand.

These few moments did not last long, and Najla was the first to tear away, unsatisfied at whatever answers she had received. She walked towards the bed and kneeled beside it, picking up the ‘rags’ that he had haphazardly thrown across the bed and folded them neatly before placing them in the bag. Every so often, her gaze flitted to Ketill before darting back to her work, but it did not take long before she closed the bag up and turned to exit the tent.

Does he want an apology? Or gratitude? Or is he truly so uncaring?

She did not offer any. Najla hooked her bag to the horse’s saddle, then untied the horse before pulling herself up onto it. It was slightly difficult, as the horse was larger than she was used to, but no task she had not accomplished before. She did not ask for Ketill’s help, nor did she sit sideways as she had before, but as she was used to. The saddle was still large, but the horse was a familiar presence under her, though not a calming one.

She knew what the men would think if they saw her riding while her master was walking before her. It would only do more to fuel their resentment, but she could not tell if Ketill did not know or did not care.

I suppose it doesn’t matter what they think. I can’t imagine any of them will be willing to risk a broken jaw. Except perhaps the commander-

Her worried thoughts were interrupted as Ketill emerged and she would follow him on horseback to their place in the march. Najla would remain quiet during the march, occasionally reaching up to touch her cheek gently, trying to gauge how tender it was. It would definitely bruise soon. Her arm was already starting to show where he had grabbed her, perfect red prints where his grimy fingers had been. Painful, but nowhere near enough to make someone feel sympathy when the man who had caused it was caressing a broken nose somewhere. Perhaps she would have aroused some pity if he had speared her on the end of his sword, but she doubted it.

She was not used to keeping up with marches. Her pace had always been swifter, accompanied by a few guards and as such, Najla was far more accustomed to travelling quickly. Now they were followed by supply wagons, camp followers, and slaves, who unlike her, did not have the fortune of a horse. It was a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one, and much of her time traveling was spent in thought.

Some of her thoughts involved counting, trying to make sure her estimates of the expedition numbers were accurate. Some of her thoughts were just worries, some prayers, but most revolved around Ketill. Her eyes were either on the path around them or locked firmly onto him, as if his back could give an answer his eyes could not.

He didn’t like her. Najla wasn’t a fool, she could see that. Yet he treated her kindly, more kindly than she had expected, and far more kindly than any man in this camp would have. Even beyond that, he had put himself in a more vulnerable position for her, and had spoken nothing of it.

He would have done the same for his horse, I expect, or if a man had been taking his sword. I doubt he did it because I am a person, but because I am his property.

It was an unnerving thought, to compare herself to a horse and declare herself property, but Najla could see no alternative. She had not proven herself of any value to him and a holy knight would never defend a Sawarim woman, and so this, to call herself a possession, was the only explanation.

Do possessions show gratitude? She didn’t want to thank him. She could admit that he had saved her life, yet Najla could not bring herself to thank him for it. A year of serving the heretics up north had been humiliation enough, but thanking a holy knight would surely shatter the remainder of her pride.

She leaned forward and reached her hand out, lightly tapping the knight’s shoulder with two fingers. Whether or not he acknowledged it, she spoke, almost as softly as her gesture.

“My lord, I am in no great pain that I cannot walk. If you ever tire-” She left her words there.

It was an odd suggestion, Najla knew. It was not one borne out of gratitude, but it would still be the closest to gratitude that Ketill would likely see from her. It was a suggestion born out of fear, fears that had ample time to gather during the march. If the men were to see that Ketill allowed her to ride whilst he walked, her situation here could only be made worse by it. His likely would too, and Najla knew that if the commander ever followed through on his threat, her head wouldn’t be far behind. A selfish act in its entirety, but Najla could offer him no more in terms of thanks.

@persianversion

[Dion]

“No need,” Ketill answered, not granting her the pleasure of even looking back at her. He held onto the reins tightly as they marched, heading towards their next stop. They were going through a small mountain range, crossing into Grosswick and then shortly after into Murkran. It shaved about two days off of the travel. Though that was preferable, it did not matter in the long run it seemed. “You don't ride because I pity you,” he then said following up on his comment. Much as he had protected her, he also did not feel anything towards her. Perhaps she had been correct in her assumption that he treated her like a possession, though he did think to himself, were they savages? Had they attacked her brutally because they were savages and impious followers of the Monarch? Perhaps it was a religious duty, he insisted on himself, that he would grant mercy and shelter even to the sworn enemies of the Monarch. A Sawarim woman was an infidel, but no less a creation of the Monarch. Some degree of civility was expected, no? He struggled with these questions, for in all his time at Coedwin, he had not once thought of these things, being used to merely slaying them, taking them prisoner and hanging them, executing them lest they submitted to their will.

The peasants were sure to disagree, and they had a right to. No mercy for Sawarim followers in Broacien, no privileges. Just abuse. Those were the laws in reality.

After a moment of silence he returned to reality, looking ahead of him, staring at the figures at the head of the march. Atop horses were the other leaders of the expedition, pointing out the landscapes and trying to figure out the best route to take for the many men that walked in a long column. “You're on a horse because, if you decide to grab the reins and flee, you're easier to shoot down over the heads of these men,” he replied.

A vision came in his head, imagining the scene. She'd grab the reins, and quickly spur on the horse. Ketill knew that any Sawarim worth their share could ride a horse like no other. But when she rode off, he'd promptly grab an arrow from the nearest archer, and his bow, and shoot her down. It was easy, he thought, and would likely succeed. And of course, he would not be the only one that shot an arrow or two at her. Many here would have no problems shooting down a Sawarim woman. They were on a holy expedition after all, no? Surely killing a Sawarim woman would give them the blessing of the Monarch.

He was drawn back to reality by the sound of a horse approaching, from behind. Ketill looked over his shoulder and slightly upwards, seeing ser Oliver, the de-facto leader of the expedition, riding up to him. “Ketill,” the young man said, looking at Saina briefly before returning his gaze to Ketill, a slightly confused look on his face. He rode closer, so that he could ride directly next to Ketill, passing by Saina quickly. He rode on the side of Ketill where he also held his shield, slowing the horse down slightly.

“I want to let you know that the commander has decided to hold a trial for your actions, and will be demanding weregild for the two men,” Oliver then said, a serious look taking the place of his earlier confused look. It seemed like there would be repercussions after all. “And.. the judgement will be passed by the advisors and me. We will hold the trial at nightfall. We hope to reach a town before then, but otherwise we will do it in the commanders' tent. Just be ready.”

Ketill nodded, replying with a mere “.. okay,” and ser Oliver nodded and rode his horse off again, towards the front, to join the other advisors. It seemed the night was going to be a long one.

---

Later that evening, the march had made camp outside the palisade walls of a smaller town. The two quartermasters had gone into the town to barter for goods, and buy supplies for the road. It was always a good idea to do that, and it seemed they had the coin for that. At least for now. It would be typical to run out of money later because of un-thought out purchases earlier. Similarly, Ketill would have taken Saina to the market to purchase some items. He had personally not had too much time to prepare and so he was lacking some items, but it was nothing that he needed. Saina, however, would preferably be dressed somewhat more appropriately.

Even if she was a slave, Monarchists and Ketill especially would have at least some decency. It was generally considered bad manners to have slaves walking around in left over clothes. Not just for the slaves, but also anyone else that would have to look at the slaves.

The market itself was not as busy, since it was evening, but there were some people out still. There were many stalls, and the noises coming from them were deafening at times. Every trader was yelling about their wares, and most of them were selling food. Meat, vegetables, most of it was either brought in by local hunters or were staple foods brought in by farmers from the areas outside the town. A single merchant was selling jewelry and other bits and bobs that were of little interest to anyone looking purely to survive, but it attracted a few nobles that were on thoroughfare in the town. A few others selled other items, tools, a single merchant sold swords and armor, and a few sold clothes. Nothing too impressive, but it fit the nature of the town.

Ketill walked through the stalls, looking left and right for something that would befit a slave, though would also not be too sober, nor too extravagant. If anything, he could pass her off as a slave that was meant to be an entertainer. She had no notable skills that he knew of and it was well known that any woman could sell herself and become an entertainer. Whether that meant actual entertainment or entertainment was another matter, but it was a good disguise.

Momentarily he looked back at Saina and instructed her, “If you see anything, let me know.” He'd considered giving her some silver coins to purchase something for herself, but it seemed like a bad idea. He just knew time was of the essence, as his 'trial' was closing in swiftly.

@Odin

[Dion]

Najla followed Ketill through the town closely, never straying too far from his side. She wanted no repeat of earlier events before the day was even done, or at all preferably. It wasn’t as if she had any reason to slip away from Ketill either, for the town was too small for her to hide in if she were to slip away. If she was to run out of it, Najla could only guess at how far she could run before something worse befell her. Though she did not like it, she would have to wait until after the trial, likely long after, for an opportunity.

Lord Oliver’s warning of a trial had been a surprise to Najla. The concept of wereguild was one she was familiar with, but had never understood. The Sawarim rarely used coin to ease such disputes, unless one struck or damaged another’s slave, horse, or property of any sorts. Physical attacks on a free man or woman were usually answered with more of the same, a ruthless and often unforgiving method that gave the Sawarim a harsh reputation to those who stood outside. To Najla, who had seen her father enforce this often, this only made sense. A strike of the whip for every strike of the hand, for every man who behaves as an animal must be beat as an animal. They were her father’s words, so vivid in her memory that she felt she could hear his voice, yet it had not taken long for Najla to understand that these words only applied to those who hurt the Sawarim.

Ketill’s voice drew her out of these thoughts, and she glanced up at him, then around at the stalls. What am I even supposed to be looking for? What kind of slave am I?

Perhaps if she had a role, this would have been easier to decide. For now however, the only functions Najla had were minor tasks and just not running away. She looked over the clothes in the stalls, trying to imagine she would look like, not in terms of beauty, but to the men of the camp.

Najla then felt a deep longing for the dresses of her past, a luxury she had not thought of for quite some time. She missed the expensive fabric, the beautiful beading and details, and the jewels they would adorn themselves with. She had never cared for the finery itself before, but now she found herself missing the way she giggled and gossiped with her cousins as they draped themselves in expensive fabrics, arguing over jewelry and planning the way their thin shawls would fall off their shoulders at the perfect moments. It was an easy memory to get lost in, and Najla had to drag herself out of it, reminding herself that even if she had access to such clothes, dressing like a Sawarim would be a foolish mistake.

It took some time as they sorted through the markets, likely a little longer than either Najla or Ketill would have liked, but the markets made her cautious. The people were not frightening, but Ketill was never far from her, and Najla did not want to spoil the image that she was a merchant’s daughter. Despite how rough it seemed her new masters attitude was, all of Najla’s suggestions were carefully stated, her tone always delicately controlled, for she was trying to maintain a precarious position between guessing his desires and maintaining her identity. She could not imagine that he would care much if she spoke more frankly, but Najla was more worried of herself than him.

Finally however, her new clothes were decided upon. It seemed Najla had similar ideas to Ketill, though hers came out of a place of worry. She only guessed that the other men of the camp would be less likely to come near her if they believed the Servant already had a claim on her body, rather than an uncaring attitude towards her existence. They’ll be too scared to rape me if they think he’s already doing it. A crass thought, but one she’d rely on in her decisions.

They were mostly dresses, made with darker dyes, a couple with the longer sleeves required for the cold, some with shorter sleeves made for the south. Najla was careful to choose nothing that would expose the curve of a breast or move too far up her leg, but still chose dresses with details such as lower necklines, made to be cinched in tightly at the waist with a belt. These were closer to the clothes she was used to, simpler certainly, without any of the rich hues or exquisite beading she had loved, but she had traveled in similar clothing often. Among those and a few simple necessities, Najla allowed Ketill to have the final word, as it was his coin after all, but the pattern would not be far off to spot.

----------

Najla was in no mood for a trial. Her day had been long, for even though she hadn’t walked, a day’s ride was still a strain on her. The trip to the market had given her little time to rest, or even consider what her role in the trial would be. Ketill had told her nothing of it, and though Najla did not know if they even required her presence there, she would be surprised if they did not. Perhaps Ketill would insist, though she could not imagine he would be foolish enough to do so after the day’s events. Though the commander was only asking for coin now, Najla could not forget that he had threatened to take his head first.

Still, she followed Ketill, carrying whichever clothes he had agreed upon. Though she had been cautious throughout the trip to the town, her words grew somewhat bolder as they walked back, and she looked up at Ketill as she spoke. She could not tell if he was worried about the trial at all, and it did little to ease her own worries.

“Will I be asked to speak? Or even be there?” The lack of a ‘my lord’ was noticeable, though Najla did not seem to hear it. It was a question that seemed blurted out, again a product of her worries, and yet, Najla was not worried to speak. Evoking pity for a Sawarim woman here would be a difficult task, impossible perhaps, but not speaking would relegate her to a voiceless figure, with no ability to affect her own fate, and that was far scarier.

If he demanded that he come with him, Najla would request permission to change in the tent, much more politely than before, though clearly asking to do so without his presence. She had already decided on the dress to wear, with sleeves cut just short enough to show the bruising on her arm. She could only hope that when it was coupled with the bruise that was slowly turning green upon her cheek, it would at least prove Ketill had not stepped in for nothing. Her hair would be unbraided, delicately combed through, and left as such, though her attention was always on tucking it away from her face, so as not to hide the bruise.

@persianversion

[Dion]

Ketill simply wandered, picking up some items and inspecting them before dropping them and walking on. Sometimes he'd find something he liked and he would buy it if he decided to, seemingly making a conscious effort to spend money. Once Saina had chosen a dress she liked, or maybe more, he would pay for them without questioning it twice. He did not really care how she looked, as long as she was satisfied, and did not look too extravagant. That'd attract more unwanted attention than not. She seemed to think the same way and had picked acceptable dresses. Ketill was about to return to the tent, before he noticed a pair of new leather binded boots, reaching up to the calves. He approached the stall an grabbed the boots, paying for them with the last of his money. It was almost as if he had spent it all on purpose.

He then turned to Saina and put the boots with whatever else she had picked. “You'll need these if we ever go through an area where the horse can't go as easily,” he simply said before walking past her and continuing back to the camp. When they had walked back Saina had asked him a question and he had looked at her with a look that did not say much. Frankly he had not known the answer and carefully deliberated. After a while, while they continued down the small hill leading back to the camp, trudging through the muddy slope, he would then answer her.

“You will come,” he said, though he would allow her to come for the sole reason that he wanted her to see what the price was for what he had done. Then, secondly, he added, “And you will not speak. You will look down at the ground and not anger them any more than you have already. .. at least, your presence seems to have done that.” The last bit seemed more mumbled than anything, and he was not sure if she had understood, nor did he care if she had or had not. It was the truth after all - they cared little for the fact that she was doing things for him, or that she was a woman, no, the truth of the matter was that she was a Sawarim faithful and that was reason enough to not trust her, or even hate her. Ketill understood. He would do the same in their shoes. But he did not have much of a choice now that she was his property. Property must be defended, as the Monarch had said himself. 'Those whom enter a house uninvited forfeit their right to live, those who steal from others might be slain, those that harm others' property themselves might be harmed' and so it would be done. The question was whether the same went for property that happened to believe in the Sawarim god.

It would seem not.

“And you will address me properly. That is something even commoners do. You're less than them, so behave like it,” was the last thing he then added, before grabbing her arm on her sore spot and pushing her forward, forcing her to speed up. He did not want to be late for this trial.

When Saina went to prepare for the trial, then, he did not stop her and waited outside the tent. He stood idly, pacing back and forth, waiting for her to finish... whatever she was doing in there. He did not know and did not want to know. While she was busying herself, Ketill started repeating a Monarchist prayer to himself, mentally first, though it quickly entered a quiet mumble as he walked back and forth through the mud in front of the tent. “Send me into hell to clear the way for heaven, that my blade clears the path for the true Monarch, long may he reign over the territories we conquer in his name, blessed be the Monar-” He stopped mid-sentence when Saina appeared again. He looked her up and down, and then reared, turning away from her and walking to the commanders' tent. “Come.” The words were an order, clearly.

Halfway to the tent, two of the militiamen arrived and stopped Ketill. They were not the same as before, though those two would probably be in a bed somewhere recovering from their wounds. Never the less they shot an angered glance at Saina, and then looked at Ketill shiftily. They knew what he could do and his reputation superseded him, as he was known for winning a few tournaments in his younger times. Never the less, they held him up and one of them held out his hand. “The commander asked us to escort you, and also for you to submit your blade. I am sure you understand he wants to stop anything from happening. Eh, your dagger too.”

Ketill looked at them angrily, causing one of them to take a step back and awkwardly reach for the blade in its' sheath. Without asking anything, Ketill undid the leather straps that tied the sword to his belt, and handed the sheath over. “Not the dagger. I am not walking into an ambush so blindly,” he then said, and continued walking, brushing past one of the two, bumping shoulders with him and forcing him out of the way.

The two men dared not speak up and ask for the dagger anymore.

Ketill entered the tent quickly, the tent flap flowing rather aggressively from his motion. Saina would no doubt soon follow, as would the two militiamen, who would take up spots near the entrance to 'keep guard' and ensure nothing happened. In front of them were the full council. Ser Oliver, then the bishop, then the militia commander, and then the two quartermasters. Surprisingly, one of the two was a woman. The Sawarim slavemaster was also present, dressed in somewhat traditional Sawarim garb and a curved sword at his side. He seemed less interested in the trial and more interested in the two before him, looking at Saina and Ketill both with curious eyes.

---

_{The quartermaster dressed in expensive merchant clothes}

---

“Ketill,” Ser Oliver said, leaning on the table and looking Ketill directly in the eyes. “We have called you here on account of the assault on two militiamen. We've seen the injuries, and we've heard many people tell their witness accounts. So, what do you say in your defense?” Ser Olivers one was empathical, and seemingly he'd hoped that Ketill would come up with a decent answer.

There was many he could say - that he was defending a woman. That he was beating down two criminals. Anything he could say, and they would have believed it save for the commander. But Ketill did not say any such things. “I have nothing to say in my defense,” he answered. He stared at the figures in front of him, not afraid apparently. He knew what was coming. It was a common occurrence and he had done these kind of trials before, though not often, and not for serious offenses. He'd come off unscathed every time. But he knew, not this time.

“You.. have nothing to say?” Oliver inquired, audibly confused.

“Yes, lord.”

“Then.. I hereby.. order you to pay were-gild of two hundred silvers to each man.”

“I can not.”

“Good. Then that conclud- what? You can not?”

“No.”

“And why is that, ser Ketill?”

“I have no money. I spent it all.”

“That is.. most unfortuna-”

Suddenly, a loud bang cleared whatever conversation had been going on. The commanders fist was on the table, after having smashed it there, and he quickly opened his mouth to speak, or rather, yell.

“Then we will take his whore of a servant! Guards! Get her, and escort her to the prison cells!”

The two guards moved immediately, quickly grasping her two arms, and beginning to pull her back. Ketill reacted quickly too, and leaned in on the table, putting his fist down as well. “Nonsense. You will not have her, you will take me. You know the laws as well as I do, I can pay you by cutting off my a piece of my finger. It's the law of the monarch, and so you will follow it, or die now for the charge of heresy!” Indeed, whatever the current ruling king of Broacien had declared as law was not deemed only legal, but also holy. The commander visibly did not like this, but he leaned back slightly and looked at his guards.

“Fine. Release her. You had better do this, 'Servant'.. you would not wish to tarnish the name of your Monarch.”

“I would not, rest easy commander. You will have your revenge.”

“Yes, get on with it. Your right hand, on the table, now.”

“You will have my left. The law makes no distinction. And I was brought on this expedition for two reasons. One, to advise you, and two, to fight Sawarim warriors. You would have me cut my right finger, so I could not do that?”

“Bloody f-.. fine!”

Ketill would place his hand on the table then, and draw his dagger with his right hand. He would hang it over his left hand, aiming for the top part of his ring finger. Slowly he raised the dagger, before sending it down.

“S-stop this!” CHOP.

The blade moved at the last moment and missed his finger by barely an inch. Ketill looked up through his brow, at the womanly voice that had spoken. It had been the quartermaster, who had a rather distraught look on her face. “Look, he may have injured those men, and clearly without a good reason, but must we go this far? The men are not dead, and we need Ketill to fight the Sawarim once we get to their lands. I will not allow you to risk this expedition for something as vain as your pride, lord commander. Or did you wish to tell us about your experience fighting the Sawarim?”

“I.. I wo- this.. this is not abou- f.. fine. But the weregild must be paid. I demand it!” the commander said, his voice trembling slightly before it returned to a yell.

“Then I will pay it, for lord Ketill, that we may end this petty dispute. He was prepared to cut his finger for you, is that not enough? The men will have their money, you will have your pride, and lord Ketill will keep his finger. And I.. I will lose four hundred silvers, but maintain my belief that this expedition can succeed. But we need to cooperate.”

“F-fine!” the commander added.

It seemed the situation had been calmed for now. The people that had not spoken all looked shook, except for ser Oliver, who seemed rather serious, and the Sawarim slavemaster, who seemed intrigued and amused by the scenes before him. He was probably not familiar with Braocienien politics. Ketill sheathed his dagger without a word, and moved to the two guards. He grabbed his sword, not waiting for them to hand it back, and quickly hung it on his belt again. Without speaking, he then left the tent, leaving Saina behind lest she followed him - which naturally she should. He returned to his tent, before standing still in the center of the tent.

“Right.. what now. Oh. Dinner.” He seemed unfazed by what had happened. Could it be he had planned this?

@Odin

[Dion]

Najla followed Ketill into the tent, just before the two militiamen, who had shot their hateful glares at her. The fact that his sword rested in one of their hands made her uneasy, though it was little to fear compared to the faces in front of her. The commander’s was a familiar one, as was his cruel stare. It was not him that frightened her, however. Najla followed Ketill’s orders, standing behind him with her head down and her lips shut, yet she peered through her lashes at the Sawarim.

He was not a familiar presence. This was comforting, for she knew any Sawarim she recognized would know her as Najla, not Saina. He was watching them curiously, and she did not blame him, as she knew they were likely an odd pair to witness. Still, his gaze meant that she could not study him for long, for as soon as his eyes moved off Ketill and onto her, she was made to avert her gaze before he could read the disgust in her face. He was a Sawarim sitting among Monarchists, plotting to harm his people. She had dealt with similar traitors before, weeding them out ruthlessly among her own infiltrators, and wished that she could deliver him the same fate.

Perhaps he’s wishing the same onto me.

A sobering thought, but only for a moment, as Najla assumed he would have had to renounce the Sawarim faith to be allowed among this expedition. She could think of, and had never seen, a crime greater. Those that renounced the faith had always been persecuted, even worse than those who had never held it. He would have been culled without question, perhaps ordered by someone like her.

It was a pleasant thought, but she did not linger in it for long before the trial began. Lord Oliver’s voice seemed to calm her some, though she did not look up to see his face. He sounded empathetic, and for a moment Najla believed that they were ready to listen. When Ketill spoke, her orders were forgotten, and she looked up at him curiously. And as he said he had spent the money, her brow furrowed, and she began to think of all the purchases of the day, the way he had spent every silver he’d had for what she had assumed was a presentable slave. Apparently it had only been part of something greater.

Before she could understand his actions any more, the commanders yell dragged her out of her thoughts, and she winced as the guards took her by the arms, as one dug his fingers into her sore arm. She wanted to yell, struggle, but before she could think to do any of it, Ketill spoke, and she was frozen, nothing but horror written on her face.

Even when they let her go, she did not move. She couldn’t. She watched helplessly as Ketill raised his dagger, but did not close her eyes nor avert her gaze. The sound of the sudden slamming into the wood caused her to jump, and though it was the woman’s words that filled her ears, Najla was fixated on the man who had been about to cut off his finger.

So when Ketill grabbed his sword and ducked out of the tent, Najla was close behind, ducking past the guards and out of the tent. She could sense the eyes of the men upon their retreating backs, but shock clouded her brain, and their stares just seemed unimportant now.

Savages. Barbarians, that’s all they are. Madmen. And I’m stuck in a camp full of them.

She could think nothing else but this, her mind still wrapped tightly in the horror. It was written clearly in her face, in her wide eyes and confused expression, but her thoughts remained an endless string of insults, horrified at the type of God that made the loss of a finger holy, and the brutes that followed him.

She ducked into the tent just after Ketill, the alarm still obvious on her face. She froze as soon as she saw him, leaving her standing by the entrance to the tent, obviously no longer worried about looking down. Her eyes were fixed firmly on him, and a frown quickly wrinkled her brow, her lips remaining parted as if she was still in shock. Had their positions been any different, she might have looked like she was angry, but Najla truly felt more frustrated than anything.

“I-” She found her tongue halting, and she could only shake her head, moving towards the pile of furs that had been her bed. She sat down once more, or collapsed rather, leaving her elbow on her knees and her chin in her hands. It seemed she wanted to find the words to speak, or reply to her master at least, but she could not bring herself to push out the words.

Najla felt frustrated, and foolish. She had been ready to deal with these people as she had the Sawarim. Ready to draw pity with her bruises, to listen to Ketill’s story and tell her own, if need be. She had not been ready to be pushed into a crowd of beasts both offering and demanding flesh. It seemed that despite all her travels and her time in Broacien, she hadn’t begun to understand these people. If they could be called such.

She peered up at him again, though there was little to read in her expression now. He had mentioned dinner. She was hungry, the days march had made her tired and though Lord Jachsen kept his slaves well-fed, it simply hadn’t been what she was used to in her time as Najla. She would likely want it tomorrow as well, she was certain she did not want to collapse on their travels there. Yet as she glanced over to the finger he had almost lost, she felt no hunger.

“I have no appetite, my lord, but I will fetch you some if you wish.”

It was likely a statement she’d regret, either if it meant she didn’t eat or if he ordered her out into the camp, yet Najla knew she meant it now. However, she had made certain to address him properly this time, as it seemed the guards grasp on her arm had reminded her of his earlier warning. His warning about straying from his tent already seemed to be true, and Najla did not want to risk the others. Not now, when the words of the quartermaster were starting to clear through the haze of shock.

.......we need Ketill to fight the Sawarim once we get to their lands.

Najla had never been told where the expedition was headed, and though she had seen that they were moving south, the knowledge that she would soon be in her own lands again brought upon a hope. All she'd have to do was stay alive somewhat longer, and though it had been made slightly more difficult now, it was not impossible. She could be home again soon.

@persianversion

[Dion]

_{The slave driver, dressed in expensive and fine clothes, with some jewels around his neck.}

---

---

“No need,” Ketill said, as he laid down his dagger and it's sheath on the table in front of him. He had spoken about dinner, but did not quite have an appetite. The trial had gotten rid of that entirely. “Though, there was something you need to do for me,” he said. He took off his armor, revealing a white linen shirt. It was old, and visibly torn. It was also quite dirty. There was never time to wash your shirts when you were at Coedwin, as there was always something that needed doing.

He then proceeded to tug at the bottom of the shirt, pulling it upwards and exposing some of his midriff. It would be easy for Saina to get the wrong idea - to think he wanted her - but that was not the purpose. “I need someone to wash this and stitch it up fo-” A small cough caused Ketill to quickly pull down the shirt again and look at the tent entrance, where the merchant woman had set herself up. Her arms were crossed, and she looked at Ketill specifically.

“You seem relieved, Ketill,” she said to him, as he quickly pulled the armor back on to not appear like a homeless warrior of sorts. He tightened the belt with the sword around his waist before looking up at her, listening to her continuing words. “And you did not thank me. That is considered rude, Ketill,” she continued, talking in a familiar tone. As if they knew each other, but they did not.

Ketill fastened his belt tighter and spoke without looking up at her, something that Saina would be familiar with by now. “Yes, well, you did your job, I did mine, we're both happy. Except for the commander, Monarch take his breath.” The quartermaster shook her head and walked closer to Ketill, inspecting him a bit before she continued in the same direction, and stepping over to Saina. She grabbed a hold of Saina's hand and raised it, running her other hand down her arm gently and feeling the softness of her skin. Her hands were warm, despite the cold climate still taking residence in the camp. She felt over the bruising of her arm, making sure not to touch too hard, but ultimately ending up squeezing her a bit on the bruise to test Saina's strength.

“What did you want, lady..?” Ketill then asked inquisitively. He did not know her despite her tone. Perhaps she knew of him - as did many, he was 'famous' in Broacien after all. Among the lords at any rate. She may be a merchant, but she had wealth and that alone was enough reason to treat her like nobility. “Did you wish for me to repay you? I have no money, I told you. And I will not give you her, she is too precious. A gift from lord Jachsen. I'm sure..” He looked away for a moment, distracted by movement outside the tent, a shadow being cast on the tent linen that walked closer to the entrance.

“.. I'm sure you understand. I can offer you my finger if it pleases you, but you have just saved it, so I would assume not. So what do you hope to find here?”

“Anne,” the well-endowed lady replied, finally lifting her hand from Saina's arm and carefully taking a hold of Saina's chin then, twisting and turning her face to look at the bruising on it. She gently ran a finger over the bruises, before lowering that hand too and turning to Ketill, the long sleeve of cloth at the back of her otherwise short cut outfit swinging widely in a circle, before hitting Saina's legs softly.

“The name is Anne. I'm sorry, I had assumed you knew me, as most people know of you. You're.. well known in most of Broacien actually. I trust you know that. And I come here with something in mind. I just invested my money in you, saving your finger, though you seemed very set on getting rid of it.”

A playful smile toiled on her lips as she spoke about her investment, as well as the act that Ketill had put on. Though, it was not much of an act, and she realized full well that if she hadn't stopped him when she did, he would've gladly cut his finger off to prove a point.

“It's quite simple. I did not get to where I am by investing money in everybody and everyone. You, however, are a capable man. I see that in you. You won many tournaments, in various ladies' honor, but yet never married. That is either a sign of stupidity, or of a man that has a more holy purpose. As you are a Servant.. I can estimate which one it is. It is really, really quite this simple, Ketill. Whether the others realize it or not, I do realize it. We need you. So I expect my investment to pay off - you will do your best to make this expedition a success. Agreed?”

“And you think I was going to let this expedition fail why exactly?”

“I did not, and I do not. We will succeed, I know that. But if you are going around foolishly cutting off fingers because of a perceived slight, we will never reach the Sawarim lands.”

“Alright, point made, Anne. Was there anything else?”

“Yes, but nothing that concerns you. I would speak to your slave, if I may?”

“She may be my slave, but I am not her master in the sense that I control her every movement. You may speak to her, yes.”

Anne smiled again, and turned around, facing towards Saina again. She sat down next to her on the bed made of furs and again put her hand on Saina's arm, carefully tracing the bruises. Once she'd gotten a closer second look, she'd speak to Saina. Her voice was loud and present, commanding a certain aura of respect, certainly not what you'd expect from a woman. She was a strange figure in general as women were generally not in any position of power in Broacien. It was not unheard of, but it did not happen everywhere, all the time, and certainly not in a profession as dangerous as trade.

“So, I see that Ketill's defense was not entirely unwarranted. It's a shame, that is. But, I have a more important question. I understand you are from the Sawarim lands, yes? I would not be a trader if I was not interested in local specialties. Is there anything you can tell me about, any.. any exotic goods I should buy or secure trade lines for in these lands? Anything that I could sell for a profit?”

---

Once Anne was done investigating whatever Saina might have to tell her, and asking her a great many more questions, another figure appeared. Anne passed by the man, nodding at him as she passed him, though the man did not nod back. It was the slavedriver, and his eyes were fixated upon Ketill's forehead first, and then very slowly they adjusted to look at Saina.

Slowly he stepped in further, standing somewhat central in front of the flap, and then shifted his gaze back to Ketill. With a thick, heavy Sawarim accent he spoke, showing off his golden teeth. The man was clearly rich and had probably gotten rich off the backs of unfortunate Sawarim travelers and tribal men that got captured by his men.

“She is not mine. Where from?”

“Excuse me?” Ketill then asked.

“Where'd you get her? I never saw her, and I see all my slaves before they are sold. I don't have much competition in Broacien. So where did you get her? You are a Servant, I see that, and I have seen many of your people. You stay in Coedwin, right? Did you take her yourself, make her your prisoner?”

“No.”

“Then where from?”

“Lord Jachsen. What does it matter?”

Without answering the slave driver turned to Saina and spoke to her in the Sawarim native tongue - it differed much from the common tongue spoken in Broacien, and Ketill could only understand a few words here and there from his limited knowledge on the language.

<“Who are you? What is your name? What is your family name? Where from in the Sultanate are you? How many horses does your family own? Do you want to go back? I'll bring you back, for the right price. A hundred horses and you can go home. I will kill this Servant and escape with you. It's easy. Just a hundred horses. Is your family rich? They can afford it? You look pretty, pretty enough to work for me. You will be an entertainer - easy life, lots of wine, lots of comfort, and nice clothes. Just tell your master you want to work for me, tell him to give me a price and I'll pay it. You believe in our Gods? Everyone here hates you. They don't hate me, because I swore off our gods. That's the only way for them to accept me. Now I can earn money. You should do the same, if you like living. If you like living, you should work for me. I'll take you home, right?”>

@Odin

[Dion]

The hope that had brought on by the memory of the quartermaster’s words disappeared instantly at Ketill’s, and she froze as he began to lift his shirt up. Just as soon as her hope had fled, relief struck when he began to speak, his words clearing her fears just before the sound of a cough could.

Najla was stunned to turn and see the quartermaster standing in the entrance, though it seemed the woman had not noticed her. It was no new sight for Najla, to see a woman in a high position, though she had not seen many who held anything beyond title in Broacien. She had not seen many in the Sultanate either, but for Najla, who had been raised among the influential women of the Sultan’s court, it hardly seemed that way. To see a female merchant travelling with a camp was a sight to question, however, as these were often conditions that wealthier women, more accustomed to luxuries, were reluctant to subject themselves to willingly.

She watched the woman speak to Ketill, apparently no longer intent on keeping her head down. She guessed that this woman would be more reasonable, and not so easily angered at a slave’s curious glace. At least, Najla assumed she was reasonable, for she had stopped Najla’s master from cutting off a piece of his finger.

Perhaps I should thank her for it. I’d have to spend the night bandaging a stump if she hadn’t stopped him.

Najla did not have long to think on her ‘fortune’ when the woman walked past Ketill, taking her hand. She said nothing, her eyes firmly on the woman as she touched her arm, her pale hand contrasting significantly against Najla’s darker skin. Her touch was gentle, a welcome change from the men who had seen fit to grasp and grab at her bruised arm all day long. Even when she pressed upon her bruise, Najla made no grimace or wince, but she could not stop herself from flinching slightly, as if meaning to pull her arm away. Of course, she would not dare, and relaxed her arm again as Ketill spoke, allowing the woman to examine her bruises thoroughly.

She only dropped her arm when the woman, who had now identified herself as Anne, let go, only to grasp her chin. Again, Najla showed no resistance, either in her motions or her expressions, but her eyes did not leave Anne’s. The woman was intriguing to her, and more importantly, it seemed Najla had piqued her interest. It was an interest she did not mind this time, for it seemed Anne had no intention of hurting her, and released her chin to turn back to Ketill.

From Anne’s explanation of her actions, Najla noted that she was a clever woman, certainly cleverer than her master. This, in combination with her wealth, apparent by both her position and her clothing, made Najla hope that Anne had indeed been interested in her.

She got her wish quickly, it seemed, and regretted it within mere seconds. When Ketill allowed Anne to speak to her, Najla was left frantically guessing the purpose as she examined the bruise, and her fears were not eased when it was given. Nodding in return when asked if she was asked if she was from Sawarim lands, Najla’s gaze flickered over to Ketill, then back to Anne, when she was asked of any trade secrets she knew. For Anne, who likely did not know she was meant to be a merchant’s daughter, it was a harmless and understandable question. For Najla, who was all too aware of Ketill’s presence before them, it was a question that placed her in a precarious position, but she had to answer regardless, careful not to speak on anything she did not know of.

“Your people have a great deal, my lady, but the Sawarim have long kept luxuries I have not seen here.”

While Anne’s voice was commanding and clear, Najla spoke in a soft, feminine voice. She did not grow bolder as she spoke to Anne, always polite and demure, and she would always glance away if Anne looked her in the eyes for too long. Even while her voice grew no more confident, she did seem to grow more cheerful as they spoke. Perhaps it was a practiced effort to make Anne feel as if Saina was warming to her, or perhaps it was a genuine reaction to a kinder presence, but she seemed to sit up straighter, speak more, and even offered the woman a few gentle smiles.

Najla told Anne of the world she had known. She told her of the thin, richly colored fabrics wealthy Sawarim woman draped themselves in, and the thin rings of gold and silver they would pile upon their bodies. She told her of the oils they rubbed on their bodies, to give off a pleasant scent long after it was applied, and the pigments women applied to their lips. Anne pushed farther on these luxuries, asking where she could buy them cheaply, and Najla answered as best as she could.

“The clothing, my lady, you will never obtain cheaply. The women who weave the fabrics are aware of how highly they are valued. As with the jewelry. If you would seek oils, the people of Lakhm will offer them for cheap.” She had to repeat the name a few times, and smiled brightly when Anne’s pronunciation landed close enough, before explaining briefly how the village was not quite well-known for its cultivation of these flowers, and the name would not count for much in Sawarim markets, but it had enough, and of good quality.

It was a useful tidbit, one born out of the fond memory of her favorite cousin offering her a bottle of their oils for her nineteenth birthday. She had teased it for him then, chiding that he was a prince and did not have to settle for a lesser-known oil. If she was ever to see him again, Najla knew she’d have to ask his forgiveness.

It took some time, though Najla felt confident when Anne stood to leave, even politely offering her assistance if she had any more questions. She watched as the woman left, only to have her peaceful expression wiped off instantly.

----------------------

She bristled as the Sawarim man walked into the room. His presence had not been a welcome sight in the commander’s tent, and it was far less so now. Any man that would turn his back so far upon the Sawarim to sell Sawarim men to Monarchists, all while renouncing his Gods, was less than a viper in her eyes. His questions to Ketill about her were jarring enough, leaving her little room to be shocked when he turned to her, though his language managed to surprise her regardless.

It felt strange, to hear her native tongue after so long. The fact that it was so unpleasant to hear was even stranger, but Najla did not have to try to ignore this. His words were jarring in any language.

“Saina-” She could barely finish her name after his first question, and simply shut her mouth, allowing him to ask questions without her answers.

Was one hundred horses really the only price for her freedom? Perhaps to another Sawarim, it would have been a daunting request, but Najla knew that her family would give far more to have her returned. Agreeing to one hundred horses would have been cheating him. Yet she was no fool, his words did not stop, and she knew he wanted more. He was not going to escape an expedition for one slave when he had pledged countless. He was a coward who refused his God, he would not bring his hands upon a Servant. He was a liar.

Her disgust had been carefully controlled before, but as he continued, talking to her of an easier life as an entertainer, Najla could no longer keep it off her face. It would be an easier life, he was not lying to her on this, yet it would be spent being passed around by infidels. It was a revolting notion, but nowhere near his next words.

Now I can earn money.

These were the words that produced a snarl. Her jaw clenched and her lips curled, her teeth now bared as if she were a beast poised to attack. Despite his knowledge of the language, it would be obvious to both Ketill and the slavemaster that he had angered her, and she made no intention to keep it off her face. The slavedriver had certainly noticed, though it only pulled a wry smile from him.

<“So you believe in our Gods? You will not swear off them?”> Najla shook her head, and the slavedriver continued, apparently amused by this. <“You do not like living then. They treat you very poorly here for your Gods. Tell your master, I will pay for you and take you home, you will live well.”>

<“I don’t understand. Are you offering to free me or buy me?”>

Najla knew the truth, but she wanted to hear him say it. She wanted this creature to tell her that he would buy her if she was poor and lie to her if she were rich, but he would offer her no such victory.

<“So you want to go home? I can take you. Who is your family?”>

Najla shook her head. <“We have no horses.”>

The slavemaster did not seem at all fazed by this, stepping closer to Najla.

<“Then tell your master you want to work for me. Your life will be easy. Like a sultan’s wife. No more camps or tents, only fine beds, good wine, you will live in comfort.”>

<”My lord, I must refuse.”>

<“You wish to be a Servants whore?">

<”No. My lord, I must refuse.”>

Her voice was strained, ready to break under the weight of a title he did not deserve. Despite all her notions of the Broacieniens as beastly, Najla’s anger was almost feral. The slavemaster did not seem as angry as she was, only a frown appearing on his face at her second reiteration of her refusal. Perhaps, despite her obvious hostility, he thought she could still be convinced.

<“My name is Ghalid. Just ask for me if you want to go home.”>. He turned his back to her, acknowledging Ketill with the barest “Servant” before ducking out of the tent.

Najla punctuated the rustling of the tent flap with a final word, spat out in a tongue Ketill would finally understand. “Animal.”

------------------
The slow transition of the ground from grass into the open sandy plains had been acting as a marker for Najla, as she could hardly wait for the day when she saw her beloved expanses again. They had been treacherous before, teeming with raiders, Servants, and slavers alike, yet scarce in the resources required to maintain travel. They were moving out of friendly territory for the expedition now, and Najla knew what a liability that would create for the expedition moving ahead. They’d have to watch their routes carefully, she knew that any misstep meant stretches without water. The borders of the sultanate were littered with the bones of men dead of thirst.

As such, Najla assumed they’d be stopping in Coedwin. It was a thought that unnerved her slightly, to be surrounded by Servants, but it was not a notion that worried her as much anymore. Ketill had never touched her on the journey, and his defense of her meant that others were wary of doing the same. They did not like her, every journey out into the camp to accomplish a task was meant with enough stares and slurs to prove it a hundred times over. It hardly mattered, Najla did not like them either, and so long as they did not harm her, it was of little consequence.

Their stares had not been enough to stop her from moving about the camp, and she slowly began to mingle among the slaves and camp followers somewhat. The camp followers were mostly from Broacien, and held little that Najla would want. Among the slaves however, she had met a girl not much younger than her, a Sawarim girl brought up from the Sultanate. She had been kind to Najla, and had often aided Najla in little ways here and there, though more than anything the girl had seemed grateful for a friend.

Qamar

She was a lovely girl named Qamar, brought along as an entertainer. It was for this reason that Najla had continued to develop something of a friendship with her, not for her talents, but for her past. The claim had been that Qamar used to belong to a Prince of the Sultanate, but upon questioning further, the girl had revealed it had been an exaggeration.

“Not to a prince specifically, no.” The girl had replied, laughing. “I worked in the household, and was sold off after-” She had stopped there, but Najla knew. The entertainers of the Sultan’s court were sold and bought frequently by the heads of the household, only the favorites were kept on for long. Likely for Qamar, it meant she had lost the most comfortable life she’d ever know, but for Najla it was a blessing, as it meant the girl did not recognize her face. She had heard her name before, and had mentioned that she had been in the Sultan’s court when Najla and Jalil vanished, but only briefly and without any indication that she knew her.

The pair could not speak often, but Najla often tried to find her among the slaves, and asked her of her time in the Sultan’s court with wide eyes. Qamar was always happy to oblige, telling her of the luxuries they could only dream of now, the stories of the entertainers there, and often the gossip regarding the Sultan’s family. This is what Najla craved more than anything, and even a simple tidbit about how the little Prince Lahan fell off his horse while riding was enough to fulfill her.

The stories that Qamar told her were nearly all that Najla thought about when she was riding now. She would wished she could have seen these stories, to be a part of them as she was meant to be, to see the women kissing his bruises and stroking his hair while her cousins and brothers teased little spoiled Lahan. It was a driving force, and Najla was eager to get to Coedwin, to perhaps speak to the Sawarim slaves within those walls, to hear more that Qamar could not tell her. She’d never be able to get a message to her family from Coedwin, Najla knew, she’d have to be patient and wait. The stories would be enough until then.

@persianversion

[Dion]

_{Former home of Amir al-Quteb, Coedwin was taken in a holy war the Sultanate had mistakenly launched against Broacien}

---

---

“No, that passage is small and treacherous. You need to follow the path like the map says,” the commander of Coedwin had said. Hochmeister Aldwin was the current seated commander, an older man, wearing the Servant's three dots on his forehead, but also on both his hands. A sign of a truly devout man, since that meant he had not only completed his required four years, but also had performed considerable feats for the Servants that were worthy of some notion of holiness. After his death, the Monarch would likely raise him to a holy status, to be revered like a saint.

The male quartermaster looked at the map again and shook his head. “That'll take us about a day extra, and we don't have the water for that.”

“Then buy it here. We will discount you. A holy expedition deserves that much.”

“That is generous. By chance, do you have more Servants to spare? Ketill has been helpful on the way here, despite some altercations with others. It'd be useful to have more pious men,”

The Hochmeister laughed and looked to the courtyard, where Ketill was talking with a former battle-companion of his. “Yes, Ketill is useful. There is a reason lord Jachsen requested him. His fame supersedes him, but does not credit him enough. He is kind if you give him the time to become accustomed to you. And zealous. He would die if it meant the Maker would approve of him. But no, I have no Servants to spare. I can offer you an escort to the end of the valley. That is about a days travel, too, but then they must return. We've received reports of raiders and slavers in the area.”

“Yes, yes, and you must protected the people of Redsand, I understand. Thank you for the escort, I will take what I can get. So, about that water..”

Meanwhile, Ketill had let Saina run loose. He knew it would be strange if she stayed by his side constantly, and he did not want to give the other Servants the impression that he had turned weak and let a servant take care of his needs and burdens. The castle was large, very large, almost a city by it's own right. It had formerly belonged to the Emir Amir al-Quteb, who was now deceased. He had lost the castle after foolishly sallying from the gates and losing most of his troops in a desperate escape attempt. The rest of the garrison quickly surrendered.

The holy war would've been lost by Broacien if they had not taken Coedwin that day. For the rest of the war, the Sultanate attempted to get through the valley, but Coedwin stopped every movement they made. Coedwin more or less won the war. Ever since, the fortress stood, defending the lands of Broacien against the infidel from the Sultanate.

Likewise the original intent had been to defend the Sultanate from the exact same thing. It was a shame emir al-Quteb had been so incompetent.

Either way, there were many Servants, townsfolk, traders, caravanmasters, slavedrivers and their accompanying slaves, as well as passer-by's present in the castle. For a spymaster like Saina, it would be like a field trip. For someone like Ketill, it was like returning home.

“Alright, I will pass on the message for you.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

With a simple, firm handshake Ketill ended the conversation and then returned to where he had left Saina, expecting to find her. He'd been talking for longer than an hour, so during that time, she might have found a reason to wander and look around. Though she had no money that Ketill knew of, so this particular market area would've been wholly uninteresting to her. At least, so he thought. Information had a price, but Ketill was very much unaware of it that Saina knew that.

“We will be leaving in a week. The commander said we should re-stock and he insisted we stay for some time, so that he could explain some intricacies of the desert to the other commanders.” In short, he was telling her that she'd be staying here for a while. There wasn't much to be done about that he supposed, though she would probably not complain too much. After all, a roof over your head was preferable over sleeping in the desert.

Sand had a tendency to get everywhere.

“As we're not setting up camp, but sleeping in the city, I suppose you'll be staying with the other slaves. Don't stray too far, and find me every morning, in case I have things for you to do. You still have to fix my shirt, too. Don't think I forget that. For now.. just go and do something. You know escape is useless at this point.”

With that said, he turned around again and left Saina, heading off to go meet some old friends himself.

@Odin

[Dion]

It seemed that to Najla ‘something’ meant taking advantage of an opportunity she’d rarely have again. She had not been within Coedwin’s walls before, though she knew that many of her family had placed spies within the walls. At least, they had tried to, for while a Sawarim was not a strange sight within the walls, getting their messages past the walls was a difficult task. Regardless of these difficulties, Najla was certain that her family had placed someone within these walls. A slave within the castle, perhaps, or maybe they had struck up a deal with a trader who frequented here.

Had she known who had placed them or better yet, who they were, Najla would have been able to easily search the markets. Now, the yelling was only proving a distraction, for she was trying to think of the spymasters, rather than their spies.

Eshe contains her network to the south, I know that. Farrah perhaps, but no, she could never travel here to know their secrets- “Girls, from Zanj to Lankara!” The slavers call broke her thoughts, and after a quick glance over his ‘cargo’ she simply strode past, trying to pick up her thoughts.

She continued to move through the list of the spymasters she knew who might have extended their influence to Coedwin, eliminating or retaining them based on what she knew. It was not a perfect system, as she knew much changed for spymasters throughout the course of a year, or even within a few days, but scouring every slave and trader in here was no alternative. It took some time however, for her thoughts were frequently interrupted, by merchants’ calls, by her pauses to look over a group of slaves, by those who jolted her out of her thoughts as they shoved past, and her examination of every inch of the wall and entrances surrounding Coedwin, and the Servants who were stationed there. It was an overload of information quite unlike what she had seen for some time, but Najla was only eager to train her skills again, and digested the information as quickly as she could. They’d have a whole week in Coedwin, sure, but Najla doubted she’d ever see the inside of this castle again afterwards.

As her eyes traced over another group of slaves, the slavedriver before them encouraging a few curious buyers, Najla’s stream of information halted entirely. She froze, briefly, before slipping out of the crowd and closer to the slavedriver’s wares so as not to get jostled by the crowd, but did not approach. Her eyes scanned a familiar face, desperately hoping it wasn’t true.

The longer she looked, the more certain Najla was. The large eyes, black and gentle, the angular nose, all in all, the face of someone Najla had considered a friend. She had been a princess’s handmaiden, a daughter of a tribal leader with some influence who had spent most of her life at court following her cousin Lamya around, giggling about gowns and jewelry, with the promise that she may marry into the royal family someday. Now, she stood in a row of others, looking down upon the ground with a defeated expression. Lamya was a spoiled girl, yet she loved her handmaiden dearly, and would never have allowed her to be placed in danger. Curiosity and worry took over, and Najla approached the girl, keeping her voice so low the slaves beside her couldn’t hear.

“Inaya-“

The moment the girl’s eyes snapped up to her, her face went white, her eyes wide, and she opened her mouth to speak her name, at which point Najla shushed her.

<“Saina. My name is Saina here.”>

<“You’re alive?”> The girl’s voice came through as a ragged whisper, and Najla nodded. <“Jalil?”> <“No.”> She cut her off instantly, shaking her head.

Inaya opened her mouth to say a quick prayer, but Najla cut her off again, glancing up at the distracted slavedriver before turning back to the girl.

<“No time. How did you get here?”>

<“Lamya sent me, I was to travel to the Al-Turahai clan and inquire after one of her contacts but along the way-“>

Najla cut her off again. She was growing impatient with the girl’s explanation, and knowing that her cousin was alive, she didn’t care as to the rest. Besides, if Lamya has a contact within the Al-Turahai, she could very well have a contact in Coedwin. They are within the same region, and equally dangerous.

<“Quick, my mother, my father, how are they?”>

Inaya seemed surprised, but answered anyways. It seemed the shock of seeing Najla alive had made her more pliable than before, a lucky break for Najla, who knew the slavedriver would see her soon.

<“Your father is a strong man, but your mother...she awaits your return. She will be thrilled-“>

<“As will your family. Quick, who does Lamya have here? Give me a name.”>

Inaya thought for a moment, an agonizing silence for Najla, who wanted nothing more than to sprint off before the slaver saw her. He was distracted with other customers, and a slave girl inspecting another would be nothing to look at twice, unless she was to linger. Najla had already extended past lingering, and the wait was unbearable.

<“Suhayb.”> Najla frowned at that, but had no time to question it. Suhayb was not a name, but in their tongue only meant ‘of copper’. Perhaps it was a trader’s name, or an identifier, but Najla knew she could find him from it. <“He keeps you here at night, right?”> Inaya wanted to answer, but a nod was all she could offer before an order came. Not for her, but for Najla.

<“Girl, step away from the wares.”>

Najla turned to look up at the slavedriver. An older man, with a thick mustache and an unpleasant frown, he walked towards her angrily, but Najla only bowed her head towards him.

<“Apologies, my lord, I am not shopping for myself but for my master.”> She could tell the slavedriver was suspicious, but before he could ask, she continued speaking. <“Is she a virgin?”>

Inaya’s eyes widened, but the slavedriver answered, the frown still on his face. <“Yes, she is.”> Najla stifled a laugh at that, then stepped back, inspecting Inaya’s body with her eyes. Her suspicion of his claim was written all over her face and her body language. Though she would not dare to speak it, Najla knew he was getting defensive now, less worried that she was lying and more worried that he would lose a sell. Merchants were the easiest to fool, she had found, even the promise of coin was often enough.

<“How much, my lord?”> <“300 silvers.”> He replied, and Najla frowned at the price. Cheaper than she’d expect for a pleasure slave, but the price was irrelevant regardless. <“You will not go lower?”> <“No, she is a virgin, that is cheap for her.”> Najla nodded at this, the disbelief still clear in her face, but she replied gently anyways. <“Thank you my lord, I will let my master know.”>

The slaver turned in a huff, eager to fool another customer, and Najla glanced up at Inaya, offering her a smile and a wink before she turned to go. She was not worried about the slaver, he would not remember this conversation unless he wanted to lower the price for her another day. She worried about Suhayb now, and moved through the markets with a new purpose.

------

Lamya was a spoiled girl, who used her money to extend influence more than cleverness. This wasn’t to say Najla didn’t like her, the women of the Sultan’s court had little room to judge their family for being spoiled. This simply meant Najla’s job was made easier. Lamya had little imagination, and so the name Suhayb was made clear upon a simple walk through the market. He was a Broacien caravanmaster with copper hair, only a couple slaves beside him, helping to arrange and sell his wares. Najla only watched from afar for a moment, waiting until no one lingered before his stand before approaching the trader directly and bowing her head.

“My lord, a moment?” It was a bolder statement than he likely would have expected, and the frown on his face stated as much. Before he could dispute and another customer could approach him, she spoke again, her voice low. “Lamya sent me.”

It took nothing more than that. He gave control of the stand to his slaves, taking a few steps to the side, which Najla followed quickly. “Why send you and not herself?” “This is a task, not a query, Suhayb.” Her tone grew more commanding instantly, and perhaps that was all the proof the merchant needed. Perhaps he had been spying for her cousin long enough to know that the Sultan’s court often traveled in such disguises. Perhaps it had been the name, which she knew now must have been given by Lamya. No Broacien would take such a name. Whether she had proved her point or the fear of offending had been the cause, Najla was allowed to speak.

“She has a task for you. You are to leave, within the next two days. You will empty two crates in your caravan, leave or sell the goods here. You will be reimbursed for those goods hundredfold if you do.” His confusion was apparent, but Najla leaned in closer, continuing to explain. “You are not her only contact here and there are whispers that those that remain are in danger. You are the only one who can be allowed to leave freely. Do you understand? You are to escort her contacts out, and in return, you will be paid.”

“How much?”

“Name your price.” Suhayb raised his brows, but Najla continued. “Two empty crates. That’s all you have to do. Empty two crates, I will fill them for you, and upon arrival you will be awarded a fortune.”

“And what if I get caught smuggling slaves out in boxes?”

“What if the whispers catch up to you?” She replied, her warning clear within her voice. “You think you will trade, or even survive long once a captured spy rats you out for helping Sawarim? This is to help you just as well as the others.”

They spoke, softly and quietly, and once the trader was nice and worried, Najla agreed upon their arrangements. She could spend no more time lingering here, she would return to his caravan tonight, to finish arranging the plans for the escape. He would sell the goods as quickly as he could, and he would clear the crates out by night. She could free Inaya with the help of one of his slaves, easily, but it would take time. They’d plan tonight, she would deliver the rest of his instructions regarding routes and resources there, giving her time to figure out just what those instructions were, and he’d have enough time to pray that his head remained attached before they could fill his crates the next night and send him off in the morning.

-----

Perhaps it was a lucky break for Najla, that she had run into Inaya. Nowhere near as lucky for Inaya, certainly, but Najla could make it out of Coedwin now. Without the girl, she never would have known that Lamya had contacts within the Al-Turahai clan, many of whom traded exclusively on the Redsand. Much did change in a year, and Suhayb was a hard-won contact, someone who could have been useful to Lamya in the future. He likely wouldn’t be persuaded to return to Coedwin after Najla had instilled a fear for his life within him, but the information he brought in crates would be far more valuable.

She spent the day in high spirits. Never did she make an attempt to seek Ketill for a task or command, and instead wandered about the market freely, her thoughts less worried and far more optimistic now. Najla remembered his command to fix his shirt, but brushed it off quickly, she’d have no need for such mindless chores anymore. Besides, she’d likely escape before she learned how to sew. She returned to the area the slaves had been given to sleep in, a drafty hall of the great castle that was stuffed to the brim with cots and mattresses. It would have been difficult to find a place to stay, and Najla might have had to sleep on the ground had it not been for Qamar, who generously offered to share her small cot.

Najla liked the girl. She had grown to consider her as a friend, and knew that while it would be immensely difficult to bring her out with them, she wanted to come back for her. It would not be difficult to send someone to the slavedriver with a full purse and return Qamar to the safety of the Sultan’s court, where Najla would surely thank her for her kindnesses. Perhaps the thought that she could be leaving was allowing her to grow too optimistic, but as they spent the night speaking in hushed whispers and laughter they spoke in that night, Najla convinced herself of the success of this venture more and more.

-----

The hall grew quiet as the night drew on, and Najla waited until she heard Qamar’s soft breathing before she drew herself up. Her feet padded across the floor softly, and she slipped out of the room without a word. The slaves were not questioned, it was simply assumed they were attending to orders they didn’t need to know of. For a Sawarim woman to move throughout the castle in the middle of the night, it would likely be assumed that she was either called to, or returning from, an order to ‘entertain’ her master. Slipping out of the castle was easy, and she moved quickly to where the trader’s caravan lay, knowing he was awaiting her.

It took a simple, swift knock and the door to the small wooden structure, and she was swept in as the door opened. The trader sat with one of his slaves beside him, a girl a few years older than Najla, who could not look her in the eye. Najla looked around the caravan, then at two half-empty crates. “Is that it?”

Suhayb nodded “Yes, we could not get rid of everything today. I will dump them when the time comes.”

Najla meant to study the crates more carefully, but a sound from outside stopped her. It was just a shuffling movement, nothing more, and she assumed it was the traders other slave arranging something. “Dump it all into one. You can empty that when the time comes, but you’ll need it empty in case you need to leave sooner than planned.”

“When is that, exactly?” “I will take one of your slaves tomorrow night. The boy you had, is he trustworthy?” Suhayb nodded, and Najla continued. “He must be ready and waiting at this time tomorrow.” “Is that necessary?”

Najla frowned. She was not used to having her orders questioned, but had to remind herself that this man had never learned her name, knew nothing beyond the threats she had told him, and had only seen her as a slave. She maintained her commanding tone, however.

“Yes, unless you’d like to join me. Arm him before we go. Nothing more than a dagger or knife.” She glanced at the entrance to the caravan again. “I will return with the cargo and you must be prepared to leave the morning after that.” She spent little time there, only discussing a few potential routes and ordering him to stock up on water for the journey ahead. He wanted a more precise estimate of the price, and Najla allowed him to name it, at which she promised to double it. A lie, but Suhayb had likely seen the extent of Lamya’s pockets and believed she would be capable of it. She would be, certainly, but she wouldn’t ever give it to him.

Once he had been sated with the price, Najla thanked him and left the caravan, closing the door behind her. She began to walk through the city, messing her hair up and pulling her dress a little off her shoulder, making it obvious to anyone who looked upon her what she had been ‘called on’ for.

@persianversion

[Dion]

“And you're sure of it?”

“Yes, I saw her leaving alone an hour ago. Not sure where she went, but the Servant wasn't with her, and I'm sure he is in his private room.”

“Okay, so what the hell are we waiting for.. let's show her what she gets for resisting a Monarchist.”

The boots of the men walked through the castle halls rapidly. They came from the dormitory, which had been temporarily set up in one of the many mess halls. The castle was large and had many rooms to service the many Servants that lived there. Like would be expected of a true holy order, a Monarchist cross was to be found almost everywhere. These men did not seem to care, however. They approached the large castle doors and left the castle, stepping into the courtyard. They greeted the two Servants that were guarding the entrance, and then headed into the city, walking through the castle-keep gate that separated the keep from the town. The large castle walls of the town itself were grand, but the pinnacle of Coedwin was no doubt the castle keep.

They followed the roads, looking for the woman. There were five of them, including the two of them that had earlier assaulted Saina. The one with the broken nose was visibly still quite.. shaken from that entire event. His nose was crooked and bandaged, a sure sign to remember Saina of just who this man was. They were carrying torches and seemed to be almost like a regular patrol of guards.

Though they were somewhat tired, the adrenaline of their plan was kicking in and their pace increased with every step they took. However since they hadn't trailed Saina, finding her would prove to be nigh impossible, and indeed they would spend nearly an hour walking around before they found any sign of her. When they walked past a warehouse with a light burning inside, they briefly stopped. One of the men peeked inside through a window, before looking back at the men with him.

“Just some merchant discussing some stuff with a woman,” he said. It was a lucky break for Saina, perhaps, that she had faced away from the window. She had probably saved the life of the merchant in the process, as the men were clearly not in the mood for negotiation or diplomacy, and it was wholly likely that they would've went in there and cut them down where they stood, leaving none alive to witness the horrible acts they would perform on Saina.

But they did not see her - and did not think to ask the people inside if they had seen a Sawarim slave. There were too many Sawarim slaves anyway, so the question would've served no purpose.

“Alright, let's go, we'll walk in a circle back to the castle and see if she's going back any time soon,” the one with the broken nose said. They continued on their way, following a path along the outer edges of the city, hugging the walls before walking down the main road through the center of the city.

It did not take them long after all to stumble across Saina, purely by accident. Her hair was ruffled, looking like she just had a tumble with a man, and her dress was pulled off the shoulder. If anything this gave the men more of a reason to take her - she was worthless after all, a whore. “She didn't even pleasure the Servant,” one of the men whispered as they followed her.

“Aye, she's not a good slave. Do you think she decided to do this herself, to earn some money, or did the Servant send her to take care of one of his friends?”

“She seems rather comfortable walking here looking like a whore, so my guess is she did this herself.”

“Quiet, you two! Get her!”

The voices would be hushed, but not out of earshot for Saina. However, if she suddenly ran, it was likely that the men would catch up anyway. It was much harder to run in a dress than in a light tunic and some linen trousers, after all. They would walk up behind her, and one of the men would suddenly grasp her wrist, pulling her back sharply and nearly forcing her face to bump into the man. “Looks like we finally caught you! Alone, even. You've just come back from a customer have you not? Don't you know being a whore, a woman of loose morals, is against the word of the Monarch? You'll have to repent for that, and we know just the way! We'll show you how the Monarchists, men of the true God, repent for their sins.”

Another man walked closer and grasped her around her waist, giving her a rather tight bear hug, and catching her other arm in the hug as well, making it so that she could not fight back quite as well. He lifted her from the ground and took her with him, following the four men while they looked for an empty warehouse. Since she'd just come from her discussion with the merchant, and so they had found themselves right in the middle of the warehouse and business area of the city - the marketplace was right around the corner, one of the men remembered.

They entered an empty and abandoned warehouse and the man holding Saina would walk to one of the support poles that held up the second floor. He'd push her up against this pole, while one of his four companions reached for a rope that laid on a chest nearby. Promptly he would force her arms behind her back, around the pole, and would then tie her hands together. He made sure to tie it very tightly, though his work was not expert and he did not seem to have any experience with kidnapping people. Her hands were tied, but she could still move them, and wiggle her hands if she wished.

She was now standing up, her back pressed against the pole. The man with the broken nose got closer and pushed aside the two men that were busy tying her up. With a quick movement his head jerked close to hers and he stared directly into her eyes. “So we meet again. I got my weregild, you know.. but I don't think it was quite enough. Look at what you did to my nose - you, you fucking Sawarim bitch,” he'd say, the words spitting from his mouth in a rather angry fashion. The way he called her a Sawarim bitch made it quite clear he held no sympathy for the Sawarim desert-lords, those tribal peasants that ate sand for breakfast and dinner.

“You Sawarim harlots have no morals and don't understand Gods' will, I can see that.. look at you, your dress half off your shoulders. Didn't your Servant master just buy that for you, you unthankful wench? He'll be glad we got rid of you when we're done with you, no more expenditure for him..”

His hand grabbed her shoulder harshly, and he dug his nails into her shoulder, which was bare as she had just removed her dress from it to appear more like a real slave. Perhaps she had done a job that was too good. While he was merely grasping her shoulder now, she would soon find he could and would do much worse.

“You desert mongrels are good for nothing else. You're nothing more than an object to be used, aren't you? You know, we hear the stories here, and we're sure they're all true.. you sand-eaters fuck your own horses, don't you? That's why you hold them in such high regard. Cause your men can't do a good enough job, so you need the horses to satisfy you? I'll show you what a Broacienien man can do.”

He'd promptly turn around and look at the four men, and then pointed at the door. “Go outside and keep guard. You'll get your turns, I promise.” A gross-sounding laugh followed, and the other men laughed along. Yes, she'd be run through at the end of the night, and then left for dead, tied to a pole, her privates ripped to shreds by the careless savages that these men seemed to be.

When the four men left the warehouse, the man with the broken nose would inch closer to Saina, his ugly face coming next to hers. He'd whisper into her ear, while his hand rested on her shoulder and lessened the grip he had there. His other hand would promptly brush between her dress, lifting it slightly, before he'd place his hand over her crotch. “You're going to love this.”

By now, Saina might have realized that the ropes around her wrists had loosened if she had wiggled them enough. She would more than likely have enough space to draw her wrists free, and free herself. The mans dagger was exposed. It's blade was straight, and it was clearly of Broacien origin. She could easily reach for it, grab it, and slit the mans throat or stab him. The close proximity of the mans face meant that, if she could get past his vulgar words, his terrible smell, and the hand that was now nestled firmly on her crotch and beginning to feel her up, he would not notice her actions until it was too late.

But first, she had to make the move, and reach for the weapon. And secondarily, she'd have to find a way to do it without alarming the four men outside, unless she had wished to fight off all four of them. While she might be raped otherwise, she would likely still be alive afterwards. Perhaps. But if the four of them found their friend dead at the hands of a slave, with a dagger in her hands, there was no way she would survive it.

By now the man was groping her, his hand having dropped from her shoulder and aggressively grasping at her breast through the fabric of her dress. Clearly, whatever morals Ketill held himself to that had made him not ask for Saina's company as of yet, these men lacked the same morals, and they had no problems raping her. The decency to ask her to service them was lacking - though Saina was more than likely to have denied that request - and they were more reminiscent of animals than men.

@Odin

[Dion]

The whispers were hushed, but cut through the quiet of the night like steel. She had been happy as she walked back, nervous perhaps, but mostly eager for the night to end so they could take Inaya and be another day closer to freedom. Now a rush of fear came over her, and she reached down to grab a handful of her dress, picking the skirt up in her hand before darting.

It did not last long. She was only able to move a few paces before the sound of boots behind her grew impossible to ignore, and she felt the rough grasp around her wrist as they pulled her back. She wanted to protest, to beg, to tell them that she wasn’t a whore and that they’d be caught, but before she could, she felt herself being swept up and carried away.

Najla never stopped struggling, but the man had locked his arms around her, and he was far stronger and larger than she was. She even cried out for help, but where the deserted marketplace had been her friend before, it was no help here. No one heard her, and as they took her into the warehouse, Najla knew what was going to happen. What part of her hadn’t been consumed by fear before certainly felt it now, but she kept squirming and struggling as they pulled her arms back. The rope was rough, and felt as if it cut against her wrists painfully as she moved, but Najla didn’t seem to feel it. She kept pulling at the rope, trying desperately to loosen it, only to freeze for a brief moment before a familiar face came before hers.

The hands that had been tying her left, and her fearful protests ceased as the man began talking. Even here, tied up and surrounded by five men who hated her, Najla’s anger at this man was easily apparent. She recoiled as he brought his face closer to hers, utterly repulsed both by his appearance and his words.

He grabbed her shoulder harshly and Najla winced as he dug his nails into the skin. It would likely break and bleed, but that was hardly her concern now. She shook her head at his words, still squirming at the ropes, still trying to pull away with the little space allotted to her, still trying to push the words of protest out. She tried to threaten him, to demand him to stop, to beg him to stop, but when he ordered the men out, Najla knew what was next. No amount of words could stop them, they would use her throughout the night and hopefully she’d be around to recall the trauma in the morning.

The hand on her crotch confirmed this, and though she tried to kick out at him, it was pointless. As he continued to touch her, his grimy hands doing as they pleased, she felt the ropes around her wrist loosen slightly. Najla used her fingers to pull the rope apart, and a wrist slipped out, followed by the other. She kept them firmly behind her, still squirming as if she was tied, but the rough rope around her wrists was held up at her will now. The gleam of the dagger at his hip was tempting, especially as his touch grew bolder, but she did not move.

He brought his face closer to hers, and Najla maintained eye contact with him. He was an ugly creature, and his smile contorted his now-broken face unpleasantly. His face moved closer towards her, as if he meant to kiss her, and Najla whimpered again and kicked out as she felt his finger move inside her.

“I knew you’d like it.”

Finally, his eyes closed as his lips met hers, and Najla was free to end the indignity.

Her hand moved in a flash, and she reached for the dagger at his hip, unsheathing it and bringing just past her own neck. She slid the dagger into his throat, pulling her lips from his at the last moment and replacing it with her hand. The dagger did not pierce all the way through, she was not strong enough for it, but she pulled it out and stabbed it in again. She could hear him choking on his blood beneath her hand, and felt the warm blood being coughed up against it, but the sound was muffled, overridden by the heavy laughter behind the door. Najla pulled the dagger out again, swiftly, and he fell to his knees in front of her as he tried to grasp at his throat, his eyes wide and bulging in their panic. No screams could come now, only gargles as the blood pushed through the holes in his throat, and past his lips, falling out over his body. Najla watched angrily as he fell to the ground, her body still burning where he had touched her. She watched as he collapsed, choking on his own blood for another brief moment before his body stilled. Najla kneeled beside his body, resting the dagger gently on the floor. For a moment, she considered closing his eyes, but chose instead to spit into his face, before digging into his pockets, trying to calm herself and understand her new position.

Her mind raced furiously, her thoughts pouring out in a steady stream of panic, which Najla was barely managing to pick through.

If I go to the trader, they follow, we both die. If I go free Inaya, they follow, we both die. If I return to the castle, I could live, but Inaya will not be freed. She is the only one who knows where I am, she has to go.

Najla scrounged through his pockets as she continued to think on what to do, situation after situation playing in her head. It did not take long, Najla had few options and fewer still she trusted, but it felt like years to her.

I’ve got to get Inaya out. Either her or me.

The thought made her heart sink, and Najla paused for a brief moment, as the sorrow of the realization took over her actions. She wouldn’t be leaving. It was too dangerous, if she ran, they’d know she tried to escape justice. They’d hunt her, as Ketill had threatened, especially if she left a body in her trail. She couldn’t leave now.

I was so close. One more day. I would’ve been free tomorrow.

He had ruined everything. She looked at the man under her, the blood still oozing from his throat and onto the floor beneath them. He was uglier in death, most were, but the thought that such a hideous creatures hands had been on her made her shudder. The thought that he had taken her freedom from her made her angry. Yet, there was nothing she could do, there was nothing left to take from him.

Najla observed him for a moment, the anger quieting her panicked stream of thoughts. She was not repulsed by the scene in front of her. She had lifted her dress in her hand, and stepped around the pools of blood lightly, so as not to let it stain. Her hands searched through his pockets, uncaring as to how quickly the skin against it was turning cold. His expression was contorted and painful, and the wounds on his neck were ugly, open, and leaking, yet Najla showed no disgust as she observed him. Only anger for what he had taken from her and the frustration that she had nothing more to take from him.

Finding the purse where he kept his money, she opened it with her clean hand. The coins clinked softly as she counted them, but she could not count more than a few before she grew wary of the noise. Though the men were laughing beyond the door, she worried that they would be listening closely, anticipating their turn. Najla glanced over the coins quickly, estimating that he had kept about 50, if not more, of the silver with him. He was an idiot to leave any of it in the dormitory, but she was hardly concerned about that now. Picking up the rope they had used to tie her hands together, Najla tied the purse to the inside of her leg securely, taking a few steps and rearranging it to make sure it wouldn’t jingle about as she walked. Guards would see her walking back with a full purse in her hands, and she didn’t want them sitting around guessing how much she had been worth.

Najla hesitated another moment, listening to the crass laughter behind the door. She knew she couldn’t exit through that door, but these warehouses had a number of entrances. Perhaps she could have waited, and taken them one by one as they walked in, and though she would have loved to bring justice to those who had wanted to hurt her so badly, she knew she couldn’t. She’d have to pray that the Sawarim brought it to them someday.

The dim light the man had molested her by proved just enough to move to the other end of the large warehouse, where Najla felt along the wall carefully until she found a door, smaller than the one they had brought her through, which was likely used for the larger goods in. It opened without complaint, thankfully, and Najla slipped out onto the streets. The sounds of the laughter had not left her ears, and it felt as if the man’s touch was still upon her, so Najla did not hesitate. She picked up her skirts again and moved as far away from their voices as she could before she made her way through the castle.

----

She had learned from her mistake. She gave herself a glance-over as best as she could in the light of a torch, making sure there were no visible bloodstains. The hand she had kept over his mouth had been cleaned as best as she could, but she held up the hem of her dress in that hand, trying to cover up the bloodstain with the fabric. A red mark remained smeared on her neck, and Najla could not wipe it off completely, so she let her hair cover it, smoothing it down. Her dress, she had pulled back up over her shoulder, and she smoothed that down as well, checking it over for visible bloodstains. Surely, there were some, but none that any would see in the dimly lit halls of Coedwin now.

She wanted to sprint through the empty streets of the market, pound upon the trader’s warehouse, and demand that he take her home now. Reason forced her to return to the keep, along with the knowledge that the men would be seeking her shortly. It wouldn’t take long for one to grow impatient and storm in for his turn, and she had only the span of their patience to act. It was reason that pushed her through the streets to the keep, through the courtyard and the halls, and back to her bed. The guards looked at her, a curious glance here and there, but a Sawarim woman walking back through the castle at this hour seemed to be a common sight. She had taken care to clean up her appearance to pass the necessary glances, and so it seemed none knew of the silver strapped to her calf or the body she had left in her wake.

They will, tomorrow. And I’m leaving myself at their mercy, like a fool.

She had seen their trials, and it frightened Najla to think she might be subject to one. Ketill had been about to give part of his finger for breaking a man’s nose, she could not imagine the price for the same man’s life. For a Sawarim woman, likely nothing short of her own. The only alternative was that she leave with the trader and die when they caught up to her. She had played with her own life many times over, and perhaps it would have been a gamble she was willing to take, but Najla was the only one who knew where Jalil remained. That information couldn’t die with her.

She threaded carefully through the host of slaves sleeping on cots and the ground. It seemed getting to the cot she had shared with Qamar took longer than the rest of her walk, as Najla was forced to tread carefully to avoid stepping on anyone in the dim light of the torch. Finally, she could see Qamar sleeping soundly on the cot, and Najla moved beside her carefully. Ever so gently, she shook the girl awake, leaving a hand over her mouth to prevent her from gasping or making a noise if she were to wake up suddenly.

Qamar startled awake, and it was lucky that Najla had her hand over the girl’s mouth, for she let out a sharp gasp that was instantly muffled. Once Qamar saw her, Najla lifted the hand, gently moving a single finger to her own lips, to indicate she was to be quiet.

<“Qamar, I need you to listen. You’re my friend, right?”> Qamar nodded, confused. She was a sweet girl, and Najla took her hand softly. <“If you trust anything I say, trust this. I can get you out of here.”>

Qamar’s eyes widened, and she seemed about to speak, when Najla held another finger to her lips. <“Ya Sawarim, on my life I promise this. Do you trust me?”>

Qamar nodded again, and Najla continued to speak, her voice soft and low, though as gentle as she could manage in her panic. <“Then I need you to listen. Tomorrow, go to a trader in the market. Address him as Suhayb and give him this.”> Najla explained how to find him and his warehouse, as she reached under her dress and swiftly untied the rope that had been chafing her leg. The bag fell onto the cot with a clink, and Najla gripped it tightly so it made no more noise as she picked it up and handed it to Qamar. Qamar took it in her hand as gently if Najla was handing her a miraculous child, mesmerized by the gift.

<“There’s 50 silvers in there. He must use it and whatever else he has to purchase another.”> This time, Najla explained who Inaya was. Not her personality, or her background, but every identifying marker Najla could remember about the girl, to make sure she freed no one on accident. Clearly this was a task she wished she could do herself, but Najla knew she would never be allowed to wander Coedwin with the freedom to do so again, at least not in the brief week before she left. Even if she wasn’t relegated to a dungeon, even if they decided her cause was just, the crowd would watch her now, every movement she made.

Qamar looked confused, and Najla squeezed her hand tightly. <“Please tell me you were listening.”> Her words were spoken with a smile, almost as a joke, despite the fear that was about to come running down the hall to take her.

<“I am, I just-what about you? Why her?”>

<“Don’t worry about me, I will see you soon. Someone has to stay behind and make sure no one follows you, right?”> Najla paused again, before continuing. <“Whatever you hear about me. Wherever I am. Nothing should stop you from taking that money to the market tomorrow and do as I’m telling you. I know what’s going to happen to me, and I will see you again.”>

<“What’s going to happen to you?”>

Najla paused, then smiled again, hoping Najla could hear the confidence in her words. <“It’ll sound scarier than it is. Trust that I will be fine. So long as you do everything I’ve asked of you, I will not be in trouble for long. If you fail, I will too.”>

They spoke longer, in whispers so quietly the bodies snoring beside them would never hear. But Najla made certain Qamar had. She comforted the girl, telling her that her past as a merchant had connected her to this particular trader, that Qamar should have no fears. She laughed with the girl gently, as if they were sisters gossiping underneath a blanket, and Najla knew she would miss Qamar. Inaya and Qamar would become fast friends however, and Najla was soon heartened when she saw that their talking had caused Qamar to become bolder in her role, more trusting of her friend, and hopeful that she’d be let free soon.

<“What will I do, when I’m free? I have few talents…and I don’t want to do that again.”>

<“You won’t ever have to. Never again. We’ll work as merchants and get so rich we’ll never have to touch a man we don’t want again.”>

They whispered these dreams to each other, and the dreams grew larger and larger, to fancy houses and fine husbands, before Najla said her goodbye. For a moment, she hugged the girl tightly, then released her just as quickly.

<“When you find the girl, tell her that his skull remains on a spike where it was taken.”>

<“Whose?”> <“No ones, it’s a code. But you must tell her that, she will know what it means.”> Qamar nodded again, and Najla smiled once more.

<“Ya Sawarim, stay safe. He will return me to you within a fortnight.”>

With this, Najla picked her way through the crowd again. She had far less patience this time, knowing that the men were likely scouring the marketplace for her, or had run back to the castle to alert the Servants. She could wait until they found her among the slaves, but Najla had no assurances of her safety. What if they stormed in and just slit her throat in front of these slaves? They wouldn’t do anything to stop it.

Once again, she left the room. Night would be over soon, and Najla knew what came for her when the day broke. She walked through the halls of Coedwin with her shoulders back, no longer slinking about, no intent to hide what she had done.

I wish I could find Ketill. At least he’d kill me himself, instead of handing me over to those brutes.

It’d be a preferable death, certainly, as she simply wanted to keep the pleasure away from those cowards. Yet she did not trust that she’d make it to Ketill’s room alive, she was sure that the men would find her soon. So, Najla moved to the front entrance of the castle keep.

It would not take her long to find what she was looking for. Apparently the men had seen the body and had already started to search for her in the night, alerting the guards at some point during the process. They had responded with sending out more patrols to look for her, assuming she must have escaped or remained hiding in the marketplace. Najla only had to get to the courtyard before she was stopped by a pair of unfamiliar Servants, clearly on the way to join the search.

“Come here and identify yourself.”

Najla walked towards them, her eyes on the ground. She opened her mouth to speak, but it seemed they had seen the bloodstains on her hand, or realized somehow who she was. One moved to pull out a sword, and Najla raised her hands, one clean and one stained red, to show they were empty.

“No need, my lord, I am unarmed and submit myself to your mercy.” There was no fear in her voice, and though Najla felt her heart pounding furiously, she would not have been able to identify herself as frightened if anyone asked. There was a sense of relief in her actions, knowing that even if she were to die, someone besides her knew where Jalil was buried. Soon, the Sultanate would know and her brother could rest.

While visibly confused, the Servants were not about to argue with her. One marched forward and grabbed her wrist, while the other let go of his sword.

“I’ll let them know we found her.” The one holding onto her nodded and she was left alone with him as his friend marched off. This should have frightened her more, but he seemed eager to be rid of her, and wasted no time in marching her towards the dungeons.

“You’re really ser Ketill's slave?”

“Yes, my lord.” He seemed surprised, but it was not hard to understand why. Her master seemed to be respected around Coedwin, if not most of Broacien, rather highly. She was going to be a stain on his reputation, but Najla did not care what the others thought of Ketill, so long as they didn’t try to hurt her for it.

“He’s not going to like this.” “No, my lord.”

He had meant it threateningly, but Najla would not let herself by frightened by him. As horrible of a notion it was, Ketill was the safest option she had. At least he wouldn’t rape her for what she had done.

He marched her to the dungeons, quickly handing her off to the Servants that guarded it. It was the second time she’d find her home in a Brocienien cell, and Najla was finding that she liked them less each time around. It was far better than being tied to a pole in a warehouse however, even as they wrapped her wrists with chains and tossed in into a cell. It was damp, cramped, but thankfully empty, though the various cells of the dungeons had been populated with Sawarim prisoners. Najla found the less damp part of the cell and sat down, her back against the wall. With nothing to do, she prayed, and would continue to do so intermittently until her master came to fetch her.

@persianversion

[Dion]

“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini Tuo da gloriam.”

The prayer came early in the morrow, before even the crack of dawn had sounded, and before the sun had raised itself above the red desert sands. In the large church hall, there were approximately four Servant knights, heads bent in prayer, their swords not at their side but at the entrance to the hall. It would be one of the few times you'd find a Servant without his blade - either asleep, or in church. Among them was Ketill, similarly with his head bent in prayer, his characterizing beard being an easy way to spot him. For once, he was dressed in naught more than his tunic - no armor, no shield at his side, only a tunic, belt and linen trousers, as well as leather boots. The weather would not allow him to go around in his armor constantly - though one might get accustomed to the desert heat, Ketill had been gone long enough to lose that trait.

While he was praying, the sounds of footsteps approaching behind the men was obvious, and though it bothered Ketill, he did not stir from his position. Finish the prayer first, he thought, then ask who dares disturb a prayer. Though he might not have looked the part - except perhaps for the iron monarchistic cross around his neck at times, hidden underneath his tunic mostly - Ketill was very much a zealous, devout believer, and while he was a man that took offense to little, disturbing his prayers was something he found most insulting.

Though, for the reason that the Servants had done so, it might have been excused. “Sir Ketill, sir,” a voice rang, deep and bold, brazen like a bull. Ketill did not look back, continuing to mumble his prayers. He would listen - not answer - as was expected of him. “Your slave has been captured after a murder last night. She seems to be complicit, and the Servants that found her said that she had blood on her hands when they found her. The Hochmeister has requested your presence, that you might defend her.”

Again, once more, he did not stir from his crouched position, mumbling his words ever on - inaudible, but louder - and the man seemed to finally get the message. He crossed his arms and waited for Ketill to finish. After a few more words, a clear finish rang. “In the name of the Monarch and his children, amen.” Slowly Ketill would get up and turn around, looking to face towards the man - he was a giant, larger than Ketill, taller than a mountain perhaps. He was strong, and clearly not of noble birth - his face was riddled with cuts and crooks, his nose bent in multiple places. Perhaps a criminal, looking for repentance. Ketill was not one to judge. All Servants were brothers, and all of them forgot their past when they joined. That was the commitment.

“I will come with you. Defending her.. I am not so sure. Lead the way,” Ketill answered him, his blue eyes matching the green ones of the giant in front of him. The man nodded and uncrossed his arm, heading for the exit. The church was built into the castle - a converted Sawarim prayer hall that over time had been retrofit for Monarchist prayer. They had even brought in one of the arch bishops, to hallow and sanctify the grounds and purge the remains of whatever Sawarim rituals and prayers had took place here. The Monarchists took their religion seriously.

When he passed by the four swords leaning against the wall near the exit, he took his, and attached the sheath to his belt again. He tugged it once or twice, making sure the thing was attached full and proper. Nothing worse than a blade falling off in the middle of a ride - or worse, a battle. They continued onward, first to the room of the hochmeister.

Ketill stepped in and already found himself in the company of some familiar faces. The two quartermasters, the young lord that lead the expedition, the slave master, and of course, the militia commander. Joined with them was the hochmeister of the Servants, who was leaning on his table, and seemed to be rather concerned. The burly man that had fetched Ketill stepped forward, bowing deeply for the men and women in the room, before he spoke up. “Presenting sir Ketill, lord Hochmeister.” It seemed like Ketill had been expected, then again, it was customary to involve the master of a slave.

Ketill stepped forward exchanging positions with the burly man, who now left the room. “What is the issue now?” Ketill asked, standing at the edge of the table, placing himself between the slavedriver and the female quartermaster. It seemed like those two were the ones that were least likely to stab him in the neck, at this point. Frankly, Ketill was surprised that the slavedriver was even allowed into the castle, but that was another matter entirely. “She murdered someone, from what I had gathered?”

“Yes, she did,” spoke the Hochmeister, solemn in his voice.

“Then there is no doubt, we are certain she did it?” It seemed there was no doubt about the situation, but Ketill saw fit to ask anyway. A confirming nod from the Hochmeister affirmed his suspicions. “Who did she kill?”

The face of the militia commander contorted in anger as he leaned in to the table, looking at Ketill angrily. “The same man whose face you bashed in, you fucking imbecile!”

The words came paired with spit and visible anger, which gave Ketill a reason to lift his eyebrow ever so slightly. “I see. He had not learned his lesson the last time?”

The militia commander was going to retort - perhaps by drawing a blade, we would never know - but was stopped by the Hochmeister. “They have history?”

“Yes, he attacked her and tried to rape her. I stopped him, and broke his nose. The weregild has been paid, so I had assumed he'd learned not to be so hedonistic.”

“Not all men are as pious as you, Ketill. Sawarims have no rights here - you of all people ought to know that. Perhaps you acted right as a person, but in the eyes of the laws of men, you had no right to intervene with violence - even as her master.”

“Are we savages then, Hochmeister? Does the holy book of our Monarch not say that we must remain civil in the face of heathens, infidels and the occult, lest we become worse than them?”

The militia leader now interrupted again, less angry perhaps, but still quite upset that one of his men had died at the hands of a Sawarim - or a Sawarim whore, as he'd have called her given the chance. “Worse than a Sawarim? Hochmeister, when did you start allowing pansies like this sore excuse for a man into the Servants? Worse than a bloody Sawarim, pfah, those charlatans and infidels are not good for much more than serving us, proper Broacienien Monarchists.”

Suddenly the slavedriver would speak up, a mischievous look in his eyes as he looked at the commander. “Serving you, personally, late at night in your tent, I take it, lord commander..? You have requested many of my girls - and I agreed, because you paid me.” Before the commander could interject, the slavedriver turned to the Hochmeister and spoke in that foreign Sawarim language that nobody seemed to understand - except the Hochmeister, apparently. <“He's a fan of our finest girls - the ones with slim bodies and nice features. Pays good money for them, and treats them nicely as long as he gets what he wants. As for the girls that he doesn't get, well, if they are Sawarim he'd probably crush them under his boot.”>

“.. yes, be that as it may be, lord, there is still the issue at hand here as to what to do with the woman. Whatever your thoughts may be about the Sawarim, in the end, she is a murderer, and must be dealt with accordingly.” The Hochmeister seemed to be ever the voice of reason, though Ketill would have had no problem with it if they decided her fate without him.

“I will retrieve her then. She deserves to hear her fate from our lips, at the very least.”

“Pfah, you're just stalling. But fine, go get her, get this bloody process over with, so that we can leave at the end of the day.”

“Leave?”

“Yes, we've waited here long enough. I'm ready to get going.”

“But we have offered you a few more days of hospitality, surely you would wish to-”

“We are leaving. We are here for the banner, not to repair ties with the Servants.”

Ketill shook his head and walked away while the Hochmeister and the militia commander had their discussion. It wasn't worthwhile to listen to that, not while the woman he had been appointed by Lord Jachsen was apparently going out at night and murdering the militiamen. He was sure there was more to it - but that did not quite matter. She was a murderer and she would pay for it - it seemed like it, anyway.

He walked down to the dungeons, down the twirling round staircase and then into the cell block. There were many, many cells. Coedwin had a history of being a primary slavery settlement, where slaves were offloaded and bought and sold, and as such, the dungeons were huge. Finding her was an easy task however - there were only two cell blocks in use in these times. Slavery trade had settled down after slavers started engaging in slave wars over territory. It would die down in a year or two, and then the trade would pick up again.

She would hear Ketill approaching long before he saw her, his footsteps echoing in the halls. Dim lit corridors were occasionally lit with torches, but mostly you had to rely on your eyes. When he finally found her, he looked at her through the grates of the cell. “Saina,” he'd say, looking at her with a hint of annoyance in his eyes. “I should let you rot here. You've been nothing but trouble so far. Look at you. This morning I wanted to find my white linen tunic, but found you hadn't stitched it. What use are you, if not something as simple as that?”

It seemed almost humorous that he forewent the process of even mentioning the murder. He didn't seem to care - well, a fellow Monarchist was dead, but he was a savage, and he paid the price. Hopefully the Monarch did not punish him too hard for his deed, for he was a mere man after all.

He reached to the right and grabbed the keys hanging from a pin on the wall, unlocking the cell door. He stepped inside, and stood closer to her. He offered her his left hand, helping her up, but when she would grab it and step up, she could suddenly see his right hand flying towards her with an open hand. Whether she braced or not, the hit would not come. His open hand had stopped mere inches from her cheek, his hand that had grabbed hers now violently squeezing hers in an effort to calm himself. He looked her in her eyes with his deep blue eyes, reminiscent of ice, or snow. It was silent and the silence was deafening. Ketill did not know that such a saying could be true but he finally understood it. After a few more seconds of silence, he'd let go of her hand, and lower his open palm that had hovered before her cheek. Then, he spoke, his voice calm as ever, as if he had not been taken over by anger moments before. “You will die today,” he said, ominously.

He stepped away, but turned back and drew his blade. The motion had been rapid and it was visible just how skilled Ketill was with his sword. And this was merely a one handed blade - imagine the damage he could do with a two handed blade. With a swift movement of the arm, he placed the tip of his blade against her chest, aiming directly between her breasts, slightly under the collarbones. She would feel the sting of his blade, piercing through the fabric of her dress slightly and poking at her chest. “I ought to kill you now, and settle the stain on my honor you have caused me by myself.” He seemed serious, as if he would really kill her. The pressure of the blade on her chest would slowly increase, until he drew blood, the tip puncturing her skin softly, not more than a needle would have. “That is what I would have done, were I not a man of the Monarch, or had I not taken my vows to him seriously. Instead, I will deliver you onto the mercy of the trial and I will pray for you that you survive. But the Monarch cannot help you. I will pray that your death is swift.” Even that would not be happening, he knew.

He removed the blade and sheathed it again, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her with him. Somehow he had managed to hold her by the same area where she had bruised at the very start of the trip - though, the bruises would have healed by now. He pulled her with him, towards the staircase, and headed back up.

They headed all the way to the Hochmeisters room, where he would step in and somehow land himself in another discussion. The slavemaster was seemingly arguing with the young leader of the expedition.

“I don't think we can do that. Raid Sawarim villages for slaves, I mean. We are here on an expedition, not to make war.”

“Nobody would know.”

“The villagers would - the sultan would. Much as my hatred for that man is, he is a sultan, and we do not wish to incite another war. Coedwin has held this long, we can hold longer. But an offensive war in the desert-”

“Is suicide. I am not asking you to go to war, I am asking you to raid villages with me.”

“You do not understand. It's im- oh, it seems Ketill has returned.”

With a forceful shove, Ketill would push Saina towards the table. He did not seem angry, mostly annoyed perhaps. He did not care for his honor, name or prestige too much. Perhaps he cared for the inconvenience she had caused him time and time again. He would not cut his finger for her this time.

“Yes, it seems that way, young lord,” he replied, his eyes never leaving Saina's back. “Go on Saina. Tell them what happened, why you were out late at night without my orders, and murdered a man. Your fate is sealed, but you might find some compassion left in these men.” His words were stern, sterner than ever before, and it was because Ketill realized the futility of the entire discussion. She would die - why prolong her suffering and make her hope for even the faintest glimpse of hope? It would not come. Not now, not tomorrow - she did not live to see tomorrow. If possible he would offer her some final soothing by swinging the blade on her neck himself - that way it would be gentle and swift.

Most likely she would be left in the dungeon, and those men that had enough influence or persuasion could visit her, have their way with her, before she would be executed at the fall of the evening before the expedition moved on. It was little she could do for that.

Fate was a fickle thing.

Perhaps the next voice was a reason to believe in that.

“Now, Ketill, treat her more kindly. This is not what I taught you.” The voice was older than any voice in the room, and it caused Ketill to look back. When he saw who it was, he dropped on one knee and bowed his head.

“Your holiness,” was all Ketill said. The other men and women in the room looked at the man, who was dressed in fine black clothes of the Church, a golden rod - a staff of sorts - in his hands that he used to hold himself upright. There was a look of compassion in his eyes when he looked around the room to inspect who was there. The only other person to lower his head was the Hochmeister, who also uttered something like 'your holiness' when the man appeared.

“Get up, Ketill. I am no longer the young bishop I was once. I've come to realize that the whole process of having people kneel for me is rather tiresome. I'd rather see your face, so that I can tell whether you are being sincere.”

Slowly Ketill would rise, looking up at the man. His demeanor did not change. “Yes, of course, your holiness. Your will is my command.”

The old man smiled at Saina, seemingly intrigued by her. “You look familiar - have I seen you before?” He looked at her a few seconds more before shaking his head. “Sorry, so many Sawarim girls visit the castle, I must be confused. I hope you enjoyed your stay here for so long, and I hope that we might find a way to prolong it.” His voice was one of genuine kindness, which perhaps Saina would not be expecting to find from a bishop of the Monarchist church.

“Your holiness, she is being trialed for murder, the evidence is here, and as you know Sawarim have no-” The Hochmeister had tried to speak but was interrupted with a wave of the staff from the priest.

“Nonsense. I will hear what she has to say. I overheard what Ketill said earlier - ah, see, I was waiting outside to visit one of my friends in the room across the hall. Lord-commander Davis, I'm sure you know. Nice man. Makes nice stews, too. Ah, I digress. Ketill was right. The Sawarim have no rights here - that much is true, and I do not stand to argue with that, for the will of the Monarch be done. But lest we turn to savages, I propose we hear to what she has to say. If I recall correctly, from what lord-commander Davis told me, the militia man was found murdered in a warehouse, found by his three friends.. with a rope behind the pillar he was found close to? Sounds to me like perhaps this man was not as innocent as the Monarch would have liked him to be.”

“A-absolutely, your holiness.” The Hochmeister was convinced, and similarly, the young leader also nodded, his chin grasped by his index finger and thumb. He would've felt his stubble - had he had any.

Ketill bowed his head to the man, whispering a soft 'thank you' before turning to Saina. “Very well, speak Saina, tell us what happened. Why were you out this late?”

He would ask her questions, as well as some of the other members of the trial. She would be allowed to tell her story, answer the questions, and if she had had any evidence, she would've been allowed to present it - though, given she was put in jail, it was unlikely she could procure anything like that just that easily.

“Who was the man you killed?”

“Why did you kill him?”

“What of his friends?”

“What did you do after you murdered him?”

“His purse was missing - did you take it?”

“Why did you return to the castle at first, and not turn yourself in?”

At the end of the trial, it seemed that the men had come to a conclusion. A vote was to be held. Each would state their position and would rule in favor of execution, or in favor of innocence. The hochmeister was exempted from the vote - he was only there to exact the punishment if they had decided on one. First to speak was the militia commander.

“I vote for execution. This whore just admitted she killed one of my men - she's a Sawarim! I don't care if she did it for a just reason or not. She deserves death.”

“I vote for execution too,” the slave driver said, looking at Saina. He spoke to her in his language, though only the Hochmeister and herself would understand. <“You should've taken my offer when you had the chance. I can't help you now - you were stubborn to continue to believe in our gods. If you survive, I'll come to see you. We should talk. Maybe your master will sell you to me now.”>

The first quartermaster was next, the male merchant that took care of the weaponry, armor and such. “Execute her. We need to consider practicality. This is the second hearing we've had for her, and we can't keep slowing down. So, either execute her, or leave her in the dungeons here. Sell her, if you must.”

Then, the female quartermaster. “She deserves a chance at life. It was obvious the man was.. looking for revenge. I paid his weregild - he should have been satisfied. Greediness is not a trait of a good Monarchist.” The bishop nodded at that remark, but remained silent.

Next, the young lord spoke, his chin still firmly between his index finger and thumb. “I would have voted to execute her, but the bishop is right. We are men of the Monarch, not savages. We must not lower ourselves to their standards, lest we lose our holy favor. She can live.”

Finally, it was Ketill's turn to vote. His vote was expected, and not surprising. “Live.” He needn't say more - his reasons were his own, and the grasp of the bishops hand on his shoulder affirmed his choice.

“Well. It seems we are tied.. that means that the choice defaults to execution,” the Hochmeister said. “Ketill, you will.. exact the punishment, I take it?”

Ketill answered honestly. “Yes. Right away.” He did not wish to prolong the trial, and he did not wish to prolong her suffering at the hands of other men. But the bishop stepped in, righteously so.

“Very well, it seems it has to come to this - I exact the right of holy intervention. The Monarch is not here, but I am. I will tell you what I believe the monarch would do - he'd spare this woman on the grounds of self defense, and he would indenture her to his servitude. As I have no need for a slave, I will indenture her to Ketill, as she was before, and so the status quo remains. That is my will.”

Ketill and the Hochmeister - two Servants, of course, indentured to the holy man himself - bowed their heads. “Thy will be done, your holiness,” they added, and so it seemed to be decided that his will was to be exacted. The militia commander did not seem to agree, however.

“You, y-you will let her go? That's idiotic! IMBECILES! Seize her and execute her! What are you, mad? DO IT AT ONCE. I COMMAND IT, HOCH-”

Suddenly, Ketills voice was raised, sharp as ever, but more brazen, strong like before, his hand immediately resting on his blade. The Hochmeister similarly rested his hand on his blade, getting ready for whatever might follow. “You would not go against the wish of the bishop. You are in the home of the Servants, and we serve the faith, not your whims and desires. I suggest you treat the bishop with respect, as well as his choice. I have broken your mans' nose, and he is dead now. I wish not to threaten you, but me and the Hochmeister, as is every Servant in this castle, are indentured to the service of the faith, and that means the bishop too. Go against his wishes, and you will find yourself on the end of my blade, good lord.”

The bishop looked upon the scene with squinting eyes, awaiting what would happen. Slowly he reached for Saina, grabbing her arm and pulling her closer to him - and thus, away from the table and the scene that was playing out there.

The militia commander reached for his blade at first, looking to challenge Ketill and the Hochmeister but his hand was firmly grasped by the young lord. “Stay your blade. We do not wish to fight Servants - I will not fight them. If you wish to do so, do it on your own. We will not stand for it.” The militia commander grumbled and ultimately submitted, mumbling a 'fine'.

And so, with the trial over, Ketill would turn to Saina and the bishop, bow his head for the bishop, and usher a soft 'thank you, your holiness' before taking control of Saina's arm again. He pushed her into the hall and ushered her down the hall towards his own room.

Once they arrived, he pushed her inside and closed the door behind them. His face spelled anger, but he did not feel that way. “You survived. You are..” He did not finish his sentence immediately, only sighing. “.. touched by divine grace, it would seem. But I cannot stand for this. Murder is murder. You have stained my honor and name. I would not sell you to anyone, but I am considering it now. There is no reason not to sell you to the slavedriver, is there?”

@Odin

[Dion]

No wonder these dungeons drive people mad.

Najla had only been made to wait for a night, but that night had taken a toll on her. She was exhausted from the lack of sleep, and was either too proud or too repulsed to lay down on the floor of the dungeons, so any sleep she managed to obtain happened sitting up, in the brief moments between her fears and prayers. Beyond exhaustion, she could still feel the man’s hands on her, in her, and each time she remembered his touch she wanted nothing more than to scrub her skin clean of it. It was an exhausting night, and though the heavy footsteps startled her, they were a welcome change.

Her gaze was at the bars long before Ketill appeared behind them. He didn’t seem angry with her, annoyed perhaps, but it was no consolation. She found herself frowning slightly at his words, and for a moment, she wondered if they had even told him what she was here for.

She finally looked away from him as he opened the door, listening to the clinking of the door and the sound of his footsteps when he entered, standing before her. Taking his hand gently, Najla pulled herself off the floor, meeting Ketill’s gaze for a brief moment before she felt his hand coming towards her face and flinched.

No strike came, and Najla looked up once more, first to the hand that hovered mere inches from her face, then to the eyes of the man it belonged to. She wanted to whimper at the way he crushed her hand in his. He was far stronger than her, and she felt as if her hand would break under his. Somehow, Najla restrained herself, keeping her gaze firmly on Ketill, studying him. She could read nothing in his icy gaze, but he would be able to read hers easily: she was fearful, in pain from his grasp, and above all, confused. When he finally let her go, he’d be able to read relief in them, but only for a brief moment.

His words should have been frightening, but Najla had already felt them as the truth. It was his blade that frightened her again, and she backed up against the wall as the point was thrust into her chest. She hadn’t even seen him pull it out, and while it was certainly a showing of skill, Najla had no time to appreciate it. As he spoke, she tried to back away from the point of the sword but found she could back no further into the wall. Her unharmed hand grasped at the damp brick, and she winced as the tip pierced her skin. The droplet of blood ran down her chest, and her frightened gaze remained on him, waiting for him to push the rest through. It was not a pleasant notion, but Najla had expected little better. When he mentioned that he would pray for her, the confusion set into her expression again, lasting only seconds before it was replaced with relief as he lowered his blade. She exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath to keep the sword away from her, yet had no time to bask in this small relief before grabbed her arm, forcing her to face the mercy of the trial.

As they walked into the room of familiar faces, Najla made eye contact with none of them as Ketill shoved her towards the table. His words were stern, and Najla kept her head down as he spoke. He’d been right, she knew that, there was little point to this. She opened her mouth, ready to speak, ready to give a final defense before they took her life, when another voice filled the room. Before she could see who it was, she noticed that Ketill had dropped to kneel, and turned around to see who he had kneeled for, who would have asked him to treat her kindly.

Najla did not know he was a bishop, the rankings of the Monarchist church were confusing to her and she could hardly tell from his clothing, but anyone who was referred to as ‘your holiness’ must have been of great importance to their faith. Why he’d be asking a Servant to treat a Sawarim more kindly was confusing, and his next words to her even more so.

She shook her head softly when he asked if he’d seen her before, though the notion startled her for a moment. Najla studied his face, his mannerisms, his clothes, all of it, trying to find the slightest memory that might have procured something. He was far older than her, and so it was unlikely that she had seen him among her travels, and she could not imagine he had been brought to the court. When he shook his head, Najla was both relieved and worried, and began to think about what would have happened if he recognized her. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen, after all, they would have far more qualms about killing Najla than Saina.

Najla watched the bishop curiously as he advocated for her to speak, clearly surprised by the kindness he was showing her. Her time among Monarchists had done little to convince her of the gentleness of their faith, and to hear a man who was clearly so high up in their church advocate for her was surprising, and welcome.

Perhaps if they had all been so kind, I would have been more open to their faith.

Najla knew it wasn’t true. If they had all been so kind she would have been home among her family by now, still worshipping the same God she always had. At Ketill’s question however, Najla finally looked away from the bishop, first at Ketill, then at all those standing around the table, before she answered his question.

“I could not sleep, my lord. I only hoped to clear my thoughts.” She paused for a moment, then continued again. “It does not sound believable, I know, but I would not offer a lie to make it so.”

“Who was the man you killed?” Najla closed her eyes for a moment at that, as if she was still comprehending the fact that she had killed a man. “I never knew his name. He had tried to hurt me, before. The same man we had a trial for, the one with a broken nose.” She looked up at Ketill at that, adding more as if she were directly speaking to him. “His friend, the one that had held me before, he was with them too.”

“Why did you kill him?” Najla took a deep breath at that, then launched into the full story, answering their questions as she went.

“I was returning to the castle when they found me. They said many things I don’t care to repeat, then told me they would help me repent.” She glanced up at the bishop when she said that, hoping a perversion of his faith would begin to turn him against the dead man, though she was not foolish enough to believe it would be enough on its own. With anyone else perhaps, but not with her.

“I fought and I screamed, but no one could hear. They took me to the warehouse then, and pushed me up against the pole. Two of them tied my hands…” Her words drifted off, and she lifted her wrists for them to see. They were red, sore from the way she had rubbed them against the rough rope to escape. It would heal soon, but it was the only proof she had that they had held her as she described. “Then he told them to get out. He said they’d ‘have their turns’ later. He kept saying he was going to show me what good Monarchists do.”

She looked down then, no trace of the anger she felt in her voice. She seemed ashamed of the words she’d speak, horrified by the notion that she had hurt him. “Then… he started to touch me. I-I begged him not to, but he didn’t stop! He just kept touching me, and hurting me, until my ropes got loose and I…”

She trailed off here, and looked up at the group again. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. It would not be enough to arouse their sympathy, she could not count on sympathy for these people. But whatever miniscule chance at life she had would not come if she showed remorse, and Najla felt none. She played the part, as if suffering over her actions, and it was only when they asked of his friends that she spoke up again.

“His friends were outside. I could still hear their laughter, but I was scared they would come too. So I left.”

At the mention of his purse, she shook her head. “No, my lord.” She had wanted her explanation to stop there, but she could see that they did not believe her. “My lord, I promise you! Check my person, my bags, anything. I only wanted to live, I had no use for his purse!”
When they asked about her return to the castle, Najla took in another breath, trying to steady herself before she spoke. “I don’t know. I-I didn’t know what to do. I knew I’d never be able to run from justice, but all I wanted was to be away from them. I thought I’d be safe here. I think it took some time for me to understand it.” Her voice grew soft, almost a whisper, though she knew they’d be able to hear it. “I’ve never taken a life before.”

If anything, Najla was good at playing a part. She was not even ashamed of her actions, but she spoke as if she was frightened, both of herself and what she had done. She never shed a tear, yet her eyes were watery and large, as if she’d start crying at any moment. Najla knew she was not likely to arouse much sympathy with these people, who were indifferent towards her at best. But to show remorse, to convince them she wished she hadn’t acted, was her only option. She couldn’t tell them how she had spat in his face, or how she wished she had been able to do it a hundred times over. She had to show sympathy for that ugly man to get any for herself.

It seemed she would have none anyways.

The first vote was expected. Ignoring the words the commander spewed at her, her eyes went instead to the next man ready to decide her fate. His vote was expected as well, but as he spoke to her in their tongue, an angry frown appeared on her face. Najla did not know that the Hochmeister could speak the language as well, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to return his words with venom. She wanted to tell him he’d end up no differently than the man in the warehouse, but luckily, the next voice silenced her before she could say anything and prove to these people how savage her people truly were.

At the female quartermaster’s vote, Najla glanced up at her, and met her gaze for a brief moment. Her expression had softened severely, a marked change from the way she looked at the slavedriver, and even seemed to show gratitude despite her worry. As the others voted to let her live, Najla looked around the table anxiously, trying to read what it meant on their faces before anyone could speak it. At the Hochmeister’s words, Najla felt her heart sink. Some small relief came when Ketill announced he would do it right away, but it was little comparison to the fear that engulfed her now.

Should I tell them? Will they kill me if they know? At the least, if I tell Ketill he might send my body back-

Her morbid thoughts were interrupted by a new voice, and Najla turned to look at the bishop as he spoke. Her thoughts froze entirely at his words, and she looked over the table quickly, only to see Ketill and the Hochmeister nodding. Was it true? Could it be so easy? She looked at the bishop with an expression akin to wonder, only glancing away when the commander began yelling again.

The rush of thoughts in her head would not stop. She felt as if she were dreaming, for earlier Najla had been ready to pierce herself on the end of Ketill’s sword. Death had seemed inevitable, a relief even, and now, she was going to walk free. As the bishop took her arm, Najla barely registered who was pulling her away, and simply stepped to his side. His touch felt almost protective, the way her father would pull her back when she’d watch the guards train as a child. It seemed a strange thing to remember when she had just been inches from death, but it was the greatest comfort besides her execution she had known in the past day.

When the men before her quieted down, Najla looked up again at the bishop. “Thank you, my-” She stopped, realizing suddenly that she didn’t know his title. Ketill had referred to him as ‘your holiness’ but he was not holy to her, though perhaps he should have been, considering he had granted her life. In place of a proper title, she offered him a small smile, only to be dragged away by Ketill.

She felt as if she were in a daze even as he pushed her into his room, unable to comprehend the sheer range of emotions the night had brought upon her. She had killed a man, a Monarchist, under the roof of the Servants, and they had let her off for it. She was going to continue the expedition. Someone besides her would soon find out about Jalil, and Inaya would tell the Sultanate that Najla was alive and at Coedwin.

I’m not going to die. Ya Sawarim I’m not going to die.

She only wanted to fall to her knees and begin praying, but Ketill’s harsh voice pulled her out of her spell rather abruptly. The sharp fear pulled her out of the haze, and Najla’s frantic thoughts began again. The slavedrivers threat echoed in these thoughts, and Najla knew that he meant it, though she had never considered that Ketill would agree.

“Your holy man just gave you my life, and you would sentence me to death again?” Her use of the term holy man might have been humorous, had her life not been at stake again, though it was certainly a strange deviation from her usual manner of speaking. She spoke the Broacien tongue well, and somewhat formally, as she had first been familiarized with it through the work of tutors, yet she stumbled over the titles of their religion.

He’ll kill me. If not the slavedriver, then one of the men he rents me to. The commander will be among them, and without Ketill he’d gladly slit my throat after he’s had his. They all would. I’d have lived only to get fucked before death.

“My lord, please! I did not want to kill him, I had no choice, you know what he would have done to me! The slaver will only do worse, the men will-”

My suffering won’t matter to him.

Her words stopped abruptly, as the realization silenced her pleading. He was not the bishop who had saved her, nor was he the commander that so desperately wished to see her dead. Ketill did not care if she lived or died beyond how it affected him. She’d known this before, but Najla could not understand how a man would try to save her from death while condemning her to a fate worse. There was a long pause, and for Najla it was tainted heavily with fear.

Pleading didn’t matter to Ketill. Nothing about her did beyond what she was to him. She provided no skills he did not possess, or that would aid him, and beyond her knowledge of the Sawarim language, he’d likely have an easier time without her. She needed him far more than he needed her during this expedition, and if it hadn’t been apparent to her before, it was now.

She broke the silence, finally, and while her voice wavered slightly, there was a fierce determination in it now, none of the morbid resolve or begging for pity he would have heard before. Her expression might have been familiar to Ketill, it seemed to hold the same bravery Sawarim warriors conjured when they were about to slit their throats, and were forced to pretend they did not fear death.

“Giving me to the slaver would be a mistake. No matter how much gold he offers you, I can give you more. Whatever he offers you, I can give you more.”

She stepped forward, ready to answer Ketill’s disbelief at her statement, whether it came through his eyes or his words. Part of her told her to stop, to hold her tongue. She’d made it this far on the blessing of the Sawarim, surely she would make it farther on this blessing? Perhaps a year ago, Najla would have been brave enough to hold her tongue and take this risk, but that Najla had been captured and her life had been given over to a Servant twice now.

“My name is not Saina. I’m not a merchant’s daughter.” She paused after that, but only briefly, assessing his reaction before she continued. “My father is Ali al-ibn Wahad, brother to the Great Sultan and a commander in his army.” She hesitated again, knowing that he would not believe her, but there was no fear in her expression now. She only studied him carefully, waiting to see what he believed.

“Were there ever rumors in the south of Najla al-ibn Wahad and her brother, Jalil? So few knew where we were going, but the Servants of all people are not blind to the goings-on of the Sultanate. Some Sawarim here must know, at least. Ask, they will tell you, Najla and her brother disappeared over a year ago from the Sultan’s court, and have not returned since. I was a lord’s captive for a year before they gave me to you.”

She did not mention what happened to her brother, though he might have assumed on his own. Najla would not be able to say his name again, both out of sadness and the fear that Ketill would hurt her if he knew her brother had tried to murder a lord.

“I gave them the name Saina when they took me, but believe that I am telling you the truth now. On my God, I swear it. My name is Najla, I am the niece of the Great Sultan. Do not give me to the slaver. Keep me, ransom me, I could give you whatever you want. Ketill, I could hand you that fucking banner you’re after. But I will never let another man touch me as that beast did. If you give me to the slaver, I will slit my throat before he lays a hand on me, and you will be left with nothing.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, meeting Ketill’s gaze once more. “I don’t know how to convince you of my identity, I lost all I had during my time in captivity. I have lied to you before, but I am telling you the truth when I say that if you condemn me to death you will have lost a valuable captive.”

@persianversion