Thread: What is broken can be fixed. (Luana Blodwyn x Irlandais)

If he had been a petty man Rurik might have threatened or worse yet struck the woman for the insults and disrespect she was showing him. Even easier still he could just order one of the men standing around to slit her throat and never write down that she had ever existed on the list to be sent back to the capital. After all, who would question the ability of a scribe to count as high as sixty? Despite that power he held there was no desire in Rurik to see any of those things happen, something that might not quite be the same with the next person that came along. The faster that she learned that the safer she would be, and if he was seen to be going soft on one of the captives he knew that the men would be taking her away next and hed take the blame. The situation benefited both of them, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. With an inwardly directed silent sigh Rurik took a single step closer, within his own reach of the woman but where her own chains would prevent her reaching him. It felt a cowardly thing to do, but it would be what his comrades expected. Youre a pretty young thing, Ill grant you that. But the girls who warm my bed at night do so willingly and are in no short supply. Without warning he brought his right boot up to the chain that held her wrists together and stepped down on it, dragging the woman down to her knees in the churned up mud. Youve guessed that men will have a use for your tongue in the future, it would be a shame for you to lose it before they have that opportunity. To accentuate his point Rurik rattled his belt knife in its sheath, but didnt draw the blade. At head height with the threat there was no way the woman could miss it, but instead of following through he kicked back at the chain so that it pulled the woman away from him to land heavily on her rear, spattering what remained of her torn dress with mud. Without wanting to meet her gaze or hear whatever obscenities would follow Rurik walked away, he had his list and hed provided what little help he could, both to the younger girl and more indirectly to the fiery red head if she had the wits to understand the nature of the situation. There was no reason for him to stay around and feel the guilt that wasnt his to bear. So why was that steel eyed stare burned into his memory? Because you know youre wrong a voice in his head told him youre not only letting them do this but you help them do it faster. That thought chewed at him all night, on the way back to his tent, as he undressed to get into his bed, and even as he tried to sleep. The look of condemnation in those eyes, the dozens of people who had never existed. With an exasperated grunt he sat up and lit his oil lamp, made a promise to himself there and then. Tonight he would be busy, it was the beginning of the end and it would be his hand that wrote the script. Wars were not won by murdering swine herds and turnip farmers, they ended with the sharpest implement imaginable, human wit. There would be many letters to write, all to be sent back to central command in the capital. A great many of them concerning Commander Ballard, his detestable underling captain and the horde of thugs that rode at his back. He would likely never see the redhead again, but part of him knew that without someone who had possessed the backbone to stand up to him that way he might not have started this work until too late. Maybe I will pay for that night if I get the chance, but it wont be whats between her legs that Im after he thought to himself, as he signed the first of a long stream of parchments.