[quote=@persianversion]
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. [i]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.[/i] 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. [i]What am I even supposed to be looking for? What kind of slave am I?[/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. [i]They’ll be too scared to rape me if they think he’s already doing it.[/i] 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.

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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.

[i]“Will I be asked to speak? Or even be there?”[/i] 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. 

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