Thread: A Fine Predicament (Retro/Tryste)

Bloody hell.. He murmured, shooting a significant glance over the rest of the house. There was one man dead just out of sight around a corner, save for one thing...his boot was still twitching, but Van was walking away from him, a hulking giant of a man that had come originally from West Virginia, a coal miner. The war hammer he carried dropped a sanguine trail away from the dead man, the ten pound head one that Michael would have had a difficult time to fight with. Truett emerged from the kitchen just a moment later, and shook his head...the other man had escaped out a window, though Truett was cleaning his dagger of more blood...evidently, the man hadn't escaped unharmed, at least. He'd never questioned where the young black man had learned his skill at fighting with a knife, but he had a feeling if the other reiver had been waiting to ambush him in the kitchen he had gotten a nasty surprise. Michael didn't speak to his two men inside for a moment, turning back toward her to speak. At least one's gotten away, I think. He'll be back if he can... but lone men don't survive long and I can't promise he's alone, either. He sheathed the spatha, twenty nine inches of double edged steel disappearing into the tooled leather sheath, before the wooden handle touched the brass around the opening of the sheath with a click. Come on. Stand up. He offered her a hand, and if she took it would help her up before continuing. Otherwise he'd continue to speak. My name is Michael, of Karak Dorn. Are you harmed? There was so much blood on her, it was hard to tell. Before she could answer, though, the black man coming from the kitchen cursed, talking over her shoulder to Michael. We've got to start expanding our patrols, Michael. We got here in time to not find a cookpot, this time, but I've cleaned out too many. We ought to start really teaching the eaters to fear us. There was more than a little growl in his voice, but in spite of that his voice was still lighter than the voice that spoke up next. We're stretched thin enough, Truett... The big man carrying the war hammer said, though he was cut off before he could finish what he was saying. Not so thin they'd miss a dozen men to dig out the hives, Van! Truett spoke, though he too was cut off before he could continue the argument, this time by the leader of the patrol. Enough! This is something to bring before the assembly, you two. This young lady has been through enough without hearing you two bickering. A glare was sent over her shoulder toward the two men that had been arguing before his eyes turned back toward her. I can offer you safe refuge in Karak Dorn, at the least...though do you know the conditions for that? Karak Dorn was one of three city-states in the area, highly militarized both against bands of raiders, looters, and eaters as well as the other two city states. Though it was not the closest of the three, she ought to have heard of it, though she might have gotten a distorted version of what was required. Some said that the first generation had to submit themselves to the city proper for all of their lives, and their children would be free. Others said that one in ten who submitted themselves to the city were killed so their blood could paint the armor of the warriors of Karak Dorn, as illogical as that was. Yet other versions said that they weren't killed for blood, but rather for their souls, as they were given over to the demons that were depicted on the face plates of some men's armor. The truth was far simpler than that...a person coming in had to submit themselves to service for seven years to earn their keep...be it to the city, or to an individual. At the end of that term, they were free men or women and citizens. They were free to bring items before the assembly, and vote in elections just like any other citizens. Their only duties then was the tithe tax..a tenth of their labor for the year or the equivalent in coin, typically around ten ounces of silver for an unskilled laborer. Up till that point, of course, they could be put out, which was practically a death sentence, or their contract sold to another, and punished as the holder of their contract saw fit. It wasn't called enslavement, but it surely wasn't far from it. He finally grew quiet, watching her with a chagrined expression, realizing he hadn't given her a chance to get a word in edgewise.