"I'll only be gone five days, Ozlo. Seven at most if it rains." Asher looked down at where the Thunderfangs chieftain was reclined in a low chair made out of curved ivory tusks that had been lashed together with dark leather straps. In the low yellow flicker of the shallow brazier in the center of the circular pavilion the old bone appeared to be elephant tusks, but there were many creatures in the Kerawac with tusks and spines like that.

Like any tent owned by a Kvaren, nearly everything in Asher's line of sight was made from furs and leather, the chieftain's lot being a bit less worn and more recognizable for what creatures they had come from than that owned by the slaves. Here and there the gleam of metal showed him weapons and shields, all of which he had seen Ozlo use in raids and battles against the hated Ebon Knights. 

It was the only life Asher had known, and it would be this tent, or one like it, that he would command the Thunderfangs when he was chieftain.

Asher shook his head briefly, an icy chill down his spine as he realized what he'd been thinking. There was no guarantee that he would ever be chief! There were several other Swordmasters who were older and more experienced, just as trusted by Ozlo. Why should it be him? And yet...

Thankfully the behemoth of a man had reached over to heft a large stein of ale and missed the younger man's distracted expression. "You can't leave now, Ash. We'll be at the summer gathering in no more than ten days. We need you running the patrols up and down the caravan." He took a sip, some of the amber froth spilling over into his shaggy beard. While Ozlo was just as much a massive presence as he had always been, Asher couldn't help but notice that his beard had far more grey in it than he'd recalled before.

"You don't need me. Sedrik is capable of organizing the patrols. In fact, we're a long way away from the nearest Ebon Knights. This will be a good chance for the fighters to show what they've learned without me dictating their every move." Asher stood his ground, refusing to sink into one of the low seats across from his chief. He wanted to leave, right away. But he couldn't go without Ozlo's permission. 

The chief wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched Asher pointedly, his gaze shrewd. "What's gotten into you, Ash. You've never argued with me before." That wasn't exactly true. All of the Swordmasters spent time debating around this same brazier when planning everything from picking the next campground to the next raid on Ebonfort. It seemed that Ozlo felt that this was a different sort of discussion. Not knowing how to respond, Asher hesitated.

"Does this have something to do with that new slave of yours? I haven't had a chance to congratulate you on managing to pluck a witch from the flock. I heard a rumour that Jasper had her first."

A grim fire flashed in Asher's steely eyes and he clenched his fists where his arms were crossed across his chest. "Verissa belongs to me," he growled throw gritted teeth. "If Jasper lays a finger on her again I will kill him. If she doesn't do it first."

Ozlo chuckled grimly. "Yes, I hear you've been teaching her to fend for herself. At first I was surprised. I assumed you would want to bed her and get her with child as quickly as possible. But I suppose you've always been good at teaching others to be self-sufficient."

The Swordmaster just shook his head, shaggy black hair rippling slightly. "I'll not rape her, Ozlo. I'll do everything I can to make her into a true Kvaren, but only if she wants it. I don't like that the men force themselves on the slaves." In fact, since the moment he had claimed Verissa as his own he had begun to second-guess the Kvaren's tradition of capturing slaves at all.

Ozlo leaned back and sighed. "It's our way, Asher. You've known that since you were born. It's always been the Kvaren way."

"It doesn't have to be," Asher retorted, with far more conviction than he had intended. He hadn't intended to get into this with Ozlo now, desperate to be far away on the quiet grassland with only Verissa and her dogs. "As a matter of fact I sometimes wonder if we'll ever be more...more than this..." he gestured to the tent above and by extension, the camp around them, "...if we continue pouring everything we have against the walls of the Ebonfort."

Asher chewed on the inside of his cheek, wishing he hadn't said so much that might shake his chieftain's faith in his commitment to his tribe. Loyalties and support were important commodities on the Kerawac. He shook his head, "...Forgive me. This is something we can discuss at a later time."

At first Ozlo said nothing, and when Asher looked up again he saw that Ozlo's expression had become very grim and careworn indeed. The somewhat jovial demeanor the chieftain used to keep the Swordmaster and Shadewalkers together as a unified clan had vanished. In that moment he looked older than ever.

"No, Asher. I'm glad you speak your mind to me. I wanted to announce this at the Gathering but I think you deserve to hear it now. I won't be the chief of the Thunderfangs forever and it's past time I choose someone to replace me before it's too late. Our clan is large and strong but that makes it even more likely to splinter off when a chief dies. Our people deserve more, and I think if anyone has a mind to make that happen it's you."

With a long, loud groan, Ozlo heaved himself up off the floor, his leather vest creaking against the strain. He towered over even Ash, who was not small, and clapped the Swordmaster on the shoulder. "Do you agree?"

"Chief, it's a great honour..." Asher was astounded that his private thoughts had linked together so smoothly with what he was hearing now. In some ways he had always hoped he would prove his abilities enough to be considered Chief of his own tribe, but now that the chance was offered to him he shied away from it.

Ozlo noticed his uncertain tone and frowned. "I had expected you to jump at the chance. You worked towards this your whole life! I figured no one would want to lead raids against the Ebon Knights than you."

Asher let his hands drop. "I don't know what I want anymore, Chief. For the last ten years all I wanted was to find Brynmor and kill him for what he took from me. And I thought I had!" He lifted his hand briefly to touch his left bicep where he had worn the orange sash of the un-named Sergeant he had killed at New Year's.

Ozlo harrumphed. "Tell you what, Ash. Take your little trip. Get a handle on that girl of yours before she causes too much trouble. Take some time to think about what you really do want. Come see me when you get back."

--

His expression was even more broody than normal when he returned to his own campsite. He was pleased to find that Verissa had already packed almost everything into the wagon, leaving plenty of room for herself and her dogs and some to spare. With every step of his long stride there was a clatter of pottery coming from a sack he carried over his shoulder. Dropping the roughspun thing gently into the wagon, he tucked the small empty clay pots out of the way. Each was empty, though stoppered with a tight cork.

The Swordmaster handed Verissa a length of smooth wood, slightly damp from where it had remained in the grass by the water. "This is yours. A warrior should never lose track of her weapons."

He glanced down at Remilia, satisfying himself that the dog had been seen to. He ignored Remus' customary growling as he moved to break down the tent. He doubted the dogs would ever come to trust him. Like their mother, he thought as he glanced over at the petite blonde. He couldn't help but hear Ozlo's near-instruction to bed her in his mind. It wasn't a secret that he wanted her. It also wasn't a secret that he was stubbornly denying himself the pleasure.

Working in a tense silence, it didn't take long for the rest of Asher's things to make their way into the wagon. He hitched the versatile Phantom to the yolk and climbed up onto the seat. He twitched the reigns gently and kissed at the horse, the wagon lurching slightly before moving off into the twilight. The trip was a very last minute decision. They could go anywhere, or nowhere in particular. But Asher had a definite destination in mind.