Dion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

“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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

“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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

_{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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

_{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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

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