Howling of the Pack

{Flashback} {22 Spring, 505 AV}

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While Sylira is by far the most civilized region of Mizahar, countless surprises and encounters await the traveler in its rural wilderness. Called the Wildlands, Syliran's wilderness is comprised of gradual rolling hills in the south that become deep wilderness in the north. Ruins abound throughout the wildlands, and only the well-marked roads are safe.

Howling of the Pack

Postby Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 2:14 am

Somewhere on the outskirts of the Filrian Bog. . .

''Petchin' hells, Khavin, you're lookin' worse for wear.'' Jon laughed as they approached the man named Khavin. He was short, with bad posture and a hunched back, his wrinkled complexion covered in a vast field of brown spots. The old man had deep brown eyes, a bent nose and barely any teeth left in his mouth. He greeted his old friend with a cackle nearly identical to Jon's own, and at first Thalrick had thought them to be father and son. The old slaver was covered in boiled leathers, and a cloak made of crow feathers. He held a lit lantern in one hand, and a rusted key in the other. The lantern flickered in the night breeze, an orange blaze that had been trying to break free of its glass prison. The night air wreaked of the dead, as the winds had blown the stench of the bog toward them, and it followed wherever they went. Thalrick had no idea where they were; the glow of the lantern and Jon's torch only provided so much light. All he could make was the distant rumbling of thunder, and the black clouds that promised rain.

''And you're looking fat and round, as always, old friend.'' Khavin jested, then beckoned them to follow him. The night was dark and chilled, and they had travelled without rest, for Jon had been too bent on acquiring himself another slave or two. They had not travelled through the Filrian Bog famed for taking the lives of those who passed through it. Jon had made them walk its outskirts, which took longer, but had been safer. He sat atop his chestnut-coloured courser, which had grown fatter since he found it again, after the disaster at Hans Snake-Eyes farmhouse. It seemed he fed the horse more than his own slave, though he often reminded, ''The horse escaped cause it had to, not cause it wanted. You're just a bloody coward an' a traitor.'' Thalrick did not see himself as either. He saw himself as a wolf cub trying to escape a foreign animal that held no true ownership over him. He saw himself as free.

A brisk walk through a sloped field brought them to a tavern, and torches had been left on inside. Still, as they drew close, Thalrick could hear nothing but the embers crackling and burning. There was no sounds of merrymaking, no flagons slamming together in toasts, no bard singing. The tavern seemed deserted, aside from the flickering glow. ''Here it is,'' The old man grunted as he jammed the key in the lock, and then used all his strength to pry it open. It creaked loudly, and pushed inward, grinding along the wooden floorboards. Jon pushed Thalrick inside, and gave his old friend a hearty pat upon his back. The courser remained outside, grazing on the field. It had become lazier in Jon's hands.

When they walked inside, Thalrick nearly cried at what he saw. The tavern itself was long-abandoned. Webs clung to the corners of the ceiling, and the poorly-built chandelier that looked as forsaken as the place itself. The tables and chairs were all smashed into small pieces, leaving a splintered battlefield of wood across the floor. The paintings were covered in a dust so thick they were barely visible, and the glass over the windows were all but shards. None of that mattered to Jon however. It was the dozen people sat on the floor that interested him, their wrists and hands all bound by rope. Khavin waved a hand over them like he was introducing his product. ''Take your pick, friend. Any are yours, though all will cost you differently.'' he said, all too happy to be of service. Jon smiled, and moved closer to the group so that his torch put them in a better light.

They're all slaves. . . just like me. . . He looked around at them, each more frail and deadened than the last. There was a fat woman with copper hair and half a nose, a boy maybe two years older than him, with long blonde wavy hair and one ear, a rat-looking fellow with big teeth, who would've been older than Jon, amongst others. They all stared up at the fat slaver as he passed them, they all smelt his foul breath as he inspected them. We are people, not something you can petchin' buy. . . He could see the fear in their eyes as Jon looked at them all individually, grabbing the boys arms and the women's teats. He gave the copper woman a long feel, then ran a dirty hand down her face. She did not move, still as stone.

''Who would ya suggest, Khavin?'' Jon asked, then stood up straight so he was staring over them all, holding his torch up. The old slaver barged past Thalrick and stood beside him, beady brown eyes peering around at the men and women. Even from behind they looked like siblings; or at least Khavin was Jon when he was twice the age. The older slaver thrust a bony finger at the copper-haired woman. ''Bethany is slow to heed orders, but she's a good soul. She'll cook for you, and she does it well,'' he thrust a finger at the rat looking man, ''that one doesn't speak, and he's older than I am, but he'll obey without question. He's weak and brittle though, no good for lifting,'' then to the boy, with the ragged blonde hair, ''Armin, is his name. He's probably a year older than your one, here. He obeys, but sometimes not without an argument. He lost his ear that way, so I doubt he'll make much fuss any more.'' The blonde boy did not raise his eyes from the ground as he was spoken of, none of them did. When Khavin was done describing his slaves, Jon stroked his stubbled fat chin.

''The boy,'' he said, ''how much for the boy?''
Last edited by Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 4:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Howling of the Pack

Postby Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 3:05 am

Khavin looked at Armin for a few moments, squinting his eyes like he was concentrating. Finally, he said, ''Armin, he'll do you well for 150 gold mizas. He's tough for his age, and I'd say he's been disciplined well enough. He shouldn't give any trouble, far as I am aware.'' Before the old slaver had even finished, Jon had reached for the leather purse he'd taken from Hans Snake-Eye after he killed him. 150 gold mizas left the pouch and entered Khavin's hands. The old man licked his lips excitedly. ''You're kind, Jon Lavick, a kind man.'' he said gratefully. Jon patted the brittle man on his hunched back. ''Not kind, Khavin, just in possession of some coin I don't bloody need,'' he laughed, and all of his goose neck jingled at once, ''Armin, boy, get up. Ya mine now, mine all mine.'' he sniggered. The blonde boy tried to raise himself up, but the ropes that fastened his ankles together caused him to come crashing down amongst a pile of destroyed table.

He's more helpless than me. . . Thalrick thought as the boy tried a second time, this time managing to hop over to his new master without falling. Jon unsheathed his newly purchased short sword, and used its steel to saw through the ropes at Armin's ankles. When his legs were free, the blonde boy dropped to one knee. ''My life is yours, master.'' He said, so sternly and so solemnly. He had truly become the slave he was supposed to be, obedient as a dog, with little mind of his own. Jon allowed him to rise, and planted a wet, foul-smelling kiss upon the boys unwashed forehead. ''I like this one already, he'll make a nice bloody hole for me to petch, too.'' He laughed hysterically, and Khavin did too. The sound of it was too much, the sound of men laughing at the pain of others. . . Thalrick wanted to run, but knew he would not get far. And this time he'd be killed for it.

Damn it, Armin, wake up to your senses. We're not dogs, we're humans, real people. Actual people. I'll knock some sense into you if I must, and we can escape this monster together. . .

Jon placed his torch in an empty sconce on the wall, then looked over at Khevin and licked his lips. ''You said the round woman cooks well, do you care to let me taste her cuisine?'' he was hungry, Thalrick knew. They both had not eaten since the morning, when they broke their fast on oats and bread. Khevin looked at the woman, and she nodded her head incessantly. ''Aye, I can cook for ye' master.'' Bethany said in a tone barely above a whisper. Khevin cut her ankle rope with his own knife, then sent her outside to fetch supplies from the wagon he had outside. Jon squeezed her breast as she passed him, but she did not say a word, and merely kept on walking. ''Would've bought her, I reckon, but the wench will just slow us down, all tits and fat.'' The slaver joked as Bethany went out the door. Nobody found Jon more funny than Jon did.

When Bethany returned nurturing two burlap sacks like new born children, Jon licked his lips and slapped her arse. ''What ya be cookin', wench?'' he asked excitedly. The woman did not say anything for a moment, and instead began pouring carrots and onion into a large pot on the floor. ''Broth, m'lord. Onion and garlic and carrot and peas.'' She replied quietly, ignoring Jon as he approached her. Thalrick watched on in disgust as he fondled her. She did not seem to enjoy it, but she did not speak against it; allowing the sweaty fat man to rub her breasts and in between her thighs while she prepared his food. The torches on the wall flickered dimly, but Thalrick could still see from across the room. Armin gulped from beside him; clearly he feared the same would happen to him.

It continued on for several minutes before Khavin interjected, to everyone's surprise. ''That'll be sufficient, Jon. Let her prepare your meal, lest you want to buy her, I can't have my slaves treated like that.'' For a second Thalrick thought his master was going to show his foul-temper, but instead Jon reached into his breeches, pulled out a shiny handful of mizas and tossed them back at the old man's feet. He scooped them up from the ground like he had never seen one in his life.
''As you were,'' he said, more to himself than anyone else. Jon undid his breeches and let them roll down to his ankles, so that his arse was exposed to the rest of the room, and a foul pungent odour worse than the bog wafted through their nostrils. Khavin even covered his. Bethany did not say a word as he uplifted her dress, yanked down her under garments and slid his cock up inside her. She made noises every time he thrust, but whether they meant discomfort or pleasure, Thalrick did not know. It took him ten long minutes to spill his seed inside her, and then he gave her arse a little slap and laced up his breeches again. Bethany uttered, ''I'm glad I could please you, master,'' in the drabbest voice he had ever heard.

When the broth was ready, and Jon thrust a bowl toward him, Thalrick did not even want to eat. His stomach growled like an angry bear; but the prospect of food felt sickening, after watching the woman who made it get raped as she did so. Still, he slurped it down as quickly as he could, hoping it would not come back up at the same speed. Armin was also given a small bowl full of it, but the other slaves were handed none. The blonde boy slurped it slowly at first, then all at once, relishing every taste of it. And it was tasty. When they were all done with their broths, Bethany took the bowls and stacked them up, then shoved the pot and bowls back into the burlap sack. Khavin prodded her back into the group, and she went and sat down amongst them, silent as ever. We're not petchin' cattle, you old shyke. . .

''Where will you go, on the morn?'' Khavin asked Jon, who had taken a seat on one of the few remaining in the abandoned tavern. The fat man looked out the window, thought for a second, and then smirked. Rain began to pour outside, and the sounds of the rumbling thunder grew closer and closer. Jon had to speak loudly to be heard over the brewing weather. ''I head for Sunberth, at last. I had meant to bloody go there last winter, but too many brigands were about, and the snow was too thick. So me and mine here have been goin' bout and collectin' things for the markets, thing that get me some good mizas. Now I've got another, Sunberth finally looks bloody possible.'' Half his voice was drowned out by the rain pelting against the taverns slate roof, but Khavin heard him fine, despite all the white hairs that sprouted from his ears.

''Sunberth, aye? I'll be heading that direction myself, too. Not to the city proper, but close enough. I've got a sale or two to make at an estate not far off. Mayhap we should travel together, safety in numbers and all.''
Last edited by Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 4:47 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Howling of the Pack

Postby Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 4:45 am

Thalrick spent that night sleeping on the cold floor, surrounded by the other slaves. The two slavers took to the second floor of the tavern, which still had some old mattresses stuffed with goose feathers intact. When the slavers snores indicated they were asleep, Thalrick had tried to speak to the others, tried to establish some form of introduction; but none spoke a word. They were all stiff with fear, their mouths sewn shut at the thought of punishment. Armin had went to speak to him, but when he felt where his left ear had once been, he just closed his eyes and went to sleep.

The next morning the clouds were still there, still dark and thick, drizzling rain down every so often. The slaves were awoken by the boots of Khevin and Jon, who had become Mizahar's prime slaver-duo, working together to ensure twice the slavery was maintained. Their ankles were all unbound, their mouths fed with rations of bread and onion, and then they were out of the tavern and back onto the road. It was cold outside for a spring day, and the promise of rain overhead did not make the slaves feel any better. Jon rode his courser at a walk, beside the two garrons that pulled Khevin's wagon full of provisions. The slaves, Thalrick included, walked behind the wagon, wrists still bound in thick rope, though his own in iron shambles. Nobody spoke apart from the slavers, who even seldom spoke, due to the rain making it hard to hear anything.

It started off in the morning as a drizzle, a light fall that did nothing more than wash the caked dirt from all the slaves faces and bodies, making them feel human again. By noon it was pelting down, beads of rain so hard and fast that they stung the skin as they splashed upon it relentlessly. The dirt road they followed that been turned to mud, the fields into quagmires. With every step his foot sunk into the mud, and with every step it became harder to pull it back out again. Some of the slaves lost their own shoes in the mud, others just had not been wearing any to begin with. The wheels of the wagon had stopped rolling, and instead the garrons were dragging it through the mud, using their hind legs to push themselves along. Jon's courser had been having a particularly hard time keeping both itself and its overweight rider from sinking.

''Petch you, horse, move!'' he yelled as it began to sink, slapping at its hind with his whip. The horse whinnied and jumped, freeing them from the mud.

I hope you bloody sink, and choke on the mud. . .

''Not the fairest weather, I'd say.'' Khavin observed from atop his wagon, flicking his reins to keep his garrons moving. They were thick beasts, bred for carrying and carting, one black and the other brown and white. They were just as bulky as the courser Jon rode, but carried their weight better through the mud.

''Fairest? It's the bloody worst, only thing that could make it worse is if it'd been rainin' petchin' blood,'' Jon spat, flicking his own reins to keep his courser at a steady pace, ''sooner we stop an' make camp, the better,'' He looked back behind the wagon, spotting Thalrick pulling himself from the mud, ''Thalrick, Armin, get here!'' He called, and they obeyed. When they reached him, Jon looked angry and flushed, he was not having a very good day. ''I can't see through this damn rain and this damn fog, you two go ahead, and tell us if there's any shelters, or bloody forests, anything!'' He had to yell to be heard over the pouring rain. It was true, a thin veil of fog had arisen before them, making it hard to see any more than twenty feet in front of you. That, and the pelting rain. Armin said what Thalrick thought to be 'yes, master', though he only nodded. Khavin reminded them they would be run down and punished if they tried to escape, and then off they went.

Armin did not say anything to Thalrick as they ran, keeping their steps light and quick so neither of them sunk. It was still hard to tell where they were going, but he knew they were going somewhere all the same. He stuck to the path, occasionally looking about to see if their were any houses or outcrops on either side. There was nothing but quagmire, green and brown. Still, his view did not allow him much. Maybe there were houses and taverns and trees on the other side of it all. He thought of escaping at that moment, of not heeding the old slavers warning. He would run as far as he could, away from everyone and everything. But his wrists were still bound, and the fat oaf was the only one with the key. I cannot leave yet, I must bide my time . . .

They ran for what felt like all season; until Armin raised his bound hands to stop him. The blonde boy was taller, and so his legs carried him faster. Thalrick had a hard time keeping up, but he always managed to keep his new acquaintance in his view. A mixture of unsure and fairly certain overcame the blonde boys face as he peered into the distance. For the first time that day, he spoke aloud. ''See it?'' he asked, thrusting his bound hands off to the south-west. In truth, Thalrick could see nothing. ''No, I see nothing,'' he confessed. Armin sighed, but he did not hear it, only saw his shoulders gently rise and fall. ''I swear there is something that way – a light, it looks like. Maybe a town, or a traveller's inn. We should go see.'' He said bluntly, and then began running again, this time off the path. Thalrick followed him, slipping as he started, but he gained his footing quick enough.

They ran for another ten minutes, off into the field-turned-quagmire. It was wet and the puddles were deep, but it was easier to move there, the length of the grass made the mud less volatile. As he followed Armin, he realised he was right. A faint orange glow soon became evident, through all the pouring rain and fog. Armin stopped again, this time placing his hands on his hips. Clearly his eyesight was better than Thalrick's own, for he already saw what the glow was. ''It's a town, well. . . An inn, and a house or two. The master will be pleased we've found it.'' The master will be pleased . . . Thalrick could not take another sentence from the blonde boys mouth. Wildly he arced a fist, slamming the other slave fair in the cheek. He stumbled back, slipping in the mud. Thalrick loomed over him, and for once, he felt strong, he felt brave.

''What was that for?'' Armin asked confusedly, brandishing the red mark on his cheek. Thalrick had to yell over the rain to be heard, but it made him feel even more fierce.
''The master will be pleased, you said. He is not our master, he is a fat shyke who treats us like animals, same with that Khavin man too. They're monsters, as beastly as a bear but far less ferocious. Stop talking like they own us! You should be trying to escape, not doing what they petchin' ask us too!'' Thalrick splashed water over Armin with his boot in some type of fury.

The blonde boy remained confused in the face, but his tone spoke volumes on his mood. ''Do you think I don't know that, do you think I don't know? I lost my ear trying to defy that old petch, and I'd lose the other if it meant freedom. But they're still our master, they still own us by the laws of this realm. If we try to run now, they'll hunt us, like Khavin said. I've seen him do it, he ran my friend Alya right into the ground with those great big horses of his. We have to go back, and we have to tell them what we found.'' Armin spoke like a person who'd lost it all, and he had. He had nothing left; Alya had been his last friend, and the girl he had once intended to marry. Now she was dead, broken bones strewn across a field. Her death had lost him his heart and fighting spirit, as well as his left ear.

Thalrick did not know want to say. It was clear he wanted to be free just as much as he did, but Armin was wise. He knew there was nothing they could do, not yet. ''I-I am sorry, I did not mean it.'' He said as he helped Armin to his feet. Armin told him it was okay, and they began their journey back to the road, so that they could help the lives of two men who had destroyed theirs.
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Howling of the Pack

Postby Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 11:40 am

By the time they returned to their masters, Thalrick could scarcely remember what his legs felt like. They were sore and aching, and every step he took felt likely to be his last. They had came back faster than they had left, for the very thought of shelter made them feel dry. The rain had ceased, only for a short time, but the sun was still nowhere to be seen, the mud as thick as ever. It clung to their feet with every step, like a babe to its mothers breast. Still, the lack of water pelting down upon them made it easier to see, as their eyes had nothing to contest with but the thin veil of mist-like fog that floated about. For once in his life, Jon looked pleased to see Thalrick.

''You're back, shyke, I expected to have to run ya both down and gut ya like pigs!'' He laughed as they approached, panting. Khavin did not say a word, and merely furrowed his brows in curiosity. ''We found a tavern of some kind, master. That, and a pair of buildings. West along the path and then some south-west of it. Maybe they will be kind and grant us shelter until the clouds pass.'' Armin said, voice laced with obedience and kind. He spoke a lot for a slave, Thalrick would give him that. Every time he tried to speak to Jon he was silenced, whipped, and threatened. Jon seemed to find it all too funny, laughing as loudly as he did when he told his own tasteless jokes.

''Shelter for me an' my friend here, not you lot. I'm not wastin' good coin so you have a bloody roof over ya heads. Me and Khavin will be sleeping in that tavern, and if ya lucky enough they might give you all a lil' spot in the stable! Har!'' He lashed at his reins so hard that his horse nearly reared, and continued on past the two slaves. Khavin tugged at his own, so that the garrons followed. Thalrick looked at Armin as if he were about to say something, but the blonde boy shook his head, urging him to keep quiet. Not even a bloody thank you, not even a shred of gratitude. . . Jon always reminded him that slaves were not thanked for their work; because they should have been grateful enough to be alive.

It took a deal longer to reach the inn the second time around, as the wagon moved at a far slower pace. The rains were back to a constant cold drizzle, one that left all beneath it with goose-prickles. His clothes clung to his skin from the wet, making his nipples hard and his skin shiver. They were uncomfortable for the most part, and Thalrick kept tugging them away from him to let himself breathe. As the day went on, he grew more use to it, and it became less of a bother. The trip through the quagmire was more tiresome than he remembered; as the wagon moved so slow that it often became stuck, and the slaves were commanded to help wrench it loose. None of them ever said anything. They were all dead inside, lifeless shells, void of any mind of their own. They did as they were told and that was all they did.

Before night had set, they reached the small town. The inn keep greeted them when they arrived, but did so warily. He was a short hairy man who seemed very much the cautious type. Every time he looked at Jon and Khavin he seemed afraid, his hand always clutched around a broom, as if the broom were some sword of its own. He was kind to the slaves, and offered them each a bed, but Jon refused them; even if they were offered free of charge. He seemed to thrive on their suffering.

''Will the others require a bed? I have several in a single room, for . . . big, big groups like your own. It would be free of charge, if it'd give them a place to stay.'' The old inn keep named Tom had said. Jon laughed loudly, and patted the man on the shoulder.

''No, no. I saw an empty stable, they'll do bloody well fine in that I reckon. If we start givin' em beds they'll start expectin' em. Don't want to put me through that trouble, do ya?'' He replied, giving the man a gentle, but threatening squeeze on the shoulder. Old Tom had just nodded then, and told them that he'd fetch them all some supper, and that he would return soon. He did return soon, with potatoes and carrots and some cooked pork. He had tried to even it out amongst them all, but Jon and Khavin got the first portions, and took as much as they wanted. And Jon wanted a lot. By the time it came to Thalrick, he was given a single scoop of the carrot and potato, but it was enough. He would not complain if he wanted his tongue. Armin, who sat beside him, had been more fortunate, and been given a spoonful of potatoes and carrots, and the last bit of the pork. Thalrick envied and drooled at every bite he took, but he did not say a word. When they were done, the old innkeep took their bowls to be cleaned, and led them to the stables under the command of Jon.

''Those two men are no good for you all, no good.'' He whispered as he ushered them out across the way, which had become a mud pit similar to a pigsty. When they didn't say anything, he realised they were scared, and so he said, ''I will not report back to them on what you say to me, folk. You're all free to speak your minds. I've met many of these folk before, but these are the first cruel enough to have their. . . people, sleep in my petchin' stable. It's a cruel thing, the lives they lead, the lives they make you all lead. I'll come out at the turn of the day, and feed you all a meal that's more than rations, I swear it.'' By the time he finished, the group was inside the stable, a shoddy thing probably crafted by poorly-trained carpenters. The thatch roof was caving in, the poorly-nailed timber was swinging back and forth on the good nail, leaving large sections of nothingness all over the walls. The rain had poured through those holes, and so some of the hay was soaked, as well as the ground beneath it, all mud and no dirt.

''I'm sorry, all of you. I tried to make them let you sleep in the beds but. . .'' The man's voice trailed off as Armin interrupted.

''It will suffice just fine, thank you, good ser. We appreciate your hospitality, and your understanding. Watch how loud you speak though, I find the old one has ears too good for his age. He might hear what you say, and cut out that kind tongue of yours.'' He did not say it threateningly, only as a warning. The old man said ''midnight'', nodded his head, and rushed off back to the inn, broom still in hand. Thalrick had only just been drifting off to sleep when a foreign aroma wafted through his nostrils and made him sit up. The door to the stables creaked open, revealing the silhouette of Tom, with a huge pot in his hands. ''Stew, good stew,'' he said as he rushed in, closing the door with his foot, ''enough for all of you to eat, and then some.'' He placed the cast-iron pot down on the stable floor, and then stirred it with the wooden serving spoon inside. ''Serve yourselves, there's plenty.'' He whispered, smiling around at the slaves. For the first time ever, the rat-looking man spoke. His voice was all shaky and anxious, and his voice had a thick accent from a place Thalrick did not know.

''T-t-t-hankyou! Thankyou kind sir, you-you are generous!'' he was all stutters, which made his accent harder to understand. The ragged little man scooped himself a taste with the spoon, and revelled as it slid down his throat, all hot and delicious and full of flavour. Bethany went next, complimenting Tom on the variety of flavours. When Thalrick had his turn, he nearly orgasmed at the taste of it. It was hot, and the potato was soft, and the chicken near melted in his mouth. There were other vegetables, but they all fell second to the delicious combination of the chicken and the potato. He had three spoonfuls worth, just as the people before him had, but he did not want to stop there. Sadly, he had too, and passed the spoon along to Armin, who seemed to enjoy it just as much, revelling with every bite he took.

When the stew was spent, they all praised the old innkeep, and he gave them a hearty smile and told them that he best be going. He scooped up the pot and spoon, stood up and turned to the door, and then it creaked open. He nearly dropped the pot, gulping loudly.

''What's this, then?'' Khavin asked, voice ripe with irritation.
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Howling of the Pack

Postby Thalrick on March 3rd, 2015, 1:09 pm

''They were hungry, and so they were fed, is it so wrong?'' Tom said sternly. Khavin took a step inside, and closed the door shut behind him. Thalrick wondered where Jon had been, and hoped he would not find out about this until they were gone in the morning. He did not know how cruel the older slaver was, but predicted Jon would not be forgiving if he were to know. Khavin took a step forward, and slid a knife from his leather belt. It was a knife made for cutting beef and chicken and pork, but Khavin used it to slice off ears and fingers and noses. The innkeep took a step back.

''See this, see it?'' the slaver asked menacingly, brandishing the knife before him, ''I've cut off more flesh than you've made hot stews, innkeep. I know how to cut a nose right off, clean, too. While you spend your waking days cutting up potatoes, I'm out in the great world, cutting off toes and fingers and ears and tongues. I'd stick ya with this and you'd squeal, I wager.'' He took a step forward, and Tom another back. The slaves were between them, but it did not matter. Khavin was quick for an old man, and there was nowhere for his host to run, lest he could squeeze out from a hole in the wall. His round belly would deny him that escape, however.

''What're you getting at, slaver?'' The innkeep asked nervously, lifting up the pot like it was a shield. Khavin cackled, one that reminded Thalrick so much of Jon. He hoped he would not enter through the door, for he was void of any reason and would kill the innkeep immediately. Maybe Khavin would give the generous old man a chance. A cold wind rolled in through the patchy walls, one that suited the mood. Thalrick got goose-prickles.

''I'm merely telling you a tale, now you will return the favour. Tell me, Tom Sternshanks, why have you fed these people without my consent? Surely you understand that they are all my property, and the property of my companion.'' Khavin asked curiously. He spun the knife around in his hand, slicing at the air. Tom gulped, and breathed a heavy breath that made his shoulders rise and fall.

''I fed them on account o' them not getting enough supper. They all look starved, and so I fed them. A man should be nobodies property, I say. This is a life we're talking about here, not a piece of clothing or a bloody cow!'' Tom had anger in his voice, and his skin soon went a dark shade of red. Thalrick hoped he would not do something he would regret. It would be a life on his hands, a man who had died because of them, just common slaves.

Khavin had a giggle at that. ''No, they're not bloody cows. Cows would be more loyal and obedient. You may not believe in slavery, innkeep, but it's real and it's happening. These people are all property of another, whether you say so or not. And for you to feed them without their owners permission, well. . .'' he pointed the knife at the innkeep, ''that's plain treacherous.''

Tom threw the pot aside, breathing so hard that his anger nearly became materialised. ''You come into my home, my inn, and call me treacherous? You are under my roof, and so you follow my damned rules. And a rule of mine is to always keep my guests well fed. They may be treated as animals, forced to sleep in the bloody stable, but they're still my guests. And I will feed them. I've treated you kindly enough, so why not them? They've got stomachs to fill just as you have, and a starving mouth is not a healthy one. How do you expect them to work for you on empty stomachs?'' By the end of it, Thalrick could tell the innkeep was trying to keep things calm, trying to keep his life. He needed to reason with the slaver, make him see the beneficial side in it all. At first, it seemed like it had worked.

''Hmmm, you are right. They do need to be fed. But they also need to know discipline and punishment, and treating them like gods for no reason teaches neither.'' he took another step forward, this one bringing him within arms reach of the group of slaves seated on the ground. The innkeep was backed up against the pillar in the centre of the lane, and so had nowhere to go without looking like he had been fleeing. ''you should have consulted me first, you should have asked. Maybe I would've granted it. . .'' he inhaled, breathing in the aroma of the little stew that remained, ''and it smelt so good too, mayhap me and my companion would've wanted some for ourselves. I thought you wanted your guests well fed? And my own belly grumbles so.'' He took another step forward, his knife clutched down by his hip. The innkeep's fury quickly turned to fear, as he had nothing but his fists to protect him. Khavin mustered a throaty laugh.

Don't hurt him, petch you, don't hurt him. . .

''I am an easy man to offend, innkeep, it's a flaw of mine. You've offended me, now I have nothing left to do but--'' the slaver was cut off as the foreign rat-looking man jumped at his leg, yanking on it so hard that he toppled to the wet hay below. Before he had a chance to react, another bald slave jumped forward, and wrestled the knife from his hand, while the rat man held him down. The foreign man clawed at the slavers shoulder like the beast he was made out to be, biting and clawing deep into the flesh until it began squirting blood. The other man pressed his own weight against Khavin to hold him down, using his bound hands to punch the old man over and over again in the face. The bald slave was broad and heavyset, so every blow made a sickening thud that sounded like bone shattering.

A minute later they both stood up, and what was once a face was now a gruesome mess of blood and damaged bone. His eye had been nearly popped out of the socket, and his cheeks were swollen and bruised. His tunic had been torn at the shoulder, with claw marks that could have came from a mountain lion, scratches so deep they had torn into his muscle and exposed fat. Khavin was still alive, but barely. They all thought him dead, until he coughed up bile and blood all over himself. ''Petchin'. . . Petchin' bastards. . .'' he said, barely able to speak in more than a whisper. Armin suddenly breathed a heavy breath, picked up the cast-iron pot in both hands (for how else could he, they were bound), and stormed over to his former master.

''This is for Alya,'' Armin groaned, and slammed the cast-iron pot against the old man's chest, he coughed and struggled for air, and then Armin hit him a second time, and then a third, each time proclaiming who the hit had been for. The second had been his ear, the third for Bethany's nose, and then the next dozen all blurred in together in the blonde boys rage. When he was done, Khavin's features in both face and body were indistinguishable. He was the product of his own cruelty, all gore and blood and bone. Armin dropped the blood-covered pot beside him, breathing loudly, trying to stop himself from starting again. Then, he turned back to Tom.

''I'm sorry about your pot, and your stable.'' He said politely. Tom shrugged, and managed the best smile he could. It was hard to smile when he'd just watch a man be beaten to a bloody pulp in front of him. ''Better he than us,'' he said, and waddled over to pick up the knife, ''I'll cut you all loose, and you run, you got it? You run until your legs damn well fall out from under you. That fat one's still alive and he won't take kindly to what happened here,'' he began sawing through their ropes until they were all loose, but when it came to Thalrick, he frowned, ''what, what's this boy? You play up or something?'' He did not know what to do, and went to tuck the knife away in his pocket. Armin interjected.

''Let me take that, innkeep. For our protection.'' He held out a hand, and Tom thrust the knife into it, nodding. Some freed slaves had already started heading for the door, but Armin did not. He stood there, all lean and ragged, his long blonde hair clinging to his cheeks and neck, his clothes wet and stained in mud. Bethany put a hand on his shoulder and urged him to leave, but he did not.

''I am not this man's slave, I am under Jon's command. You should hurry and go, you are free now. Have a good life, Bethany Tankler.'' He told her when she tried to yank at him to move along. The copper-haired woman looked so furious she might have slapped him, but instead she just turned and walked away, after the rest of them. Thalrick could hear their foot steps outside, slow at first, but they soon burst into runs. The foreign rat-looking man had bid them farewell before leaving, then shut the door and started his journey back the way they had came. The innkeep looked at Armin like he had just seen a ghost.

''Are you crazy, boy? Why don't you go, why don't you escape? You're free now, you have no bonds. . .'' He said, in a tone almost as frightful as when Khavin had been alive. Armin just shook his head.

''By law, they were freed when the old goat died. I am not free, bonds or no bonds. Jon bought me, and I am his property. I doubt he'll punish us with death. He does not seem like a man that would care about anybody else aside himself, does he Thalrick?'' He asked, and Thalrick shook his head.

''No, he doesn't, he's cruel and selfish, like any other slaver. But. . . but why are you staying? You can go, he won't catch you, I can say you went off in a different direction, lead him away from you all. . .'' He proposed, just as confused as Tom was as to why Armin had not fled. The tall boy shoved a comforting hand on his shoulder and rocked him back and forth gently.

''Well, there is still the matter of your freedom, I am not going anywhere until you can too. It simply wouldn't be fair.'' he smiled then, but it quickly faded into a frown when he looked over at the innkeep. ''I'd wager my good Jon will think you had something to do with this, innkeep. You should hide yourself until the morning, we can tell him you went off somewhere, and that might be enough to lead him away and keep you safe. Thankyou again, for the stew.'' Tom wanted to say it was not a problem but his lips couldn't find the words. He only nodded and smiled, then left the stable to find a hiding place.

''Tonight's sleep may be . . . unpleasant,'' Armin began, looking over at the corpse, ''but the morn, I fear, will be twice as much so.'' He didn't say anything after that, and instead found a spot amongst the hay that wasn't so damp, where he rested his head and soon drifted off to sleep. Thalrick did the same, or at least tried too. The smell of the dead ran too rampant through his nostrils, the thought of impending freedom too rampant through his mind . . .

Perhaps soon, Jon will die just the same, and there will be nobody to command me. . .

He smiled up at the hole-covered ceiling, and for a moment, he thought he had seen the stars form a smile back.
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Thalrick
Plagued by proverb
 
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Howling of the Pack

Postby Amora Jade on April 8th, 2015, 1:44 am

It appeared that you have an intervention posted on your character sheet, once the issues have been resolved and your ledger is up to date let me know and I'll release your grade for you! :)
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Amora Jade
Pronounced Thief
 
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