[IC] [Ebonfort] Ringing in the New Year

[Drache]

Starting Date and Time: 51st Day of Ceruleo, 300 DM, mid-day

Starting Location: Thunderfang Camp, Kerawac (Valley of Screamers)

CS URLs: Asher & Verissa Beatrix Greenlakes aka Trix

The wind whistled, split into twin zephyrs that shrieked in outrage as the keen edge of the sword sang through the air. Over and over again, the blade swung and pierced nothing, the motion humming through the ornate handle. On the outside the cruelly-curving falchion looked more like a decoration than a stout weapon for use in combat, but the rippling grooves were precise, lining up with the dirty creases in a fighter's callused hand, keeping the deadly thing in a solid grip through the horror and clamour of war. The naked blade was cold in the winter wind, as was the man who wielded it, though through the comforting and familiar burn and ache of his arms, shoulders and back, sweat trickling down the lines of muscle and sticking the tattered linen tunic to his frame, he did not notice it. There may have been a practice dummy dangling despondently from a post in front of him, so grubby and drab because it perfectly matched the dead winter grass growing all around. But if the blade touched the thing at all it was only a light touch to confirm a scored hit in the wielder's mind.

He was far from the strongest or fastest or cleverest fighter in the Thunderfang tribe, but he was practiced enough to no longer needlessly destroy practice dummies to keep himself in shape. The real fight was happening in his mind, as eyes glinting at him from underneath a helm of blackest night loomed before, the fires of which he intended to snuff completely.

"Ash!"

The loud, abrupt sound of his name shocked Asher out of his zone, causing him to dissect the dummy's face in the middle of wear the eye should have been if it wasn't dangling somewhere around the shoulder by a long, frayed cord. How fitting, Ash thought, a scar to match my own.

Bringing the blade up and out of play, the fighter turned to face whoever was calling him, feeling the training haze blow away and a dull ache in his muscles rise up to his consciousness. The sounds of the huge camp around him finally penetrated, having been kept out for over an hour by the hiss of his own breath as he practiced.

Children laughed as they chased each other through the tents and livestock pens where the animals bleated and fussed. On the other side of the camp, there was a shrill, high squeal as a riding raptor protested something-or-other. The occasional wagon lumbered by, carving a road through the flattened plain that wasn't there before and would be erased by the creeping grass as soon as the tribe moved on. The chattering of his tribe ebbed and flowed like the waves of the sea, and all was underscored by the deep, repetitive clanging of a blacksmith's hammer. It was this sound above all others that told Ash why Sedrik was standing just outside the chalked-off training pit and screaming his name like a cursed banshee.

"Mornin' Sed. Chief Ozlo wants me." It was not a question, and Sed, who had already opened his mouth to say just that, snapped it shut with a glower.

"How'd you know that?" Sedrik pouted unbecomingly, watching Asher slide the wicked blade into a leather scabbard and then sling the whole thing over one shoulder so that it settled against his back. The dark-haired swordman suppressed a shiver, feeling the winter's cold against his sweat-soaked skin.

"I can hear Gault pounding away," Ash replied simply, joining the other man as they both threaded their way through the haphazardly-organized camp towards the pavilion tent loosely located in the center. Every time the Thunderfang tribe moved there was an attempt at making sure the next campsite would be better organized, but with so many people to manage, so many slaves and livestock, so many differing needs and opinions, the camp always ended up splattered across the rolling grassland with only the barest hint at a pattern. It was something of a running joke now. Noting that Sed's sandy-brown eyebrow was still lifted questioningly, Asher sighed and ran his fingers along his jaw, making the stubble creak.

"You've gotta learn to pay attention, Sed. We were supposed to move camp tomorrow, and since Gault has all that heavy shit to load up on that wagon of his he usually starts in advance."

"Yeah, so? Maybe he's slacked off."

"Raptor tits, kid! If Gault's got his equipment out and he's usin' it, he knows we're not actually movin' tomorrow. But if he knows that for a fact and I don't, that means Ozlo told him directly. Which means now I have to go to a war council to find out who we're raiding and when."

With the rains sweeping the Kerawac every other day, everything in the camp below knee-high was splattered with chilly mud. The warlord's tent was no exception, the only difference between this tent and the rest, other than the size, was the huge shaggy dun horse standing immovably in front of the tent flap.

"Password?" The horse asked as the two men approached, lifting his huge head with a bob. His black mane was cut into a jagged mowhawk that was apparently supposed to be intimidating. Asher crossed his arms over his torso and the dark 'v' of damp linen left over from his workout.

"Hiram, do you even remember the password?"

The earth pony's ears flicked backwards and he snorted irritably, stomping a huge hoof. The gesture may have been more impressive had the hoof not come down with a rather obscene squelch in the mud, and had the horse not then let his ears droop as he realized he did not, in fact, remember the password.

With more sucking sounds of hooves in muck, the horse moved to the side, which meant that his rump moved while the rest remained where it was. "Swordmasters and Shadewalkers only," he whickered, regaining some of his decorum by at least making sure that Sed remained outside.

Ash grinned at Sed and ducked under the flap, his storm-grey eyes adjusting to the dim light inside. Warlord Ozlo's tent was divided into two parts. On one side was his sleeping room, and from that direction Asher could pick out the quiet voices of at least two women talking and giggling.

But on this side was the space the grizzled chieftain used for the day-to-day planning of the Thunderfang tribe's activities. A shallow brazier sparked and guttered, the pan hanging from a chain on a stand. The warmth it provided was a welcome relief from the stiff breeze outside, though the fickle light it provided left much to be desired. If the young Swordmaster hadn't been so inately used to it, he might have recognized the mixed scent of leather and woodsmoke that permeated everything in the camp. Instead, he noticed only the yeasty tang of ale in the wood mugs or horn cups those present were holding. Scattered around the edges of the impromptu room were various skills and tanned hides of fierce Kerawac beasts mixed with expensive or intricate objects of wealth looted from Ebonfort.

True to the somewhat dim earth pony's word, the people inside the tent, all turning to peer at Asher as he joined the circle, appeared to be all Swordmasters and Shadewalkers of his own tribe. The only person Ash recognized as an outsider was Jacko, a Shadewalker of the Crimson Vines tribe, who were known for their exceptional blood-thirst and their ferocious Warlord. Perhaps a dozen figures in all, including the Warlord, who sat with his elbows on his long legs and his thin fingers laced thoughtfully under his chin. He was peering down at an unrolled map on the polished slab of wood serving as a table. Asher had just enough time to note that the area depicted was not that of Scream Watch, which any Kvaren fighter big enough to weild a weapon would recognize, before he was being addressed.

"Ah, Ash. 'Bout time you got here. What took you so long?" The speaker was an enormous woman with her dark brown hair shaved close to her head other than a long rat-tail braid behind her left ear.

"Hello Ursha. I was just..."

"Training," Ozlo finished for him, and Ash gave a curt nod. "You're always training. It's a wonder that curved blade of yours hasn't grown attached to your arm. You're dad'd be proud."

There was a unanamous chuckle around the room at Ash's expense, but he just shrugged and waited. As the youngest Swordmaster he his voice had little weight compared to the others and it was best to just wait to see what this was all about.

"Anyways," one of the Shadewalkers continued, "there is going to be a huge festival on the grassy side of the river. Most of the town will be out there drinking and dancing." The slender young human speaking wore a plain leather coat over a blue shirt and green suede vest, and instead of a weapon slung over his shoulder, Ash noticed the distinctive shape of a lyre case. Many of the Shadewalkers were those who could wander in and out of Ebonfort settlements with skills that gave them a pretense to do so.

"They won't be unprotected," another Swordmaster who was idly spinning a huge hammer in his meaty hands pointed out gruffly.

"Of course not, Maz, but the knights will be stretched a bit thinner than usual protecting both the city and the festival grounds."

"Hmm." The stocky hammer-thrower grunted non-committally.

Ozlo was looking around at his council of advisors, shrewd blue eyes observing them all. "The timing is right. They wont be expecting an attack on Ruby Banks so soon after Silent Rise." He glanced at Jacko, whose grin was without any mirth at all. "Not on a holiday. We could strike the fairground and slip away before the knights can bring enough men over the bridges to hit us back."

"What good is hitting the fairground?" Ursha disagreed bluntly. "We could bring home many slaves but the meat of Ruby Banks is in the city itself. The craft shops and the store-houses."

"You've clearly never been to an Ebonfort Festival, Ursha," one of the Shadewalkers said with a laugh. "They'll haul so much in goods out for the festival that picking what we want would be like gathering apples after a windfall."

Having been a Kvaran warrior most of her life, Ursha conceded that she had never actually seen an Ebonfort festival and shrugged her masculine shoulders. The discussion was far from formal, which Ozlo preferred. Maintaining strict control was impossible, and he wanted the decision to be one reached by majority consensus.

Ash had little to add, though he felt the excitement building up inside him, and was a little surprised to find Ozlo's eyes on him. "This will be the first raid lead by the Thunderfangs in at least four years. You've been in charge of training all the new recruits in that time. Maz tells me you're a devil with your sword and that your men are right behind you. Are they ready?"

"Yes," Ash replied without any hesitation. "They could use better equipment, but you'll find each of them handy with a weapon and ready to test their mettle against Ebonfort scum."

A circle of grins greeted his words, though many of the eyes above them were silently calculating him.

--

"Swordmaster, wait up," a voice stopped Ash as he was making his way back to his own tent. Too intent on gathering his fighters to begin preparations for the raid, Ash only slowed his stride rather than stopped, taking a swift gulp of the Kvaren ale out of a horn of some kind of monster. So many of them had horns or tusks or other horrible features it was hard to identify for sure. Sedrik, who was walking beside Ash, looked over his shoulder.

"It's Marlow," he said, quite useleslly as the musician from the meeting arrived, slowing his pace to walk on Ash's other side.

"What is it, Marlow," Ash asked, turning to eye the shorter man. Marlow's eyes raked the faint scar down Ash's eyebrow.

"I wanted to let you know, Sergeant Brynmor is currently stationed at Ruby Banks. He should be there for the festival."

Everything stopped. Ash's breath caught and he stopped walking, turning slowly to face Marlow, his eyes so intent that the soft musician backed up a step.

Gareth Brynmor. The knight whose patrol had stumbled across a small party of Kvaren traveling between tribes to share news. A party that had included Ash's beloved Wren. He could still see her dark skin and black hair every night when he slept. He hadn't been present when the Lieutenant had stabbed her through the belly with his black sword, but he had imagined every excruciating, agonizing detail in the years that followed. He had cursed the man with every foul vitriol he could conceive of every time he wondered how life would be for him now if his wife and unborn child were still with him.

Every moment spent honing his skills and serving his tribe in the last ten years had been performed in homage to Wren's memory, and he had sworn at her funeral to kill Brynmor one day. Raiding Ruby Banks was exciting enough, but Ash was suddenly filled with a wild urgency.

"Sergeant Brynmor?"

"Aye. He was promoted earlier this year."

Ash turned to look at Sed, his friend who perhaps understood better than most how important slaying his wife's murderer was to him, and was surprised to find Sed frowning uncertainly.

"What's wrong, Sed? This is the best news I've heard all week. I'm finally gonna to get my chance!"

"Ash...I know what you want to do but...you should be careful..."

Something in Sed's cautionary tone only made Ash angry and the intensity in his face resolved suddenly into a scowl. "Don't give me that weak shit, Sed. I'm going to kill that bastard, no matter what it takes."

"That's what I'm afraid of, Ash. If you want to throw yourself against a sergeant that's all on you, but don't you have a responsibility to your fighters too?"

Ash's teeth ground together. "What about my responsibility to my wife, Sedrik?! I wasn't there to protect her when she needed me! I wasn't there for her or the baby, and the least I can do is get justice for what he did to them!" His voice had grown until his was nearly screaming in Sed's face, and Marlow was looking around nervously. Others in the camp were peering curiously.

"Ash, calm down," Sed held his hands up, palms out. "No one here is going to tell you that what happened to them wasn't horrible, but no matter who you kill, it isn't going to bring her back, mate. And killing one specific knight isn't going to make a difference."

Distantly, Ash realized that there was something else to this that Sed was concerned about, but he was too far into rage to examine it at the moment. "It makes a difference to me," he spat.

"Don't you dare try to convince me otherwise, Sed. It's been ten years. I'm not going to put anyone else in jeopardy to get at Brynmor, but no one better get in my way either."

"Maybe you should just think about getting another woman, Asher. Good-looking guy like you, you wouldn't even have to drag a slave back to get laid, eh?"

There was just enough time for Sedrik to mutter "Oh, no" before Asher's fist connected with Marlow's face, his nose snapping quite satisfactorily as blood splattered all over the musician's cheeks.

--

61st Day of Ceruleo, 300 DM, sunset

The day of the celebration was clear but cold, so cold that many in the Thunderfang camp were convinced that the snows of the north would arrive to suffocate them all. Most of these people had never seen snow, but Asher had once, and hoped never to again. Much of the day was spent traveling across the plains, following the various rivers and skirting around hills to keep out of sight to any patrols. Choosing a distance that was too far to be noticed but close enough to offer a convenient staging ground was always a challenge, since every time they raided they had to avoid using a spot that they had used too recently and might be checked by black-steel scouts.

Asher road his grullo horse, named Phantom for her grey coat, ahead of a line of his fellow fighters on their own mounts, some of which were Earth Ponies who were just as much a part of the tribe as the two-legged people who rode on their backs.

The Swordmaster was protected from the chill sting of his breastplate by a padded vest, though he had to simply deal with the same from the graves and vambraces shielding his limbs. He disliked the constricting weight of too much plate or chain, so a simple studded leather warskirt kept him slightly lighter in the saddle. The cloak around his throat kept the high, cold sun from glinting off his armour as they moved swiftly along.

"I can't wait to get my hands on a nice soft craftsman's daughter. They always scream so nicely..." a voice chuckled nearby. Preoccupied with playing out the inevitable fight with Sergeant Brynmor, it took Asher a moment to realize what the men ahead of him were talking about. The one on the right, Jasper, was sliding his tongue along the edge of a slender fillet knife. "It's a shame the one I bought from the Vines didn't even last the summer."

Asher could barely suppress a shudder. Most slaves captured by Kvaren were put to practical use, labouring or crafting for the betterment of a tribe's quality of life. But sometimes they met horrific ends at the hands of cruel-minded flayers like Jasper, though there was always some lame excuse when their bodies ended up in shallow graves. Ash had only taken a slave once, a young half-elf who had turned out to be so irritating that the Swordmaster had traded him to one of the herd-keepers for Phantom.

It was nearly nightfall when Asher's group arrived at the hastily-erected camp to wait until the revelers were well and truly drunk. They were close enough that when the wind was right they could hear the music. But all Asher could think about, as he polished his sword and quadruple checked his saddle and his armour and those of his fighters, was avenging Wren by plunging his blade in Brynmor's belly.

[Twhirtley]

Trix had to reach deep into her cauldron, to ladle out more of her delicious mulled wine. She wasn't sure if it tasted better at the bottom, or if she was simply enjoying the drink immensely. It had gone over quite well at the festival, fetching her many compliments. Her cheeks were flushed red from the drink, and found no chill beneath her light cloak. Her blonde curls bounced care free, as she poured the drink into her cup. Standing fully, she wobbled slightly on the steps, and found herself falling backwards with a simple "Woo" She landed softly into a pair of arms, looking up to see a man with an awkward grin and a mess of red hair, sending her into a fit of giggles.

"You should be more careful Trix."

Reaching up, she pressed a hand sloppily against his cheek, "Oh hush Edoward, I... ooh!" She sipped at the wine that had miraculously not spilled. "Off duty?" She slipped down from his arms, steadying herself with a free hand against his chest, feeling the muscles there, sending her into yet another fit of giggles.

"Yep, just in time for you to run out of wine I see."

He surreptitiously slid an arm around her, under the guise of steadying her. Laughing more as she drank more, "We'll just have to find you something else to drink. I heard Halwynn was saving a barrel of honeyed whiskey for last." She leaned against him, finding some comfort in his presence. Maybe she should give in and be his. He certainly wanted her bad enough, that was evident. He was kind, had a good job, would be a good father. She just, never felt the spark she always hoped to feel. Her mother didn't have it for her father, but he had it for her. He was the safe choice, something she could settle for, somewhat happily.

They sauntered through the reveling crowd, listening to the many different musics playing, looking at the decorations abound. Blues and purples were everywhere, couples holding hands. There was an air of comfort and serenity as sun was beginning to fall. People were cozying up with on another around campfires, though dancing was just as common. Trix had no desire to dance, she had two left feet at that, and her balance was, well, forcing her even closer to Edoward.

They arrived at Halwynn's stand, seeing many anxious people waiting as she was tapping the barrel. "Oh, Miss Greenlakes, I see you found the ginger fury to keep you warm tonight." She saw a familiar face with an orange sash on his armored bicep. "Ginger fury? Is this a new nickname Kestin?" The dark skinned man smiled brightly, "No, not so much. He may have told us how he met you, quite fondly I'll say. We poked a little bit of fun at him, and well, ginger fury is what became of that tale."

"Aw, leave the poor boy be, no need to tease the smitten in front of the smiter." A kind face, neatly trimmed was scene with several cups of the honeyed whiskey in hand, offering them around. "Halwynn always serves me first. Cheers." Trix took her cup, as did the others, "Thank you Sergeant Brynmore, you are most kind." She hadn't even realized that Edoward had taken her wine so she could hold the whiskey. As everyone raised their toasts, she followed suit, and then drained the sweet burning liquid, giggling loudly as the men gasped after their drinks were done. "Halwynn knows her brews, that's for sure."

The crowd was cheering loudly now, as Sergeant Brynmore grabbed another round. They always rang in the new year at the moment the sun was completely hidden. They began counting down, the Sergeant toasting quickly, "To a new and better year." Again, they all quickly drained their drinks, when Edoward turned her to face him, looking down at her. She felt a frog in her throat. Everyone knew couples kissed at the end of the countdown, and she'd never been kissed before. If she went through with this, she'd be his, she'd settle for him, for the good man he is. He closed his eyes, and began to lean in slowly, and she took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable to come.

[Drache]

The sun dipped, the colours of the world leeching into the sky as the year's final sunset seemed determined to go out with a riot of bright hues. Asher was privately glad for the dark, as it made him feel that his private bloodlust for a certain sergeant might not be quite so obvious on his face.

Steering Phantom with easy flicks of the leather reigns that queued the horse without ever actually putting pressure on the snaffle in her mouth, Asher rode in between his mounted fighters, offering last-minute tips and words of encouragement, reminding these men and women of their own skill to help them focus when the time came. They were loosely organized in this staging area, but each knew what their orders were. It wasn't just "Slaughter as many Knights as possible and grab what you can on the retreat." Tribes with that kind of smash-and-grab method didn't tend to last long. The Thunderfang fighters were assigned slightly more specific tasks. Distract, focus on higher-ranking officers, cover these other fighters, destroy bridges or gates to prevent Ebonfortions from fleeing before they could be captured, focus on looting from specific buildings to bring back the things worth the most. There was a plan, and even as Asher reminded his underlings of this plan, he knew that if he caught sight of an orange sash...

When shown on a map, the Krawac often appeared as a flat featureless expanse of grass, though it was anything but. There were rolling hills and deep canyons, especially where the waterways had cut down through the crust of the world. There were occasional copses of trees and flooding marshes and dry badlands further south. There were a thousand kind of grass, some so tall that it hid creatures that would put a dragon to shame, and often did. So while it wasn't with ease that the Shadewalkers gave the signal and the Thunderfang Swordmasters began to move the seething mass of horseflesh and armed raiders towards Ruby Banks, but just as the bottom rim of the sun kissed the horizon and the crowds of revelers began to chant, the thunder of hooves began as a low thrum and the screams began.

The attack had truly begun shortly before that, as stealthy mounted bowmen had snuck up on as many distracted patrols as they could manage and silenced them with bow and blade. But the main force arrived in a sort of trident, three main groups focused on the festival grounds. Asher was part of the right-most prong, bloodying his falchion through the neck of a squire as he simply rode past, Phantom's black mane bouncing in front of him as the horse galloped underneath him. Ash's blood was up, his heart thundering in his ears. Civilians were running, screaming, their tents and bonfires and stalls evacuated. Abandoned cooking pits began to belch blue smoke as food started to burn.

"With me!" Asher yelled, his voice barely heard above the screaming and the clanging. Two of his fighters, both women, spun their horses to follow him as he charged towards one of the bridges. There were knights everywhere, but every time he lifted his curving weapon to engage, one of his fighters moved in to do it for him. Somewhere behind the fury and the terror, he was proud of how far the warriors had come.

The bridge appeared almost suddenly, and Asher made a mental note to thank the Shadewalkers for their espionage. Many of the bridges were stone, but this one was wooden. "Burn it!"

One of the fighters, a dog-faced were with one floppy ear, slid down from her saddle and smashed a flask of oil across the well-worn planks. A moment and a flint-spark later and oily orange flame bloomed. Civilians running for the bridge stopped in their tracks and backed up, their faced panicked and pale in the hellish glow.

Burning the bridge was the first part of the plan. The second was to head back to the festival and take what they could. Turning to his compatriots, grinning, "Go!" They both smiled and kicked their horses back to the fray, one pausing to haul a young boy up onto her saddle as she passed by.

Asher was about to follow when he heard hoofbeats on the other side of the bridge. Glancing up, he saw the dark shapes of three knights pacing angrily. The bridge was ruined, they could not cross. Not in their heavy armour on their heavy horses. Asher sneered triumphantly, until he noticed the orange sash on one of the knight's arms. The three men turned their horses away and charged back up the river, looking for another way to cross.

All notion of sense escaped the young Swordmaster. He backed Phantom up a few paces and kicked her hard. The knights couldn't make it across, but Asher could. His stomach flipped as the light warhorse sailed through the air, the heat of the flames barely singing their legs as they flew over the destroyed bridge. "Oof!" he grunted as they landed heavily on the other side.

"Brynmore!" Asher screamed, anger and hatred welling up inside him, hotter than the fire, old grief fueling his desperation. "Face me, you murderous dog! You coward! Fight me!" He wasn't even sure what insults he hurled, seeking only to get the Sergeant's attention so that he could finally, after all these years, kill him. And when the orange-sashed knight turned, peering at him through the slot of his helmet, Asher knew that his moment had come at last.

[Twhirtley]

Trix felt him lean in, closer, she knew it was any moment now, her gut tightening at what this meant. Then a woman's scream rang out, pained and scared. Trix's eyes snapped open, seeing the side of Edoward's face as he was already looking toward the sound. Following his gaze, she saw men on horses, men that weren't armored knights. Her eyes grew wide as she realized what was happening. They were being raided. Her gut instinct was to look for her pups, but she'd taken them back to her shop as the festivities got a bit too stimulating.

Sergeant Brynmore was already in action. "Knights! Cover the civilians as they retreat to the village, fortify at Sunset Bridge!" Trix could barely see over the heads, as Edoward left her with a parting look, one filled with fear, "Get to the village!"

The people were being shepherded east to the village, passing the Sunset Bridge. It was the tallest, oldest bridge, one of the first built by the masons from Stone Crest, on commission of course. The knights began getting a handful of archers positioned there, but with the chaos, they were slow, and most didn't many clear shots to work with. The plan was simple, if they could fortify at the bridge, they could send out sallies under the cover of archers to either side. Trix let herself follow the flow of people, when several horse man came from the north, and rushed their way through the throngs, mowing down people beneath hooves and with blades.

She could make out her shop from her position, as people began scrambling, screaming. She watched as a woman's head was lopped from her shoulders, arterial blood spurting out. Her hands began shaking and she could taste bile in her mouth, her legs growing weak. A man ran into her, and she was knocked to her hands and knees, where she retched into the grass, somehow not being trampled. Looking up, she saw noticed a loud yipping in the air, one she recognized.

It was her pups.

She immediately began trying to crawl through the throng of panicked festivalgoers. Almost at the edge, a boot stepped on her left hand and she cried out in pain. Once she was through, she stood up, studying her hand, wincing as she tried to move it. She wasn't sure if anything was broken or not, but she tried to ignore the throbbing pain. Eyes forward, she began making her way to her pups, hearing their yips. They weren't crying in pain or poor training, they were trying to find their mom, to protect her.

Closer and closer she got to her fence, and just as she was almost there, a hand grabbed her arm painfully, and pulled her backwards. She was spun, screeching in surprise, seeing a man only a bit taller than her, in leathers. He was a Screamer. She opened her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs, but a fist to the side of her head shut her up, as she was knocked to the ground. Her face was an explosion of pain, as she clutched at it, tears already spilling forth. "No, no no, stop! Stop!"

The man laughed and reached down, slapping her across the face, bouncing it off the cold, hard dirt. She laid there crying, only knowing the pain and fear she felt. Another set of boots walked near her, and there were two male voices that began speaking, in a language she didn't recognize.

"Seems I found me a ripe one. That's her," he spit on her, getting it in her hair, saying the next word venomously, "House. She was running toward it."

The other laughed heartily, kicking her in the stomach hard with his boot, tossing her onto her side. She laid there sobbing, clutching at her abdomen, wheezing, trying to look up at her assailants. "How about we take her in there, and give her some good memories of it?"

The first man grabbed her by the hair, picking her up to her feet, staring at her eyes, one beginning to swell shut, "Sounds like a plan. I don't need anymore wives anyways, they always nag. But a small little vixen like this? Too good to pass up for a once about. Well, maybe twice."

He slapped her again, ringing her ears, and in very thickly accented Common, "Walk." He began dragging her toward her house, the sounds of the pups increasing. Back in his native tongue, "Shut them up will ya? I'll make sure to not leave her sloppy." The second man nodded, grinning, as Trix realized what he was about to do. She had to protect her pups. She began twisting and flailing, a lucky elbow catching her screamer in the groin, forcing him to let loose of her hair, as he swore. She rushed to the fence, climbing over the stones, tearing her dress in the process. Falling to the ground on the other side, she saw the second screamer looking over the fence at her laughing, as if her efforts were futile. Her pups were immediately upon her, growling fiercely, placing themselves between her and the man. He drew his scimitar, and raised it high, and swung it down.

In a loud shrill voice, Trix shouted, "NO!" and thrust her hands up. The protective instinct within her welled forth, and pushed out of her palms. A small shield quickly formed, and the scimitar bounced off of it, invisible to him, but she saw the damage it did. It wouldn't take another blow. But the man cursed, his arm going numb from the unexpected reverberations, dropping the blade, clattering harmlessly near Trix. She nodded the shield away, scrambling to grab the awkward weapon, surprised, thinking it would be a lot heavier. The pups tried to put themselves between her, "Remus, Remilia, back."

They looked confused, but obeyed the command, as Trix backed herself into a corner of the wall of her home and the fence. Both Screamers were glaring at her hungrily from the other side of the fence. The first man, with his axe in hand deftly hopped over, and strolled up to her. She tried a weak slash, and the sword was knocked from her hands, as the head of his axe, the blunt side, was smashed into her gut. She dropped to her knees, as he raised his axe, to silence the dogs. "Please..." she whispered.

"Do anything with me... don't hurt them..."

The man paused, smiling as he considered his perverse thoughts. This did offer more opportunity. He grabbed her by the hair, dragged her to the back door, ignoring the pups that couldn't do anything to the thick leather boots he wore. He kicked open her door, shattering the lock and one of the hinges and threw her in. His friend joined him, teasing at the pups with the flat of his scimitar, but not harming them. She hit the wooden floorboards hard, tasting blood in her mouth. The man began undoing the rope belt of his trousers, still outside the doorway, "We're going to have fun," in his broken Common.

[Drache]

The orange-sashed sergeant turned his horse to face Asher with a casual slowness that only inflamed the young Swordmaster. Everything seemed to slow down for Ash as he drew his sword, the metallic ring as the curved falchion slid free of the scabbard seeming to echo as Phantom surged forwards at a kick of her riders heels. The bright orange embers from the burning bridge floated serenely through the acrid air, lost against an orange haze that lit the sky. Ruby Banks was burning. The festival grounds were burning. Both sides of the river were littered with trampled property and the lumps of corpses. As Asher thundered past, he vaguely spotted the shape of a scruffy were-animal wearing ebony armour ravaging a body, though it was impossible to tell if it was a civilian or a Kvaren.

There were others fighting too, couples or small groups locked in mortal struggle, screaming and bleeding and filling the air with the stink of piss and shit. In dark recesses, women and even some boys wailed piteously under their rapers, both wishing they would just die and hoping they wouldn't.

The Sergeant's heavy charger thundered down the street, sparks flying from its shod hooves. A glint of dark metal told Asher when the knight drew his blade, the dark shape like the reaper's scythe against the hazy backdrop of battle and terror.

The Swordmaster was no match against a mounted Sergeant, this he knew. On the ground he would be faster, and so he must unseat the man. Phantom raced down the brick road as Asher gripped the hilt of his curving falchion. At the last possible moment, the Sergeant turned his horse, coming at Asher from the other side. It was a risky and surprising move, and as Asher watched the man switch his vicious longsword to his other hand he realized that the knight thought to gain an easy victory by attacking his off side.

Asher's falchion came up and the blow of the horses colliding massively against each other jolted him only an instant before the longsword clanged heavily against his blade. Holding the hilt in one hand and the unsharpened side of the curved sword in the other, he blocked the knight's brutal blow.

The next few moments passed in a jolting struggle as both horses bit and kicked at each other. The charger was war-trained by the best. Phantom was just a wily bitch of a mare with a nasty bite and pissy enough to cow-kick the sergeants mount in the shins repeatedly. Close quarters should have meant that Asher was out of danger of the knight's dark blade, but the sergeant was no novice. As Asher tried to flip his arm around and catch the sergeant in a lock, the knight twisted his hand and rammed Asher in the shoulder with his pommel.

The pain was incredible, lightning numbness flashing down his right arm, though thankfully it didn't last because Asher reached up to grab the hilt of the other man's sword. "Back!" Phantom's ears twitched at the command and she backpeddled. As the horses came apart Asher tried to slash at the Sergeant with his sword. The knight ducked under that swing, but the movement and the drag of Asher's grip succeeded in pulling him from his saddle.

Not wanting to fight the longsword from horseback with only a short blade of his own, Asher leaped from Phantom's back and raced towards the knight, who was already on his feet, waiting. Phantom normally would have stayed close, but in the chaos Asher lost her.

"And now you die, Brynmore!" Asher growled, though the Sergeant did not reply. In his mind, the Swordmaster could only see Wren's beautiful eyes and the way the wind played with her hair as she stood in the golden summer grass, her hand on her round belly as she looked out at the sunset. In the void left by that happiness which had been stolen from him, Asher knew only furious grief, and now it was going to finally end.

He had always known that when he finally came up against Brynmore he would be facing an older and more experienced swordsman. That was why he had spent so much time training himself until the falchion was more an extension of his own arm than a tool. Even in the plate armour the knight was fast, though not as fast as he had been in a young despairing kvarens fell nightmares. Asher was not laden under the weight of so much plate and mail, but this lack also left him open to much more grievous injury if the Sergeant landed a strike.

The fight was quick and dirty. At some point the Sergeant produced a knife, using it to slash at Asher any time the younger fighter slipped under the reach of his longer sword. It was a deadly dance, both ducking and dodging expertly around every thrust and slash. Their blades rang together again and again, each hit nearly shivering the single-edged weapon out of his hand. The Sergeant was strong. Asher scored a glancing blow on the knights helm and received a deep score in his breastplate in return. Once, he managed to knock the longsword wide, sending the knight stumbling offbalance and stepped forwards to deliver a killing blow, only to be kicked savagely back so that the fighting could resume. The only fear Asher knew was the worry that exhaustion would force them apart to fight another time. He couldn't live with the waiting.

And they did not stay in one spot. Their private whirling struggle ranged up the street towards the stone bridge. Concerned that this was some ploy to acquire backup for himself, Asher quickly maneuvered the sergeant into the shadows cast by trees growing along the fences of private properties. The Kvaren man had no thought for what might happen after this fight was done, but wanted to live long enough to make sure he saw it through.

They stumbled through a metal gate and the sergeant tried to slam it shut in Asher's face. Enraged, Asher kicked it back open with a feral growl and fought the knight towards the dark shape of some kind of house or shop. It was darker here, but Asher was beyond strategy. He was murderous and in his carelessness about his own safety he was even more dangerous.

"Come on, then!" He snarled, "Perhaps I'm not as easy to kill as pregnant women and old people!" Each word was punctuated by the crashing of metal on metal. He spoke in good Common, though his accent was obvious. The Sergeants silence was frustrating. Both men were panting, both bleeding from cuts, both aching from a hundred blows. Each hit was a stab of pain. The pain, Asher could ignore, but the way the damage made his limbs tremble and slow to respond to his wishes was not something even his deep anger could overcome. The sergeant only grunted in reply and slashed low at Asher's thigh. The Swordmaster moved to block the blow, realizing too late that it had been a feint. The black blade slashed across his neck, filetting his skin back and sending a warm flood of blood down his chest. Asher staggered back, glancing down at the river of red on his breastplate.

Time was running out.

Asher turned his body sideways, hiding his injured left side from the Sergeant. He was beginning to feel light-headed but how much of that was exhaustion and how much was blood loss he had know way to know. Presenting his enemy with a smaller target was a common trick, and the Sergeant didn't notice when Asher's free hand came up to loosen the coil of his whip from his belt. He stabbed, parried, and let his falchion shriek down the length of the longsword as he found the handle to his whip.

His move never would have worked if the Sergeant had seen it coming. But the shadows and the orange glare hid Ash's trickery. With an ear-splitting scream that his tribesmen were known for, Asher lunged forwards, his blade held out before him like a spear. The Sergeant braced himself, lifting his blade for an easy kill, thinking his enemy had finally lost his composure.

But Asher pulled up short, keeping his blade at hip height while his left hand flung back and then out. Ssss-whap! The tail of the whip lashed around the Sergeant's forearm. Asher heaved back on the supple leather with as much strength as he could summon, yanking the knight towards him. The knight stumbled forwards, his longsword knocked askew as he lifted his arm to resist the tug. There was a metallic scream as Asher plunged his blade though the Sergeant's breastplate, sinking it almost to the hilt in the man's side.

"For Wren," Ash hissed, staring into the slot at the Sergeant's eyes. The knight shuddered and coughed, phlegmy blood spraying across Asher's face. And then the knight sagged and staggered back, toppling heavily through the door of the house and landing with a fatal slump on the floor inside.

Asher looked down, still holding the whip in one hand like a leash attached to a dead dog. His eyes itched and it was only then that he realized he'd been weeping the whole time. He bared his teeth in a grimace, tasting blood in his mouth, and stepped forwards. He seized the top of the Sergeant's helm and hauled it off, wanting to stare down at the dead face of someone he had hated for so long. He owed it to Wren. He owed to his unborn child. He'd finally avenged them.

"No!" The helm clattered to the floor. "It can't be!" It wasn't Brynmore. "No!" He viciously punched the dead man's face with a meaty thud, and then again. How could this be! He stood up and kicked the helm, wrenching his blade free of the body and slinging blood against the wall. He had failed. He had succeeded in killing a sergeant, but had ultimately failed to fulfill his vow.

It was then that he noticed a figure standing nearby and raised his sword threateningly, only to recognize Dunkan. "What are you doing in here?" He scowled.

--

Remus and Remilia yapped and snarled at Dunkan as the man threatened them with his blade. He was trying to decide if it would be more fun to kill them, or if he was willing to go through the trouble of trussing them up and hauling them back to the valley for trade. Dogs like these could be worth more than the woman who owned them, as long as they weren't too vicious already. They did seem particularly protective over Trix already.

Dunkan listened for the horrified moans that would start as soon as Jasper managed to pin the woman down. They were supposed to be looting for goods and rations and equipment that was hard to make in the Karawac, but Jasper always had other plans. "Let me know if I need to come in there and hold her down for you!" He called in his thick Common.

Jasper stalked back into the room with Trix, sliding his pants down his thighs and kneeling down and grabbing one of her legs to pull her roughly towards him. "Some women fight. Some don't," he hissed, chuckling evilly. "It will be fun to see just when you break. I hope it's not too soon. I like it when my girls scream."

He produced his fillet knife and began to cut through Trix's clothes, needlessly butchering them to shreds. He let the cold metal graze against her skin, not caring if it left shallow cuts or not. He paused only to grope her roughly, pinching and squeezing hard and slapping her ass. "Ooh, you're nice and perky," he sneered. "It's too bad I don't need any more slaves. Still a virgin? If so, you wont be after tonight."

There was a wooden thud as he stabbed the fillet knife into the floorboards down near his thigh, just out of Trix's reach. Jasper forced Trix's legs apart and loomed over her. Outside, the ringing of metal and the tell-tale scream of a Kvaren seemed to be getting closer.

Something stiff and smooth and warm touched the back of Trix's thigh, and then the front door of the house smashed open. Jasper paused, listening to the scuffle in the other room.

Dunkan spun around, watching the Ebon Knight crash heavily to the floor. Beyond it, Asher stood, wild and bloodied and chest heaving from exertion. The pups behind him slunk back and forth along the wall, growling and watching for an opening to dart away and find their mother.

Asher stepped into the house and removed the knight's helm. Dunkan watched a look for horror cross the young fighter's face before the Swordmaster threw a bit of a tantrum.

"What are you doing here?"

Dunkan was at a loss, avoiding the eyes of his superior. Asher always had a bit of a stern, grim look about him but this was the first time Dunkan had seen so much darkness in those grey eyes. We wondered if he might get a sword to the belly for disobeying his orders.

"And where's Jasper? You two are always together." Eager to pass Asher's ire to someone else, Dunkan pointed down the hall.

--

Ash's eyes narrowed. He could guess what Jasper was doing in the dark rooms of the house. He glanced around, trying to discern the nature of the owner. With all the bottles and drying herbs around it wasn't a hard guess. Being indoors felt strange. The wooden floorboards; unnatural. "Go find my horse. I'll need her to carry the sergeant's body back to camp." He watched Dunkan's eyes widen at the command but he nodded and scurried out the door, stepping clumsily over the corpse.

Freed from their tormentor, the ridgebacks scurried into the other room. Asher heard them start snarling and followed, still wielding a blade that dripped blood on the floor. By the time his form filled the doorway, Jasper had hastily fumbled his pants back up and stepped away from Trix.

There was a long moment filled mostly by the sounds of growling pups as Asher surveyed the scene, scowling at Jasper and looking down at Trix. He had no way to know if he'd interrupted Jasper in time to stop him from...but at least she was alive. For a reason he couldn't define, that small fact made him feel better. He wondered if Trix belonged to someone, the way Wren had belonged to him.

"You're not supposed to be here, Jasper," the Swordmaster pointed out, his tone flinty, speaking Common. "I told you to loot the festival, not to waste time dicking around with cityfolk and putting yourself at risk of getting caught. Leave her alone and get out."

Jasper wasn't as easily cowed by the black-haired youth as Dunkan and grinned savagely, showing his long teeth and receding gumline. He stooped slightly, narrowing his eyes like a cornered cat. "No need to be so up tight, Ash my lad. We'll grab plenty of booty on our way out, but I claimed this one and I'm not leaving until I get a piece of her."

Ash lifted the point of his sword, the bloody edge glittering with a morbid viscosity. "Yes, you are. I don't like how your slaves tend to disappear, Jasper. I'm watching you, and if I find out you've slaughtered any more for your sick thrills I'll gut you myself. I'm taking this one and if I catch you near her you're a dead man. Now go help Dunkan with that body."

Jasper's eyes were dark with the injustice of being robbed his fun and he sneered hatefully at Ash's back as he slipped from the room, muttering something and pausing only to grab his knife back. Ash waited until the footsteps faded, his gray gaze falling on Trix. He noted her light hair and pale skin lined with fresh but non-serious cuts. He stepped forwards, shooing the pups aside as he crouched down. He brushed the hair from the side of her face but didn't touch her skin, eyeing the dogs warily. "Get up. You're coming with me. I assume this is your place. I'll give you a few slips to pack a bag but no more. I'd leave you here but one of them will just come back and hurt you." His accented voice was only weary while Jasper's had been cruel.

[Twhirtley]

Trix forced herself to look forward, eyes fixated on the many plants in her apothecary. She could hear his heavy breathing, heard his rope belt undone, the sliding of cloth as she assumed his trousers were done. The tears were already beginning to fill her eyes, her entire body clenching, not ready for what was about to happen. She just hoped he'd do as she'd pleaded, and let her dogs live after he was through with her. The terror of it was making her sick, her entire body shaking. The words of his companion brought a whole other realization. What if he joined in? That would be so much worse, let alone if he just watched and helped her be raped.

She felt the man kneel on the floor, before he gripped her leg hard. But she forced herself to not gasp in pain, gritting her teeth, as he dragged her across the wooden floorboards. Her legs were spread around his, her temporary modest maintained by the length of her dress. Her breath was fast coming, panic fully taking over as she just forced herself to be somewhere else. She didn't hear his words, bracing herself for the pain she knew to be coming.

A slice across her back was not what she was expecting, and she cried out, loudly. Her body was suddenly thrashing, not caring about her resolve, scrambling to get away from the blade. But his grip on her was steel, and he continued slashing at her dress, her skin flaying open on nearly every single one. Her back was exposed to the air, cold at first, as she felt warm blood running over her skin. Her dress was slashed down the middle until it was nothing more than a ragged rug beneath her. Her sobs from the pain were loud, as she continued to try and claw and pull away from him, as her undergarments were cut away, naked before a man for the first time in her life.

Soon his free hand was groping at her legs, her ass, pinching, before she yelped as he slapped her ass so hard she was sure there'd be a bruise later. She startled as the knife slammed down next to her. She wanted to look to see if she could reach it, but as soon her legs were spread apart, and something smooth and hard was against her flesh, she realized it was time. She forced her eyes shut, clenched her entire body, feeling the hot tears force their way out. She would not scream during this. That's what he wanted. Her hands were fists pressing hard against the wooden floor, her breath held during this agonizing wait.

But it never came.

There was a curse in a language she didn't recognize, and she felt his legs scrambling, and suddenly he was standing. Her eyes opened, and she looked back over her shoulder. Jasper was looking away, and in a moment of distraction, Trix considered grabbing the knife that had been used to cut her, hiding it in the rags that was her dress, beneath her. But she didn't. That would just bring her more pain. She watched him stand back, trying to rub the tears from her eyes to see more clearly. Another Screamer walked in, one that seemed more terrifying than the other two, but in a different way. He seemed quiet, calm, dangerous. The scar across his face and the blood from his recent fighting didn't help.

Then he spoke, indicating her near rapist as Jasper. When he was told to leave her alone, she wondered if she was just being taken away from one monster to an even worse one. Her legs were closed as she began to curl up in herself, trying to not all out sob as this man looked down on her. And it was confirmed when he said that he was taking her. A brief moment found her wishing that it was the first man, he seemed less dangerous, if more brash and loud. But then the weight of his words truly hit her. The other man apparently had a reputation for... making slaves disappear and this man wasn't going to tolerate it. Was he a superior? And did that mean he wouldn't rape her as the other was going to?

The man's tired voice spoke, now kneeling next to her, pushing her hair from her face. Her tear stained eyes didn't have the courage to look at him. Her pups were still alive at least. And this man didn't seem interested in them, so there was small victory for her pain.

Then he told her she needed to pack a few things, and she realized that she truly was his now. His slave. Because he was stronger than her, because he could kill her. She weakly stood up, wincing at the pain across her back, holding the ruined dress against her naked body, trying to maintain some modesty, some comfort. Her mind tried to focus, as her dogs were immediately at her side. She tried to block out the pain, the fear, the panic, the nausea. If she was going to be taken as a slave, she needed to be a useful one. Which meant she'd need her tools.

She quickly pulled on some of her work clothes, for those didn't matter if they were stained with blood. Then she realized, that probably didn't matter either. She'd always heard slaves barely had more than grungy rags, when owned by Screamers. She grabbed her pack, her toolkit and coin purse, a much lighter coin purse as she'd paid her loan payment earlier. She'd had a bunch of her savings converted to gems, for easier storage and carrying. She thought she had everything, when her eyes fell on one last item. It was the book she'd received after the tournament. She'd not taken the time to read it. She grabbed it and stuffed in on top. Then she realized that her coin purse wasn't hidden well. So she took the gems out of it, opened her toolkit, and dropped them into a skin of incredibly foul smelling oil. It wouldn't hurt them, they couldn't be seen therein, and couldn't be heard. Once everything was in place, she pulled on her work boots, for her gardening, and turned back to Asher.

Her eyes still couldn't find his, and she winced as she slung her pack over her shoulder, sliding her coin purse, that just had some golds and silvers left in it, in her pocket. She didn't speak, staying out of his reach, her pups growling between the pair of them, but she shooshed them. Still not meeting his eyes, crying as she knew she was about to leave her home, "Can... can I bring my pups with me? They can't live on their own, and I'm their mother." She didn't know what else to do, or to say, so she stood there in silence, awaiting his words, and for him to rip her away from everything she knew and loved.

[Drache]

While Trix got to her feet and started to pack, Asher found something made of cloth and cleaned the blood off his sword so that he could sheath it neatly in the scabbard strapped to the belt around his hips. He was perhaps not paying as much attention to Trix as he should, his thoughts bent on the fact that his defeat of the un-named Sergeant, while it should be counted as a great personal victory to overcome such a skilled foe, tasted like nothing but ashes in his mouth.

Watching Trix out of the corner of his eyes, mostly to make sure she didn't pick up something dangerous and try to take him out, Ash went to the window and peered out. The fire was spreading. Even in the house the noisome, threatening haze of burning buildings was starting to rise. The Swordmaster knew that it would only be a matter of time until the Ebon Knights gathered their forces enough to sally, and didn't intend to be caught in their return charge. The shadows of running figures, both mounted and not, wavered and wriggled in the orange glare of the fires, and even in here the screaming and clashing of weapons, the panicked shrieks of horses, could be heard all around.

Asher's steely grey eyes glanced around the modest home and couldn't help but be impressed by the practical but homey feeling he got from they way Trix had organized her home. Even the mixed scents of the drying herbs seemed to soothe his frustrated anger and sense of failure. He almost felt sorry for having to steal this woman away from her life, and if not for Jasper and Dunkan he likely would have pretended he'd never seen her.

At the sound of her voice, tremulous and terrified as he'd expected, the armoured barbarian glanced back at Trix, seeing her tear-stained face for the first time, and wondering for the second time if he'd arrived soon enough to keep Jasper from doing more than the bleeding slices on her back. He had thought her young from what he'd seen of her naked back, and her pretty face confirmed it. How strange for him to notice! After a pause, he glanced down at the dogs. "They're handsome beasts," he remarked, his finger tapping on the hilt of his sword as though he was considering cutting them down in front of her. "Dogs like that would be welcome in our tribe, but only so long as they can keep up and don't cause trouble. Now let's go."

He gestured with his hand for Trix to lead the way out of the house, lurking bodily behind her to urge her into the front room rather than yanking her along by her wrists.

Dunkan was waiting in the front doorframe, watching the chaos in the farming village warily while waiting for Asher to reappear. He held one set of reigns in his hand but there were two beasts standing in the yard. One was Phantom, shifting excitedly from hoof to hoof as though proud of herself for causing mayhem of her own accord. The other was a white Earth Pony with a green mane and tail decorated with black feathers. He lifted his head and whickered at Ash when he noticed the Swordmaster emerging from the shadows of the house with Trix.

"H-h-hey Asher! Well done on this Ebonscum here. I convinced Dunkan to let me h-h-haul him back to camp for you. Good thing too, your h-h-horse might be tough as turtle tits but three h-h-humans might be a bit much!" The equine seemed overly cheerful, tossing his mane and swiveling his ears as though chatting in the middle of a siege was perfectly normal. Asher could see that between the two of them, Dunkan and the Earth Pony had already strapped the dead sergeant, armour and all, onto his back.

"Hoy, Shaya," Ash nodded grimly, watching Dunkan's eyes alight on Trix and then flit away while he fidgeted nervously, obviously intimidated and worried about the part he had played in Jasper's cruelty. "I appreciate the help, friend. You'll want to take that one straight to Ozlo for me and I'll find a lump of sugar for you later."

Apparently pleased by the arrangement, the moss-maned Earth Pony named Shaya turned and trotted away into the gloom, the dead sergeant flopping grotesquely where he had been unceremoniously tied, blood staining a huge swath of the white creature's fur. Turning back to Dunkan, Ash held out his hand for the orange sash, which he looped through his belt.

"You'd do well to stay away from Jasper," he advised, his tone dark as he spoke to his junior fighter in their own tongue. "You're good with your short-sword. I'd hate to see you kept back at camp during raids because of that snake." Dunkan too had a hard time meeting Asher's stern gaze, looking at Trix instead. Asher moved closer to her, taking her bag and attaching it to his saddle. Turning back, he set a callused hand settling on her shoulder.

"I hear you, Ash. It...it won't happen again. Just watch your back. Jasper was pretty pissed when he took off, and if he wants this one...you being Swordmaster wont scare him."

There was a sudden concussive sound as a grain silo a few streets over caught fire and went up in a towering inferno, flaming debris landing all around them. In the fresh bloom of light, Asher and Dunkan both spotted a larger company of mounted Ebon Knights massing down the street.

"We'll see," Asher said in Common before turning his attention to Trix as Dunkan hurried away. There was a jingle as Asher reached behind his hip and pulled something metal from his belt. He slipped the manacles around her wrists, the little snick as they locked audible even over the sounds of the city and the fire that was now licking across the roof of her house. The fire that glittered across Asher's dented breastplate and put a liquid fire in his eyes as he worked.

"I'm sorry..." he muttered in Kvaren before bending swiftly at the knees. With her back slashed up he knew this would sting, but more than that, there was a reason he had neglected to ever take a slave. With one hand under her ass and the other between her shoulder-blades, he scooped Trix up and hoisted her neatly up onto Phantom, literally sweeping her off her feet. The horse shifted skittishly under the weight, threatening to toss the novice rider, until Asher put his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind her. The entire front of the forbidding Screamer was pressed against Trix's backside from the calves up, the slope of the saddle keeping them neatly together as Asher nudged Phantom with his heels. Holding the reigns in one hand that rested on Trix's right thigh, he guided the smokey warhorse out of the yard and onto the street, turning in his seat to look back for the dogs.

Sure enough, they were scurrying along in the wake of the horse, watching with ears pricked, their attention focused on Trix. They would put the rangey mongrels of the Screamer camp to shame! He couldn't help but like them. Their colour was quite similar to Phantom's.

Behind them, the roof of Trix's house and shop suddenly buckled and collapsed inwards, unable to withstand the flames spreading rapid and unchecked across the shingles. The windows blew out, one after the other, glass sparkling as the panes practically vaporized under the pressure of the heat. Pulling back on only one side of the reigns to bring Phantom around slightly, Asher looked back at the city.

The last of his fighters thundered up the street towards him and there were Ebon Knights following. "H-yah!" Asher snarled, and Phantom leapt to join the retreat, surging in a rolling canter that threatened to bounce Trix right out of his lap.

The wind streaked by, stained with ash and blood as the heat of the city faded. The sounds of terror lessened until the world was full only of the sounds of horses thundering over the long, dry grass. The path back to camp would be long, designed to confuse their pursuers. Raiders who fell might be left behind if it meant protecting the current location of the Tribe.

It was only when the cool wind across the valley slid icy fingers down the gaps of his breastplate that Asher felt the fatigue wash over him. He was hurt, bruised and bloodied, his thoughts muddied from the loss of blood. A cold sweat stained his brow and his grip on the saddle-horn trembled slightly. Growing frustrated with the way Trix seemed to slip around in front of him, Asher let his hand find her hip.

"No," his voice was a short, pained groan. "You're too stiff. Roll your hips with the horse. It will be easier, not so painful when the hooves hit the ground." He was already tight to her body, but to give Trix an example he exaggerated the motion that had become second nature to a man practically born in a saddle, rocking his abdomen in a way that matched the movement of the horse so that he never bounced jarringly in the saddle. As soon as they were both doing it correctly, even Phantom seemed to relax, speeding up and smoothing her gait now that she didn't have to anticipate every painful jolt long her spine. Other than that, Asher spoke little. Now and then a warrior would ride up next to him and give a report, their eyes dancing curiously across the slave in his lap, knowing that this was a first for the young Swordmaster. Asher responded with nods and the odd curt monosyllabic reply, struggling to endure the weakness that threatened to drag him to the ground.

[Twhirtley]

Trix could feel Asher's gaze on her, but still kept her own eyes locked on the pups on the floor. She wished she were smaller, uglier, something, anything, that would let him leave her here. Listening as he spoke, her first thought was that he was going to sell them, taking them away from her, and for a brief moment, she shot him a look of pure fire. Then when he said they could come under two conditions, Trix's face quickly dropped into relief, almost wanting to be a smile. It never quite made it there though. Her gaze quickly dropped to her pups again, confident that they would be able to keep up, and would never cause trouble, unless someone was hurting her.

But now it was time to leave, and she slowly moved past him, taking one last look at the home she would probably never see again. Turning back she saw the man called Dunkan and she flinched, stopping in her path for a moment, looking back toward Asher. She gulped down her fear, and slowly made her way forward, always trying to make herself appear smaller. Scurrying past him and off to the side, but not too far, so as to not be punished, she looked at the horse and the Earth Pony. The earth pony had a knight strapped to his back, but she had no idea who it was. At least she could tell his hair wasn't orange. She'd always liked earth ponies, they were quite common in the farming village and always seemed to be very enthusiastic and eager about everything. But this one talking about a dead man, and calling him scum, unsettled her.

Trix was doing her best to memorize the names, if only to have something to focus on that wasn't her life being destroyed and the multitude of feelings coursing through her. And a part of her knew that if she wanted to be treated well, she'd need to start learning immediately. Jasper was the monster she'd never forget. Dunkan was the one who helped him. Shaya was the blood covered earth pony. Ozlo... she didn't know, but sounded important. And Asher... that was to be seen, but for now, was the one who'd saved her from the monster.

When she saw Dunkan hand Asher the orange sash, her eyes grew wide. He'd killed the Sergeant. Sergeants were fierce fighters, she wasn't experienced in watching or participating in combat, but she knew they were incredibly tough. Just who had she gotten herself in with? She heard them speak their foreign language, and found Dunkan looking at her. Her eyes immediately found the ground again. She felt Asher come close, taking her bag, putting it in the saddle, a hand now on her.

When the silo went up, Trix startled heavily, and found herself shrinking against Asher's body, squinting at the sudden brightness. She saw a host of knights coming, and almost yelled out to them. But that would lead to more bloodshed, possibly her pups getting hurt, and she wasn't sure if they'd be able to hear her anyways. She heard a jingle of metal, not expecting it. Then she felt him gripping her wrists gently, before slipping manacles around them like a prisoner. No, not like a prisoner. She was a prisoner. As they locked, she knew there was zero chance of escape now.

She heard him mutter something in that foreign language, before she found herself being touched and lifted in a swift motion. Pain shot through her back and she screamed in pain and shock, finding herself suddenly atop the horse, scrambling to hold onto anything she could. She had fistfuls of the horse's mane, clutching them in a death grip. She'd never been atop a horse before, and now her first time came with excruciating pain, with a horrifying experience. Suddenly Asher was behind her, pressed against her back, sending more pain through her. More tears found their way down her cheeks, her breathing heavy as she tried to adjust to it. She felt his hand with the... leather strap things gripped, resting on her thigh.

And suddenly they were moving forward. She tried to peer around the large man to see her pups, and call for them if needed and she nearly fell off. She did see them though as she tried to right herself, pulling hard on the mane, hoping it didn't hurt the horse. She was relieved that they could keep up. When her captor turned them to face the village, she stifled a cry as she saw her home disappear in flame. Her pups caught up easily, waiting by the horse, eyes deadset on their mother. She saw more Screamers and Knights coming toward them, and suddenly they were moving, much faster, and Trix thought she was going to be thrown.

Her knuckles were white with strain as she kept her hold on the long hair, each bounce sending new pain through her cut back, until it dissipated into a sort of constant pain that could be ignored. She kept slipping forward and all over, never feeling like she wasn't going to be thrown. She had no idea how people did this constantly, it was a nightmare. Then there was a guiding hand on her hip.

She heard his words, telling her to roll her hips, to not be stiff. She felt him surge his stomach, and that made her focus on his movements, back to his natural self. He'd been doing that the entire time. She tried to match his rhythm, tightening her stomach and at first, just scooting forward. But that was wrong and she nearly slipped over the shoulders. She closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling, and tried and tried and tried again. Several times she got the motion right, but was off rhythm, and others she was on rhythm, but was over-exaggerating the motion. However, when she did finally get it right, she could feel the significant difference. It was hard, her stomach muscles were fairly nonexistent, but she kept at it, occasionally slipping up, but quickly regaining the rhythm again. She could tell why some people found that riding as a couple was romantic, had this been any other time, any other man, it might be. But this was survival, nothing else.

She tried to look at each Screamer that approached and gave a report, but it was always in their foreign language. The faces were many, and she was tired, frustrated, and in such a whirlwind, that there wasn't really anything else to focus on. So she continued to just practice this rhythm, to fight through the burning in her stomach, hips, and thighs. There was some peace in only focusing on the rhythm of the hoofbeats, the winds blowing by her. There was no care in the world at this moment, good, or bad. There was just three bodies moving in unison.

She noticed that Asher's breathing seemed to change, breaths growing more ragged, shallower. She knew those breaths, of course she did. She'd treated many people like that. He was a man that was injured, and ignoring it. She was so far from home, and hadn't the slightest idea of how to get back, even if she were to get off right now. He was her survival. Which meant if he was hurt, she was his. She looked up at him, "Are you hurt? I'm a healer, I can fix you." Her voice was soft, but didn't have the normal caring tone of it, stating more matter of factly than anything. "If you're hurt, let me fix you. I don't know the way if you pass out."

[Drache]

As soon as Trix seemed to get the hang of it, Asher returned his hand to the pommel of the saddle, listening to the jingle of horse tack and the sound of hooves on grass until Trix spoke again. He was glad that she caught on quickly, his temper even shorter than usual with everything that had happened. Adrenaline had burned out.

Having his injuries pointed out seemed to galvanize Asher, and with a shake of his head that tossed unruly black tendrils around his face he managed to gather his composure somewhat. "I am. But it can wait until we get back to Camp." His tone was just as matter-of-fact as Trix's, shutting her down swiftly as he straightened in his saddle.

But then, as much out of regret for turning down the offer of help so soon and to have something to occupy his mind and keep him alert, he adjusted his tone. He was glad that his slave had some practical skill. If he was going to be stuck with her for now it was better than having someone useless. "I thought you might be. Only Healers and Cooks keep that many plants drying. What are you called?"

They passed through some rocky outcroppings and suddenly the Kvaren camp was laid out before them, the hazy glow of cookfires flickering across the grassland amid the angular shapes of tents and the dark silhouettes of the inhabitants. There was a lot of activity for this time of night, the entire place roused with the returning of the brave raiders.

Asher finally reigned Phantom in to a walk as they approached the camp, passing a gaggle of mounted sentries who were fresh and ready to fight off any Knights who might have followed the war party. There was a swirl of talking as news was passed between those coming and those who hadn't left, most of the voices calling out in Kvaren with fragments of Common mixed in.

One of the largest tents they passed as they moved through the camp was the Healer's tent, many lanterns and braziers lighting the space inside while the medics worked their craft, their patients groaning or screaming with the pain of either their wounds or their treatments.

There was a commotion behind Asher as the resident dogs took offense to the powerfully-built pups following the gray and black horse, and Asher stopped to look back. The Kvaren dogs tended to be brownish with black ticking and blonde highlights to help them blend into the long grasses, their long lean bodies similar to coyotes or jackals. A pack of six or seven had surrounded Trix's pups and were menacing them with bared teeth and a cacophony of shrill barking and howling, snapping at the pups ankles and faces. "Fredarik! Call your pack off, would you? Those two are with me. They're no use to all mauled!"

A man so stout he might have been half-dwarf waded in amongst the dogs, laying about with a club made of some kind of polished femur, knocking the sandy scruffy hounds aside, cursing at them all in general until the gray-black pups could pass. They seemed fairly unharmed, though even more terrified than before.

Once the two dogs were at Phantom's ankles once more, Asher continued through the camp towards the bigger tents until he found his own. There was slightly more space between the tents here, and the common areas were a little bit further away. Most of the big tents were quiet, unlit, except for the huge one in the middle. Asher finally reigned Phantom to a stop and took a few deep breaths before sliding out of the saddle.

When his feet hit the ground he winced, pain shooting through the bruises on his legs that had been forgotten until now by the mercy of their ride. Leaning slightly against the horse until the light-headedness passed. A girl in her late teens approached, waiting at Phantom's head until he was ready to lead the horse away to be unsaddled, rubbed down, and put up for the night. "You're wanted in the Warlord's tent, Swordmaster," the girl informed him, telling him nothing that he hadn't expected as a matter of course. He nodded, tugging Trix's bag from the saddle and slinging it over his uninjured shoulder. "When you get to the remuda send someone back t keep an eye on this one until I get back from the meeting."

"Give me your hands and I'll help you down," the Swordmaster said, reaching up for Trix's manacled wrists.

[Twhirtley]

Trix heard his words and understood them. He wouldn't take sound advice from a slave. She continued the riding motion, trying to pay attention to anything else he did with the horse, relaxing her grip on the mane. When he asked for her name, she almost answered automatically. But she wanted to hold onto that small part of her. So she didn't answer with Trix, rather, "I am called Verissa." It was the name her mother had given her, and she was the only one that called her that. It seemed fitting, for Trix was the nice, kind herbalist in Ebonfort. Verissa could be the Screamer slave. She didn't ask for his, as she'd heard it earlier, and continued the ride in complete silence.

They rode around some rocks and suddenly there was a camp before her. Her new home, she realized. It wasn't as scary as some of the knights had made them out to be. There weren't people dying on stakes and skulls of slain people as decorations. It was quaint, comfortable looking even, reminded her of when she'd visited Silent Rise. At least she had that comfort. It was very busy, more people than she'd expected to see, especially this time of night. The air seemed celebratory, with a successful raid she assumed. As the horse slowed to a walk, it was much easier to maintain her posture, as she could feel the physical weariness setting in. She leaned tiredly against the horse's neck, making sure to keep her hips slid back against Asher, as they passed a large tent filled with injured people. Her heart ached, knowing that wasn't going to be her life anymore.

Then she heard her pups growl, followed by many other growls that didn't belong to them. Immediately she tried to extricate herself from the horse, her back cramping up and her wincing in pain, hissing through her teeth. She heard Asher call to a man, and soon the pups were beneath her, look up at her from next to the horse. She smiled at each of them, so proud that they'd managed to keep up. They were her only family now, her only friends. They stuck close now that they were at a walk, sentry eyes checking every person and creature for threat. Eventually they arrived at a huge tent, well lit and active.

Suddenly Asher was not behind her, and she felt her hips slide back just a bit, finding a bit more comfort. She heard his hiss of pain as he dismounted, wondering just what the state of his injuries were. Trix eyeballed the girl, who seemed to be about the same age as her, wondering if she was a slave or native. She heard her speak, about a Warlord, which she knew from stories was their leader. And that she called him Swordmaster. She didn't know how prestigious such a title was, but the fact that he had one meant he was important too. She watched him take her bag, wondering if it was his bag now.

When he gave her the command, she reached her hands out, using them to support herself on his, and slid off to the side he was at. This threw her terribly off balance, and she found herself falling toward the Swordmaster. She felt herself collide with his chest, wincing painfully, before realizing she'd not hit the ground. He'd caught her, with ease it seemed. She found herself inches from his face, her hair a mess all over, and for a brief moment, her face looked thankful. Once she was back on solid ground, she immediately turned away from him, crouching down to her pups that were already at her side. She'd heard his words to the girl, knowing someone would be along soon to "keep an eye on her." As if she was going to run in manacles while in the middle of a village of Screamers.

She patted her pups lovingly, inspecting them for injuries, satisfied that there was nothing more than minor scratches. They licked at her face and snuggled in close, as she awkwardly put her arms over them in a manacled hug, crying into Remus' fur. At least she still had them. She was still crying as she heard Asher's footsteps leave, and eventually, another set arrive. She looked up, wiping away her tears, wondering who her babysitter would be.

[Drache]

Asher spotted a familiar face coming his way as he moved somewhat haltingly towards the bright festive glow of the Warlord's tent, intercepting the Aaenshi.

"Shenzi. I would have expected you to be at the Healer's tent," the Swordmaster remarked, fighting the sharp pain in his side that kept him from taking a full breath.

The jackal-like muzzle looked up at him with a grin, the experienced Healer letting her yellow eyes flick over the tall man, picking out his hurts, the slash at the crook of his neck the most serious. Brushlike tail wagging slowly behind her slender, slightly crooked legs, she gave a nod. "I was heading back there just now, as a matter of fact, when Izzy told me you needed someone to come patch you up."

Asher scowled irritably, opening his mouth to protest, but Shenzi shushed him with a wave of her paw. "Actually, I heard her tell some of the boys that you had a slave who needed watching while you went to see Ozlo, but that you looked like your head was cut partly off." The canine woman lifted a paw-like hand to tilt Asher's face away from the wound, tut-tutting him as she did so. "I can see she wasn't far wrong. You need stitching, my boy."

The Swordmaster shrugged her off, frowning stubbornly. "Paws off, Shenzi. I wont take long and then you can slather me up with whatever foul-smelling goo you like. I just want someone to get my new...girl...set up in my tent. It's good you decided to come. She says she's a Healer herself but there's cuts on her back she won't be able to reach herself."

Shenzi nodded thoughtfully, her expression flashing with keen interest at the mention of Verissa's supposed skill. Healers were always of high value anywhere they went and a Kvaren tribe was no exception. The grey-muzzled old Healer was also quite interested in the fact that Asher had, finally, brought himself home a woman.

"Got a little rough with her, did you?"

Asher's eyes blazed at the implication, a flush of anger and...something else...rising in his sickly pale face. "I wouldn't..." It was only because he respected the sharp-tongued Aaenshi that he didn't draw his sword. Once again, the Healer lifted her paws to ward off the surly man's ire.

"Don't look at me like that, Ash, I think better of you than that." But it was clear she was very interested in his reaction.

Asher slung Verissa's bag off his shoulder and handed it sourly to the Aaenshi. Chuckling with some private humour, the short canid moved towards the shape of Asher's tent.

--

The woman who arrived to take Asher's place uttered a curt "Come on, girl," and gestured her into the Swordmaster's tent at the end of a short spear. The space inside was dark, quiet, and cool, smelling of animal hides, smoke, and sawdust. Until the spiky-haired human started a fire in a small iron potbelly stove the only source of light was the flicker of an open candle on the other side of a linen partition. As the light blossomed, smoke escaping up a pipe and through a flap in the roof, Verissa would be able to see the spartan abode of her captor/rescuer. Every single item was stoutly made but plain, and constructed in a way that would make it reasonably portable for when the Tribe moved again. An empty wooden armour stand stood in one corner next to a trunk, and on the other side a folding table rested next to some other boxes and crates that held things like food and cooking implements. A chipped but serviceable mirror hung loosely against the soft side of the tent. The only item present that seemed to hint at any sort of personality in the man who had claimed her was a large orange and black pelt spread out on one wall. Thick ox-hide mats on the ground separated her from the dirt and grass of the prairie as the business-like woman reached for her chained wrists, securing her to the thick post in the middle of the tent. It was sunk deep into the earth below.

Unable to speak Common, the woman moved back outside and stood guard at the tent flap. It was only about five minutes later that someone else approached and there was a brief conversation outside. The big woman departed and the tent flap opened, admitting the thin, rangy frame of the Aaenshi, who wagged her tail as she took in the new slave.

"Tut tut, well don't you look mess. Been a rough evening for you I'm sure." Her narrow muzzle bared a grin as she moved closer, reaching across to un-hitch the human from the post. "I am called Shenzi. The Swordmaster is under the impression that you are a Healer. Is that true?" The Aaenshi's eyes were shrewd, watching Verissa's every move with a calculating intelligence.

The canine woman was dressed in a short-sleeved tunic with a large satchel over her shoulder, as well as Verissa's bag. She had leather breaches protecting her legs, cinched tight with long straps of leather. A curious set of sandal-like shoes protected her paws. She carried no obvious weapon.

[Twhirtley]

Trix saw a woman holding a short spear, saying something to her gruffly, in that foreign language that she was deciding to dub as Screamish. Trix found her choice of hair to be very masculine and not at all proper for a woman. She hoped she wouldn't be forced to cut her hair like that. She loved her messy blonde locks. Standing and following the woman, her pups sticking to her side loyally, it didn't take long to reach what she assumed to be Asher's tent. Her tent. Her... new home. The pups immediately set about to sniffing at their new surroundings. She was glad they were house broken, Asher probably wouldn't like them marking in his tent. It was dark, a little smoky but not terribly so, warm, comfortable. He didn't have much in the way of adornment, but she was okay with that. Much better to have nothing than bones of those you've killed. He needed plants, that much was evident. To make it homier, make the air smell better.

She wasn't sure what the floor was made from, some sort of animal skin. On the wall was a fur from something else. She knew nothing about these things, whatever they came from. In her gazing, the other woman grabbed her restrained wrists and secured her to a chain, attached to a post she thought would be heavier than herself. Her guardian left her there, standing outside. The pups returned to their mother, confident that the space was safe. She sat down on the weird skin floor, and they came up, each laying a head in her lap. She rubbed them each in turn, her bound hands preventing her from rubbing them both simultaneously.

Speaking to them softly, lovingly, "Remus, Remilia, this is our new home. We have to stay here. And we have to protect each other. I'll always protect you both, and I know you'll do the same for me, and each other. We're family, and that's all we have in this strange place. I'm so proud of you both, you did so good today. You'll both be big and strong soon, and no dogs here will be able to challenge you."

She planted a soft kiss atop them both, leaning back against her pole, closing her eyes. Her stomach, thighs, and back were a bit stiff and sore, but she had expected it to be worse. A few slips past and an Aaenshi woman entered. The woman started with an insult, and what seemed to be a condescending remark on her situation. Trix decided to look at her, but not respond. When Trix was unhitched, she looked at the woman quizzically, momentarily thinking this was one of those spy rescues some knights told stories of. But her latest words killed any hope of that. She asked of her profession.

Trix nodded, "I ran an herbalism shop and treated ailments and wounds back hom... back in Ruby Banks. My father taught me medicine and herbalism from when I was a little girl. I grew and gathered my own plants, did all the work myself. My kit is in my bag there, though it's not nearly as stocked as my shop was." She considered leaving it at that, but something had been nagging at her. "The man who took me," she didn't want to say his name, "He's weak from pain and blood loss. I could hear his breaths growing more ragged as we came here. I asked him to stop, so that I could treat him, but he refused. He needs to be treated, soon. Infection can set in quickly. I have salves, and the skills, to treat that."

She made no mention of her own pains and injuries. They weren't severe, though she wished she could get her wounds on her back cleaned at least. They'd stopped bleeding a while ago, her shirt sticking to her back uncomfortably. She wanted to ask more of this woman, but she didn't feel... safe and comfortable with her. So she only spoke when spoken to.

[Drache]

Shenzi listened with her head cocked to the side in a very doglike fashion. Her gaze was piercing as it darted all over the place, as though she not only noticed everything but perceived far more than she should.

This slave volunteered quite a bit, not at all grimly monosyllabic as many slaves were. She showed promise, and Shenzi believed her when she spoke of her occupation. Beaming, fangs showing, the aaenshi wandered over to the table under the mirror, not at all shy about rummaging through Asher's things until she found a copper basin and a kettle, filling it with a waterskin and setting it on the cute little potbelly stove.

"Very good! Anyone who knows the art of healing and finding the power in growing things is very valuable here. If you want to continue healing there will be plenty of work for you." She slung the bag off her shoulder and handed it to Varissa with her paw before folding her legs and sinking cross-legged to the floor. She eyed the pups curiously, making a short "whuff" in their direction. "There will be plenty of work for you anyways, but it can be something you know."

How interesting that Varissa was quick to show her concern for her kidnapper. Was that the genuine concern of a Healer, or a show to earn Shenzi's trust?

"Of course he's weak. The fool will probaby feint before Ozlo stops patting him on the back. The Swordmaster is as stubborn and proud as any young man," the jackal-faced woman said, rolling her eyes. "He's expected to show his face at the Warlord's tent after a raid. Not doing so would be losing face, especially if he's not there to receive congratulations for killing a Sergeant." Shenzi tut-tutted again. "Men, tch. They might give him a pass if he was missing a leg."

"But tell me, if you're so concerned with Asher's wounds, tell me how you would treat the man. You talk while I take a look at your back." Testing more than just Varissa's knowledge, Shenzi waited while her deft paws dug quickly through her own kit, producing dressings and corked ceramic pots that filled the air with the familiar astringent scent of antiseptics. "He was quick to tell me you needed tending." Even if Varissa wasn't looking, there was a wink in the Aaenshi's voice.

"You're a brave girl, I think. You'll do well here, if you want to. I'm sure you'll have many questions when the shock wears off." It was a soft prompting for the human to speak.

[Twhirtley]

Verissa couldn't help but keep her attention on the woman, watching everything, from the way her eyes moved like a curious child's, but with the wisdom to understand what she was seeing, like an elderly man. It was pretty difficult to determine the age of an aaenshi, there were many alive from before the death of magic, and even some of those were deemed young among their kind. She watched her dig through his things, wondering if she had a special relationship with Asher, or if there simply was no privacy among these people. It was nice to be able to talk to someone, after all that she'd been through. Maybe that was why her mouth spilled like a waterfall. Maybe it was just helping her ignore the shock of what had happened to her.

The woman began boiling water, Verissa watching her, finding herself wondering if they'd made it themselves, or stolen it. Probably the latter. There was nothing heroic or impressive of taking from others, her father had taught her that. A proper person made their own way. When her bag was handed to her, Verissa grabbed it gently and set it next to her, away from her pups. Her pups were staring at the woman more curiously after her little whuff rather than threateningly or having been intimidated, as if they understood what she said, but still didn't get it. Listening still, the blonde definitely preferred to stay in her line of work versus... something else.

The name Ozlo was mentioned again, and Verissa was almost positive he was the Warlord now. She paid close attention, trying to learn as many of the customs as she could. Warriors were expected to present themselves to the Warlord after a raid, unless severely injured. Killing a Sergeant was an honor. Then Verissa heard the challenge presented to her. The woman was going to clean her back, so she slowly, wincing at the pain, lifted her shirt up and off. She knew her breast wraps would be in the way, so she undid those too, hoping Asher wouldn't return until she was dressed again.

Then her mind went to work. She tried to think back from what she saw, since she didn't spend any proper time examining him. When he'd dismounted from the horse, he'd winced in pain. She suspected leg wounds, but didn't remember seeing any blood. So probably just deep bruising. The gash on his neck was the most prominent. She'd seen it back at her shop, when the silo flared up, lighting the area. It couldn't have hit the artery, or he'd already be dead. It was definitely the most pressing. He'd had bruising around his face as well, but again, no big deal.

"The bruising on his legs and face can be ignored. They'll heal fine on their own, and I doubt he'd want any painkilling herbs. The slash on his neck though is concerning. He's lost a good deal of blood already..." Already rummaging through her pack, pulling her kit out and opening it. She pulled out several ingredients, setting them aside. "I'd make a tea from purple coneflower leaves, feverfew leaves, elderberries, and honey, to give him to drink. Will reduce pain, prevent fever, help him heal, and help keep him from passing out from blood loss." Rummaging through her kit once more, "And more honey, lavender flowers, marigold petals, dried, powdered, and boiled with the honey."

She pulled out the leaves and petals and her mortar and pestle. She filled the mortar about one-third of the way and pressed the pestle into it and began twisting, holding the mortar firmly in her opposite hand. Twisting and twisting, until she could feel the powder within. She peered in, happy with the results, and dumped the powder into a bowl from her kit. She repeated this process until she felt she had enough for the wound.

"Once the salve is boiled down, and cooled, the wound is ready to be cleaned. I personally prefer to boil salted water, though some like wine. Once the salt water is boiled, with rags dipped waiting in it, I'd scrub the wound clean, of dried and sticky blood, any debris that may have gotten in it, and then any dead flesh. I'd determine how bad the bleeding is, and see if needed to..." she paused, realizing that lately she'd been using her magic to stop bleeding so she could work, "uh, sear it. His wound isn't bad enough for that though. Once cleaned, I'd apply the wound generously to the flesh within the wound. Then I'd prepare to stitch him up, after recleaning the needle and thread in the salt water. Depending how deep it is, I'd use a simple interrupted stitch if shallower, or vertical mattress stitching if deeper. Once stitched up, and put more salve over the stitches, a light layer, and bandage over it. After the first day or two of salve and bandage changes, I'd switch him to just bandages. I'd also not let him have any beer or wine for the first day or two, don't need him bleeding more. When the wound is nearly healed, I'd remove the stitches so as to minimize the scarring."

She had delved so quickly into her explanation that she hadn't even noticed the brave comment. She looked down at the floor before her, seeing that she had everything ready to treat him whenever he came back, that she just needed to boil the tea and salve, and the skin of salt water. She hesitated for a moment, before she had just one question for the woman, "Is... is he going to rape me? I'm still... I've never been with a man."

[Drache]

The sly-eyed Aaenshi waited for Verissa to pull off her top, unhesitatingly lifting her paws to help ease the bloody cloth away from where it had become stuck to the thin slashes. Shenzi knew that they probably stung terribly, and Verissa disrobing had caused some of them to begin bleeding again, but none of them would need stitches.

"These will be gone in far less than a ten-day, especially if I have anything to say about it," Shenzi remarked optimistically, rising to fetch the copper kettle which was steaming by now but not quite whisting yet.

Returning to the open space in the middle of the tent, Shenzi sat down, setting the hot kettle on the thick oxhide mat. Using her own bowls, which were made of some veiny stone and well-worn inside, Shenzi began making a thick paste, using many of the same materials that Verissa mentioned, though she added a few that the young woman would not recognize. The soothing scent of lavendar filled the air as Shenzi mixed dried purple flowers into the bowl, followed by the sweet apple scent of tiny white chamomile blossoms.

Listening to Verissa talk through her process, the fox-like creature nodded, gently cleaning the humans skin with a soft, warm cloth. She applied the thick paste conservatively, letting it sit. It would be pointless to actually bandage them, but the salve would stop the bleeding, keep her from festering, and prevent the cuts from sticking to her shirt.

Now and then she leaned around to see what Verissa was doing, but made no comment until she was done with her own work.

"Plantain is also good for wounds, and it grows everywhere in the Karawac. Save your elderberries, you wont find them much on the grasslands. You already know much more than many of my students."

The Aaenshi seemed satisfied with both Verissas back and her knowledge and began gathering her things. She was facing the young human when Verissa revealed what was at the forefront of her mind, and the Aaenshi sighed, her prominent ears drooping to the sides a little, tsk-tsking.

"You would be wise to not cling tightly to your virtue, girl, because it will not last." Shenzi's expression grew secretive. "I can not speak for Ash, but if he does..." The canid paused thoughtfully. "It is the Kvaren way for warriors to take slaves for their wives, though no one expected Ash to take that path." She was eyeing Verissa again, wondering what circumstances lead to the Swordmaster bringing her here.

"Whatever happens, I would not expect him to be cruel to you if you don't do anything foolish. If he marries you or you have his child you wont be a slave anymore."

Shenzi returned to the table, filling the shallow basin with warm water, though she did not do anything with it. "You will be expected to take care of him, make yourself useful." She grinned, a though she found something endlessly amusing about the idea of Verissa taking care of Ash.

"Talk to him. He may be a warrior and a leader but he's still just a man,"

[Twhirtley]

Verissa nodded, she had heard of plantain, but had never used it personally before. She made sure to mentally note it as a wound aid, and substitute for elderberries. The compliment, or rather, statement of fact about that she knew more than the woman's students. So Shenzi was both a healer and a teacher. She'd have to learn to find it and grow it then. Then she realized that one thing everyone knew about Screamers was that they are nomads. It was why they were so hard to destroy, always elusive and mobile. If they lived in one place, the knights would've wiped them out years ago.

When the woman continued again, Verissa felt her throat tighten. So it was inevitable. He was going to rape her no matter what. She would always be his slave, and eventually his slave-wife, to be raped whenever he pleased under the covenant of marriage. The thought nauseated her. But then the woman said something else. She heard the bit of him not being cruel, and the blonde believed her, after what she'd seen so far from him. A child or marriage meant... freedom? If she were... a citizen, she could do whatever she wished, right?

But both meant giving up her innocence to a man she didn't like, didn't love, to a total stranger. Though maybe, if it were her choice, to do so for her freedom, it might not be so bad, justifiable if still terrible. A one time prostitution. Then she found herself wondering if this was how people ended up as whores, 'Just one time.'

She snapped out of it as the woman continued, taking care of a man in every way but... that way wouldn't be so bad. Though, she wasn't much of a cook. But she knew enough herbs to make most things taste better. Cleaning was easy enough, fixing him up even more so. Though, she didn't know what other responsibilities came with her new 'job'. But making herself useful was easy. Verissa hated getting bored.

But talking to him. What does one talk to her slaver about? 'I think these manacles should be painted blue.' Her mother had always told her to not ask her future husband a lot of questions, for it annoyed men. Her father, on the other hand, had encouraged her to ask him anything about anything.

"I..." her mind back on the virtue keeping now, resigning herself to what was clearly inevitable, "I can do that." Verissa didn't bother to put her breast wrap back on, getting her shirt back on gingerly. She picked up her tea mixture and set it on the table, picking up the salve ingredients as well, keeping them separate. She began looking around his tent for some cooking implements. She spotted a pack near the stove, "What is a Swordmaster exactly? I know he's a warrior, but that title sounds.. important. Is it his... job? Or an honor?"

Opening the pack, she found a few varying size pots, so she grabbed the biggest first, dipping it into the basin to fill it and setting it on the lit stove. This was so she could split it off, one for the tea, one for the salve, and the rest for the bandages. While it heated up, she decided to ask another question, "How many students do you have in healing? I've never seen so many in one place as I had when we arrived. Except maybe at Scream Watch, but most of them are... crude."

Once the water was boiling, she grabbed two bowls. The first she put in the herbs for the tea, and with the second she scooped the water out of the pot carefully. She then poured it slowly over the leaves, and set it aside to steep. She then added a generous helping of honey from her jar, her last jar of it. Grabbing a small spoon, she stirred above the leaves, letting them stay settled on the bottom. She grabbed some socks from her pack, and used them to protect her hands as she lifted the pot off the stove. Grabbing a much smaller pot, she half filled it with the hot water, and set it back on stove, waiting as it quickly returned to a rolling boil, before adding in the ingredients for her salve.

"Maybe I can work there if I'm ever..." she wanted to say free, "Not a slave."

She tossed a few clean rags into the larger pot of water, then, on a whim, added a handful of lavender petals as well. She returned to the smaller pot, stirring with a wooden spoon, until much of the water was boiled off and she had a nice goopy mess, which she deposited into a clean bowl. She set the bandages, needles, and sewing string on the table, and moved a chair next to it all. Everything was ready for his return.

[Drache]

The Aaenshi healer was quiet, watching Verissa struggle with the reality of her knew life. She didn't try to push any more information on the girl than she asked for, and knew there would be plenty of time to teach her how to cope with her change in circumstances over the next few days.

"You can. It may not seem like it, but you have more choice than you know, especially with a man like Asher." She thought about telling Verissa that she was lucky, but the comment would only ring false and hateful.

Shenzi helped poke through Asher's things, taking a strange delight in being so nosy, but also forging the way for the girl to feel comfortable taking to the tasks that would be expected of her. She found a quilted leather-lined mitt in the cooking kit and set it out so that Verissa wouldn't have to use socks next time.

"Both. A Swordmaster is more than just a warrior, he or she is a warrior with exceptional skill. Most tribes only have one, but the Thunderfangs have four because we are such a large tribe. It is an honour to be given the title by the Warlord, but it comes with a burden of responsibility. You are familiar with the ranks of the Ebon Knights, yes? A Swordmaster is responsible for the warriors underneath them, the defense and protection of the tribe. His position comes with benefits, some of which will extend to you."
The canid was careful to keep her tone level, factual. If she herself held any hatred for Ebonfort it was well-concealed. Shenzi watched Verissa work, occasionally helping by passing a pot or stirring when the human had to turn away.

"Right now I have about two dozen students, mostly from this tribe but several from others who have come to learn. There aren't many healers who have been around as long as I have." She grinned at that, her gray muzzle pulling back to reveal the worn teeth of an old carnivore. "We do a lot of things differently than they do in the cities. We don't let the price of business stop us from teaching our own. And we don't frighten those with magic skills into hiding. Sometimes supplies are low and we have to make do. A life on the move is rarely easy. But it can be wonderful if you let it."

Wandering about, Shenzi ducked behind the partition that separated the main area from what must have been where Asher slept, returning with a thick fur blanket that she tossed over a simple low wooden chair. She didn't sit, looking up at the orange wolf hide on the wall with some private interest.

The Healer's ears twitched and she looked back. "What do you mean? Do you think we would just let your skill waste away so you could busy yourself scrubbing pots and digging latrines? You will come work for me. I do not think the Swordmaster will mind." She seemed sure.

The thick leather flap of the tent rippled and the man appeared, as though summoned by the soothing fragrance of lavander in the air. Asher paused in the doorway of his own tent like a coyote hovering outside a circle of torchlight. Glancing between the two women, he scowled briefly as though he'd actually forgotten about his new acquisition.

Acquisitions, he corrected himself, glancing down at the two dark pups in his tent. He stepped inside and let the flap close. He was carrying a bundle under his arm, the outermost layer nothing more than a padded bedroll. The tent had always seemed a bit large when he was in it by himself. He couldn't recall it ever feeling this crowded, with him being the largest occupant.

"Did you fix her up?" he asked the Aaenshi, speaking his own tongue. The cadence and tones were gentle, making Common seem loud and brash, and every other word or so was accompanied by a subtle gesture of his hand or a shift in posture.

"Of course. Nothing serious. She's a brave one. I'd wager that whatever caused those slashes was enough to undo a weaker woman." There was an unspoken query in Shenzi's eyes but Asher's expression hardened and he shook his head.

"Later. What is she making? One of your sticky poultices?" Asher began to unroll the bundle, setting the bedroll on the floor near the pole and revealing an oilcloth full of cooked meat, roasted potatoes, and some pumpkin bread. Moving closer to Verissa, he set the food down on the table next to the basin.

"One of her own, actually. She's more than capable of tending you herself. I have better things to do than stitch you up, Ash. Send her to me in the morning." The Aaenshi switched back to Common for Verissa's benefit.

Asher looked up at Verissa curiously, pleased that the woman's skill had checked out, but a little uncertain about being left alone with her so soon. Before he could say anything, Shenzi ducked out. It was well within Ash's right to ignore Shenzi's request, but the stern gaze didn't give much hint at what he intended to do.

Ash cleared his throat. "I brought some food for you and your dogs. I ate already." In truth he hadn't had much. The light-headedness and queasiness had killed his appetite.

Turning from Verissa towards the mirror, he began to unbuckle his vambraces, stacking them together and setting them aside. He reached next for the blood-stained breastplate, flexing gingerly as he peeled it off and let it fall to the floor with a clang that was only slightly muffled by the leather floor. A moment later he was shrugging out of the padded vest as well, leaving him topless. His physique was as chisled and toned as could be expected, marred only by deep purple bruising over his ribs and along his arm, the singular deep gash already dark with a bloody crust and still oozing down his muscled torso. There was some hair, dark as the locks on his head, across his pecs and down below his naval. Reaching for a spare rag, Ash soaked it in what remained of the hot water and began to clean himself up, starting with his dirty face before focusing on the tender wound. It throbbed angrily, stinging sharply as he dabbed at it.

With a surly grunt, he tossed the rag into the basin where his blood bloomed into the water and rummaged around in his cookware until he found an ale mug and set it on top of a barrel that probably held ale.

[Twhirtley]

There were many things that Shenzi had said that gave Verissa much to think about. Ash held a very prominent position in the tribe. That was when she realized that she didn't even know which tribe this was. Great. That wasn't just something she could ask anyone, it would probably offend them terribly. And if her new... master were so important, she didn't want to embarrass him, if only so she wouldn't be punished for it.

The fact that the woman had so many students was impressive. Verissa couldn't imagine trying to teach so many people anything. Not having a business was such a... foreign concept. Business was... well it was everything in Ebonfort. It was how they sustained their way of life, and yet, here, here was another culture surviving and thriving without it. Then the woman mentioned magic, and Verissa immediately stiffened.

The woman had said that they don't push mages into hiding, and she wanted to trust her. But that was her one secret. Her... security blanket, her ace in the hole. But, part of her wanted to bring it in the open, to be able to practice it freely, to learn more about it without the fear of death. It was definitely something she'd have to consider.

When she said that she was sure that Verissa would work with her and the other healers, Verissa felt a wave of relief. At least she'd have something familiar to help get her through the day.

Then her new master arrived, a wolf in the hen house. Verissa could see the exhaustion in his eyes, behind the scowl. He immediately began talking in his native tongue, leaving Verissa completely in the dark. She saw him reveal some food, and that was when she realized how hungry she herself was. At the festival she'd had a lot of wine, but not much in the way of actual food. She wasn't sure how many stretches had passed since then. Verissa quickly realized that Shenzi was speaking in Common again, and complimenting her. And gave the request for Verissa to come to her in the morning. She'd have to thank her if he allowed it to happen.

And before Verissa could give her name, the healer was gone. And it was just the slave and the master. When he spoke, he said something that made her a bit happier. He'd remembered food for her pups. She nodded, muttering a barely inaudible, "Thank you." She saw the paleness in his face, watching him undress. This wasn't for any intimate desire, but as a medic, to determine the extent of his injuries. He was incredibly fit and strong, that much was very evident. A nasty set of bruises were along his ribs and arm, the wound on his neck still oozing, albeit slowly. She watched him attempting to clean himself, doing a very poor job, eliciting a frown from the woman.

When he reached for the ale mug and set it atop of a barrel, she knew she needed to take charge of her patient, regardless of being his slave. She moved over to the mug, grabbed it, and moved to the table. She filled it with the herbal tea, still steaming, and set it next to the chair she'd set by the table. She took a deep breath, mustering her courage, that she'd used for helping unruly patients. As stern as she could muster, "Sit. No ale. Ale will make your wound worse. Drink the tea, it will help. I will fix you up." She attempted to couple her stern tone with a commanding look.

She then grabbed some of the meat he'd brought, and set it down for her pups to eat while she worked. Moving behind him, she grabbed a rag, and started scrubbing at the uninjured skin first. Once that was all clean, she began scrubbing at the wound, changing out the rags as needed, as the dried and sticky blood was washed away. The wound was wide but not as deep, the flesh and muscle not terribly damaged. She generously applied the salve, coating the inside of the wound, happy that it wasn't bleeding and oozing as much as it could've been. She cleaned her hands, then grabbed her needle and suture string. Pinching the skin lightly on one side of the wound, she inserted the curved needle, pushing it down into the flesh. She then pushed it across the chasm of the wound, and into the flesh of the opposite side and upward through the skin.

She then prepared for a doctor's knot. She took one length of the line, and put it parallel with the other, curving them both about, one longer than the other. She then led them together with the curve, then down beneath the loop and upward through it. She crossed them both back over the loop and down once more, coming back up through again. She then pulled it tight, making sure that it was tied to one side of the wound rather than over it. She cut the excess, and began doing it again, further up. She continued in this fashion, until she was done. She put a thin coat of salve over it, then bandaging it up, wrapping around that side of his neck, across his chest, under his opposite arm pit, and up over his back.

"You need to take it easy to not tear those open. No ale or wine for a couple days, drinking can make the bleeding worse. I'll change your bandages and check it in the morning." This was not a request, but a statement of fact from a medical professional. She then cleaned up everything, putting away her tools and ingredients, cleaning out his bowls and such, putting them away. Once everything was cleaned, then, and only then did she grab her food. She could've warmed it up, but the weariness was wearing on her, and everything was already cleaned. She ate slowly, watching him in silence, waiting for anything, be it a command or refusal of her advice. She wasn't sure what to do next, nor what she could expect. Her pups had already finished eating, and were sleeping at her feet.

[Drache]

It was with a certain amount of relief to the Swordmaster to see Verissa standing at the tiny stove, even if it meant she had rifled through his stuff. In the years since Wren he had become quite particular about his things, few in number as they were. She hadn't collapsed into a weeping lump, or tried to run, or tried to attack him, all of which might have made the day end quite badly for her indeed. But Verissa seemed resilient, and he was glad he had bothered to send Shenzi to see her. But apparently taking a slave meant sacrificing his ale mug. With an incredulous frown, Ash followed Verissa to the table, intent on snatching his mug back. He was going to have to set some boundaries, it seemed...

Oh. "I should have known," he muttered under his breath, watching the steam rise from the mug with a resigned sort of anticipation. If getting sliced was as much an ordeal as getting stitched up he would have been far less likely to do it.

Verissa's bold voice drew Asher's gaze and he turned to face her, one of his dark eyebrows inching up as she tried to boss him around. The tone of Healers and fed-up mothers everywhere. If she weren't his slave he might have felt thoroughly chastened. The corner of his mouth twitched, the hint of a grin amid the long stubble of his roguish beard.

He would have rather walked himself to the Healers tent than force this woman to clean him up after he'd captured her and brought her so far from everything she loved. He did indeed sit down, watching Verissa over the rim of his mug as he sipped on the tea. No amount of honey could hide the bitterness of herbs, and he hoped that she'd put something in to dull the pain.

The silent brooding gaze followed Verissa until she disappeared behind him. He tensed, torso tightening. How many stories had he heard about Kvaren who'd been knifed or poisoned in their sleep by vengeful slaves? Shouldn't he be more cautious about turning his back to her?

It was that moment when he decided that if he was going mistrust Verissa, as though she were a viper in his bedroll, he might as well just sell her now, which he didn't want to do. Asher relaxed into his chair, enjoying the sensation of warm wet cloth wiping the gore and grime from his skin. "Hmmm..." already barely able to keep his eyes open, the warrior let his head roll to the uninjured shoulder.

This was what being a succesful Swordmaster was all about! Pretty girls touching his naked...

"Yah!" Asher's eyes flew open, his big hand gripping the arm of the wooden chair so hard it creaked under the strain. The wound had laid a large section of skin open all the way down to the muscle and as the warm water seeped under and Verissa cleaned the crust of serum and blood away it burned and ached at the same time. "Warn me before you start digging around in my shoulder woman!..."

"I mean..." He switched languages hastily, regaining his composure. "...ouch."

After the initial shock as Verissa was forced to freshen the wound slightly before closing it up, Asher was able to keep still by focusing all his attention on making sure his spine was glued to the back of the chair. It was tedious, agonizing, and his brow glistened with sweat from enduring the pain of the suturing when she was done. It was only sheer stubborness that kept him from being one of those people who had to be literally held down.

Once she was finished, Asher remained in his seat, alternately testing his range of movement in the bandage and sipping the tea Verissa had made for him. While Verissa was busy tidying all the implements she had used for her craft, Asher summoned the energy to get up and move over to the bedroll he had brought. More than just a sleeping bag, it was a padded mat with several layers of linen and supple animal hide. For her own sake he wanted her to be comfortable, and the last thing he needed was to be the Swordmaster who didn't look after his slave.

He unrolled it, positioning it on the other side of the partition from where he would sleep, and close enough to the pole that the chain would reach.

When he was done, he stood over her, reaching over to take a pinch of the pumpkin bread and pop it in his mouth. "Thank you." It was said with a gentle gesture like scooping something precious towards his chest. He repeated it before explaining. "That is how we say 'thank you' in Kvaren. My arm feels better already." It didn't really, but now that it was taken care of he could focus his attention elsewhere.

"It's going to be tough to refuse offers of drink but I think I can manage." He grinned a bit ruefully. "Now when you're done eating, go lay down." It was said a bit sternly, as was his habit, and he was only thinking about the tiredness he saw in her face. He didn't think about how it would sound, especially when he went to tie the flaps of the tent close and then put his feet up on the chair one at a time to start unlacing his boots.

[Twhirtley]

Her stomach tightened slightly as he moved in close, taking some of the bread and eating it. She heard his foreign words, saw the gesture that accompanied it. When he explained it to her, she awkwardly mimicked the arm movements, and slowly repeated the words. She then turned and said them again, with the gesture, followed in Common with, "For the food." She looked past him at the bedroll he'd placed, assuming it was for her. She looked back as he was testing his motion, knowing he was lying. Medics like her knew when stuff would keep hurting and when it wouldn't change. But she didn't point it out.

When he commanded her to go lay down, in a seemingly playful voice, she stiffened. Was this it? Was this when she was expected to... lay with him, as woman and man do? Her throat tightened, and she couldn't find any words, and even if she could, she had no idea what she would to say. Did he expect her to get undressed? To know... how to do it? She knew 'what' had to be done, but knowing and doing were two totally different things. She finished her food slowly, all taste of it like chalk now.

When she watched him close the flap, and start unlacing his boots, she was sure that was what was about to happen. She wished he'd undo her hands at least... if this was going to happen. She walked slowly over to the bedroll that was now her prison, and sat down, her legs tucked beneath her. Her pups got up briefly, Remus joining her as he did at home, with Remilia sitting off the edge, between her and the door. She then slipped into the bedroll, shivering visibly, before laying down, her back to Asher. She was on the verge of tears again, just hoping he'd leave her alone, if only just for tonight. It wouldn't be easier any other night, but she prayed that he'd let her find some semblance of comfort before violating her. She felt Remus scoot up next to her back. She clutched at a part of the bedroll just hoping he'd go away.