[quote=@Odin]
Ketill did not resist, nor speak, when Najla approached him and spoke to him. He simply looked at her with weary eyes, when she spoke of making demands, following the voices of God and the Sultan. Meaningless words to him – but she called him a Monarchist dog which earned a faint smile from him. It had been a Monarchist dog that had saved her from rape, [i]after all.[/i] But he didn’t speak, only giving her that smile, a sign that he did not care for what she had to say. He was dead as far as he knew, and even then, he continued to press his throat against the cold of the blades. He lacked the movement space to end it now, but soon enough he would try.

Upon the notice that she would indeed carry out his execution if it came to it, he stopped pushing himself into the blade and seemed satisfied. He was quite sure she could not do it, if it came to it. Then again, she had killed her assailant in Coedwin. But he would see what happened. [i]“Then I hope to die a thousand deaths at your hand, that you might come to understand what it takes to swing the sword,”[/i] he replied, but he knew that in the end his words were worth less than sand in a desert.

Najla said something about his ‘false idols’ which provoked some anger, but immediately after she spoke in Sawarim, and the two guards would move to grab him. Before they could, Najla interrupted them once more with her words. He heard her words, but paid no mind. Perhaps she’d found her Sawarim servants were easy to manipulate, but he was a strong man, who even now showed no signs of wanting to surrender. He would call her what he wanted to call her. But, he was also smart enough to realize that now would be a bad time to torment her further.

When that was done, the guards would continue. It was now that Ketill began to struggle, pressing his feet into the sand and attempting to move forwards towards Najla and the slavers. [i]“It was me, a Monarchist dog, that saved you from the clutches of your would-be rapist. [b]It was a holy man of these ‘fake idols’ that saved your life in Coedwin after you took a Monarchist life![/b] You have every reason to be dead right now, but you live on! You have abused the trust of his holiness, the bishop! You will p-”[/i]

At that moment he was forced outside, and once outside, one of the guards lifted his hand and punched Ketill in the face, forcing him unconscious once again. [i]<‘’He’s got such a big mouth,’’>[/i] he commented, before the two dragged him off to another tent where the Sultana’s wishes to have him taken care of medically would be followed up on.

[hr]

[center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBS-oS723qI ]The Arrival[/url][/center]

Even from afar, Ketill had saved a breath when he saw ‘the city of Gold’. It was quite a sight to behold after all, and even more so for someone who was not used to it. Not even the tales of the city of Gold could do this city any honour. That was his first thought, but his mind was swiftly changed when they came through the front gates.

Immediately he felt the piercing eyes of the Sawarim resting on his face, the eyes spotting his three dots with ease. Though they did little more than whisper and point, or some yelling, it still felt uncomfortable. Never the less, he stood tall. His bloody wound had been covered, but the dried blood still remained on his face – they had seen no reason to waste valuable water on washing him. 

But what stuck with Ketill the most was the nagging feeling that the city of Gold was not quite as golden as it had been made out to be. The shining rooftops of the holy buildings of the Sawarim quickly made way for stinking alleyways, with hovels made of mudbricks and, in some cases, various random materials. It was almost like these people were less well off than Broacien people, which was surprising considering the amount of wealth Ketill supposed they had. And, ultimately, he was not wrong about that. It was just that the nobles and religious controlled even more gold than the Broacien nobles and religious did. Perhaps not surprising. And despite the squalor of the city, it seemed like most people were, in general, not too unhappy. 

They passed by a bazaar or market of some sorts, and while they passed, Ketill got a short glimpse past the large amounts of people that stood to watch the caravan of slavers. Perhaps they did not see slavers like these everyday – they were generally considered plunderers and savages, though perhaps they were treated with some respect as long as they behaved within the city. Or perhaps most people were just interested in looking at a Servant. Very few Servants ever lived to make their way to the Sultanate capital, after all.

The bazaar was stocked with people – rich and poor – and along the outer edges of the bazaar Ketill made out the shapes of cages. Iron cages, obviously owned by professionals that had made an investment into them. It seemed the slave trade was alive and well here despite the slavers being confined to the outer edges of the bazaar. Perhaps that was to become his faith. Momentarily he slowed down to get a better look, but he was quickly put on the right tempo once more when a slaver pushed him in the back and ordered him to walk. He did little more than grumble back. His feet moved on and soon enough he could no longer see the bazaar. Instead, they were headed for the large walls, with a similarly large gate. Perhaps they had not lied when they had spoken of offering him to the Sultan – a single promise that Najla would make good on. And perhaps the one promise that he had no wanted her to fulfil.

As the caravan came to a halt, Ketill was left standing still next to a dark skinned man. He looked similar to the Sawarim, but seemed nervous and uncomfortable all the same. Surely, a Sawarim man would survive the slavers, and make off becoming a house slave of sorts. If not that, he would be bought by some blacksmith and used as labour force. Ketill looked at the man with wary eyes, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man, but against better judgement struck up a conversation with him anyway, hoping the man would understand the common tongue of Broacien.

[i]“You seem nervous,’’[/i] Ketill said, looking the man directly in the eyes. The man’s eyes shifted left to right and didn’t look at Ketill directly, only past him.

[i]“I will die. I will die,’’[/i] the man repeated several times while continuing to fuss about, not making much sense.

[i]“How so? A Sawarim like yourself would be well off, regardless, right?’’[/i]

Without saying a word the man lowered his tattered tunic slightly, showing his right shoulder. On it was a burn mark of a hot iron, shaped like a Monarchist cross. It was the sign of a convert – a voluntary one, too. Although most Sawarim men and women would simply ‘swear off’ the faith, and maintain it in secret, there were very few that voluntarily converted. And, while you could swear off the Sawarim faith without any real mark, and go through your business as a temporary atheist, the converts were branded for life.

[i]“So you joined as a pilgrim then, not as a slave?’’[/i] 

The man nodded, dragging the tunic back over his shoulder and continuing to look around like a madman. Ketill had seen it before – in Coedwin, when they were preparing to fight a large Sawarim army when they had threatened to cross the pass. The younger recruits would begin becoming fearful at the thought of death. Back then it had only taken some inspiring words from the captain or the Hochmeister. But this man didn’t answer to the Servitude of the Monarch.

[i]“In the holy books it is written that the Monarch favors those who go in His name. You have nothing to fear – if you die, you will die in the mortal realm and pass to His side. You have travelled in His name? Always done your best to honour His name, and done your best to do good?’’[/i]

[i]“Y-yes, Servant,’’[/i] the man answered, slowly looking up at Ketill. The sight of Ketill’s face – stark, unwavering, even in the face of an almost certain death, seemed to calm him. 

[i]“Then none shall say you do not have a right to your place in the Heavens. And if you do not die today, but you are sold as a slave, then remember that you must remain in His light. Do not stray. Do what you must to survive – and once you have done so, do what you can to honor His name like before.’’[/i]

The man slowly nodded, seemingly calming himself with the thought that he would enter heaven. 

[i]“I see now why they spoke so highly of the Servants in the Hoffburgt. Before I came to Broacien, I lived in the Sultanate, near the border. I was in Coedwin when the Servants captured it. They… were not unkind. I was terrified of the repercussions of being a Sawarim follower, so I swore off my faith. But I noticed they did not kill the local Sawarims, nor demand an extra tax. They just… let them live. When I asked about that, they explained that they answered to the Monarch – both Him in the heavens, and the king of Broacien, the embodiment of the Monarch on earth.”[/i]

Before he could continue, Ketill filled in the rest of the story. It was a famous one, but it was strange to talk to someone that was there when it happened. [i]“Because it is not in the interest of a Servant of the Monarch to kill innocents. The very definition of a Servant is to carry out the will of the Monarch. Our only goal in life is to obtain salvation and access to heaven. Killing innocents would shatter that goal. We would be unworthy.”[/i]

[i]“I decided then that I would convert to Monarchism. My family hated me, and in this moment I understood. I doubted my choice now, knowing I might die. But..”[/i]

[i]“These are wasted words, friend. Even a Servant is a man. I understand. I was merely telling you that the Monarch also favours the brave. Do not fear. The Monarch hates cowards.”[/i]

Again the man nodded. It seemed the message was clear. [i]“I am Jonesy, by the way. Uh, well, I suppose I look more like my Sawarim name – Ta’iq. Nobody but the bishop that converted me calls me Jonesy.”[/i]

[i]“I can see why. I’m Ketill – though, I assume you already knew that.”[/i]

The man nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything the caravan was to continue moving, the gates opening for them and the large train of people moving once again. Within the few moments of chaos, Ketill lost Ta’iq to the masses. He knew that Ta’iq would die – much like him, there was little chance. But where Ketill had a chance of becoming a slave to serve as a trophy, to show Broacien that their Servants were not undefeatable... Ta’iq was a convert, and to the Sawarim faith there was no worse insult than converting. Even one that swore off the faith might be given amnesty in rare cases – for converts this would never happen. The Sultanate would collapse before that happened. 

Not much later, Ketill was introduced to the dungeon. He was stripped of all he had – though his sword and shield had been taken long ago, his clothes were now also taken and exchanged for some rough spun tunic, which made him look about as poor as a beggar. For Ketill it was like a blessing to finally get out of those bloodied, dirtied clothes.

He stayed there for what felt like an eternity. At first he had stood at the metal bars, watching the guards pass by with slaves. Most were taken out of the dungeons and never came back. At first it was the women – Ketill had no question about why they were taken. Then were the men – the able bodied first. The Sultan had first pick, and the rest would be given back to the slavers to sell on their own accord. Naturally, it was better to sell to the Sultan. But not all men were created equal, and therefore not all men were worth anything to the Sultan.

Then it was the converts. They were all going to die. There weren’t many of them – some five, perhaps ten. It seemed the Monarchists were saved for last. Some twenty militiamen had survived and were now waiting for their fates. Most would follow similar fates as the converts. Some might become labourers. None would return to Broacien.

After two days Ketill no longer managed to stand at the bars. The near constant stream of slaves was something he was used to by now, and he felt like his legs could no longer carry him as he stood there. He had sat down next to the bars at first, then slowly moved towards the corner, and eventually fell into an uncomfortable sleep. 

He woke up at the clank of the doors being opened, two guards stepping in immediately. They walked towards him, ready to grab him. Ketill got up, however, and promptly stepped towards them. His hands curled into a fist, and with one swing he managed to knock the first guard on his helmet. The feeling of hitting metal was painful, but it was some sort of reminder that he was still alive and fighting. The guard reeled back but quickly returned, pushing onto Ketill’s chest and ramming him into the wall. 

Ketill continued to struggle, wrestling the guards and trying to punch them, kick them, hit them where ever he could. But ultimately his waning strength and stamina caught up with him, and he was wrestled to the ground. 

<[I]“Ya Sawarim, this guy. Why do they always insist on fighting.”[/i]>

<[I]“What manner of beasts calmly walks to the butcher?”[/i]>

<[I]“Ahaha, a sheep, you’re right.”[/i]>

[I]“Shut… the hell… up...”[/i]

The response to Ketill’s remark was a firm kick in the side, to which he reacted by rolling over and holding onto the sore spot. With a powerful move they lifted him and escorted him towards the main hall, through the dungeon halls. The walk seemed to take longer than needed, as Ketill came under the impression that he was being paraded around the large halls of the Sultan’s palace. For a moment he thought that he was being given a tour of the palace to impress him, but soon enough a crowd of noble men and women found themselves along the path. 

It became clear that Ketill was only being paraded around like a trophy. And he had not even been ordered to death yet. He slowly walked alongside the guards, despite the rather cruel treatment. As they passed the crowd of noblemen- and women, he made a rather large gesture towards them, as if he was about to attack them. The guards were quick to restrain him, and the crowd stepped back in fear of this apparent savage. Their opinion of him would be quickly lowered as Ketill found he couldn’t reach them with his fists, and thus would resort to spitting at them. The guards were quick to correct this however as they both punched him in the side.

As soon as they dragged him further, the crowd of noblemen and women began laughing. Ketill felt, for the first time since his arrival, defeated. But the Monarch would help him, surely. He would not keep Ketill alive this long for no reason – only to let him die in a cruel manner? He did not deserve that, did he?

After a few more rounds they had finally entered the main hall, where a large throne room had been constructed. Or rather, one of the many. There were layers to the hall, with steps to go with them. On the first level, the lowest, there were guards and some girls – laying around on cushions. All of them seemed foreign, non Sawarim girls. On the second layer, more guards and more girls, all of them Sawarim. And on the third layer of the hall, there were only seven women. His extra wives, Ketill guessed. There were guards too – but these were all somewhat different. A different armor, different weaponry, more ornate... possibly eunuchs, or something like that. Ketill was not in the right state to pay attention to it, or guess as to what it was.

Instead, he focused on the fourth layer – a large throne with a similarly imposing man on it. The Sultan, most probably, and to his side some of the advisors. As he was brought before him, the guards stopped him on the third layer – probably to prevent the already violent Ketill from trying anything. The guards let go of his arms but remained close, very close. 

<[I]“Kneel,”[/i]> one of them ordered him, in a tongue he did not understand, obviously. 

When Ketill did not follow the order, the other guard yelled loudly into his ear. <[I][b]“KNEEL!”[/b][/i]> And again, Ketill didn’t follow the order. He did not even look at the guards, his eyes remaining focused on the sultan in a challenging and brave way. But despite his attempts at remaining stoic, it was clearly visible in everything Ketill was that he was not the same man as before. 

His clothes like a slave, his face, sunken and unfed, his eyes grey and somber, not the lively blue they were once. 

Ketill felt the boot of the guard in the back of his knee and only then did he kneel – when he was forced to, not out of free will. <[I]“Sultan, we present to you the capture of the slavers, a Servant of the Monarchist order of Broacien,”[/i]> one of them spoke, bowing lightly at the end of his introduction.

<[I]“What is his story? Why are we not just executing him.”[/i]> One of the advisors had spoken for the Sultan, who didn’t seem quite as interested. Perhaps because this was boring, and he had seen enough slaves to know what would happen with a Servant – an execution.

<[I]“The slavers claim he was the one that had unrightfully enslaved your cousin, Najla ibnat Ali al-ibn-Wahad.”[/i]>

The Sultan appeared slightly more interested now, but still did not speak. Instead, his other advisor answered. The charges only seemed to become more heavy.

<[I]“Then he dies not by regular execution, but by lashing. His body will be exposed in the central market for three days after that, and then we feed him to the dogs.”[/i]>

The guards nodded, and went on to try and pick Ketill up. But Ketill did not seem satisfied, struggling against the grip of the guards. When he was grabbed by one of them, he broke free and got up, stumbling forwards. Immediately, he heard the drawing of swords behind him, as well as the guards on the fourth level of the palace hall moving towards the stairs and drawing their swords. 

[I]“You have lost your tongue?”[/i] Ketill brazenly asked. He stumbled forwards even more, coming closer to the stairs.

<[I]“Stop now!”[/i]> one of the guards yelled, to no avail.

[I]“Surely, you have a word to spare for the Servant, the Monarchist dog as Najla called me, who enslaved her?”[/i] [i]Thud, thud, thud.[/i] His footsteps came closer to the stairs, and then one of them stood on the first step. [I]“I don’t know what your men said, but I will die. So spare me a word.”[/i]

The Sultan smiled and slowly stood up, folding his hands behind his back as he watched Ketill attempt to step up the stairs. <[I]“When did Servants become so brazen and ruthless?”[/i]> he asked one of his advisors with a humoured and entertained tone in his voice, while looking back at him.

Ketill saw this as his chance, to perhaps show that he was not some weak Monarchist peasant-farmer, that was scared out of his mind. <[i]“Your father fuc-”[/i]> he spoke, the first few words of his only known insult in the Sawarim language. Before he could even finish it, the two guards behind him had reached him and pulled him back, holding onto his shoulders and pulling him down the stairs. As he fell down, he could feel the cold iron that he was so familiar with, touching his neck. 

The insult had not gone unnoticed, and the Sultan remained stoic, while the advisors covered their mouths and gasped. Such a thing was unthinkable – Ketill knew, he would not stand for it if someone told his own king that. But the Sultan was not his king. 

<[i]“The punishment will be graver. Such an insult cannot be forgiven. He will receive lashing every day, until he passes out, for the next year. We will lash him publicly, every day, in the central market. After a year, we will hang him slowly.”[/i]> 

The order came from an advisor again, as the Sultan did not wish to bother with this it seemed. It seemed like everything was said and done. But, as per Ketill’s desire to always have the last word, he spoke up again, the iron of the guards’ sword still printed on his neck. [i]“Whatever it is you have sentenced me to, Najla promised me that she would be the one that performed the sentence! [b]She promised![/b]”[/i]

The sudden mention of Najla’s name, as well as the shouting, seemed to make the Sultan curious, who gestured to one of the advisors. After a brief moment the advisor seemed to translate the words Ketill had spoken, which caused the Sultan to nod and cross his arms, thinking about what to do. <[i]“Then, we will ask Najla what to do. Besides… she was his victim – so therefore, why shouldn’t she decide what his fate is? Throw him back in the dungeons for now, and we will see what Najla thinks. Once she has returned to her family and they have settled back in, of course. She does not need to be bothered with this man right now.”[/i]>

It seemed that the sentence had been overturned – for now. Ketill was raised up and under the threat of the blades, escorted back to the dungeons, where he would be tossed back in and forced to wait until Najla had seen fit to give him a moment of her time. 

[/quote]