Hail The Conquering "Heroes"

[Razkar]

34th to 39th of Fall, 512AV

"There are a hundred of you. There are seventeen of us. Some of you may be thinkin' that means you can rush us an' run. You would be wrong. My boys'll slaughter anyone I point them at... or just 'cause they're bored. Do not give us an excuse. But more importantly... we are in the Sea of Grass. And we shall not be on the roads. I am your only chance to leave it safely."

They watched the human hold up a piece of paper, smiling thinly as he did.

"This is a safe route through the Sea of Grass, given to me by a Webber. How d'you think we came across your little caravan in the first place, eh?"

Then he shrugged and pocketed the paper, really playing into his role, smile smiling into sadism as he crossed his arms.

"But, perhaps you think you stand a better chance. Against the lions, and glassbeaks, and wolves, and serpents, and raiders, and sink holes, and... well... think I've made my point."

Razkar stood behind Manfred as he made his speech to their new property. Well, Haev's property, technically, but they weren't at Rattling Chains yet. The remaining sellswords are in a loose ring around the mess of chained slaves in the middle of them, weapons still in hand, eyes watchful.

Burned Man and Razkar flanked Manfred. Razkar guessed because they looked the most intimidating. Well, whatever worked...

Manfred turned to Burned Man and said, "The bodies been stripped?"

The sellsword nodded and thumbed over his shoulder to the trio of mercenaries now weighted down with rucksacks.

"Enough food to last until we get home, if we ration it."

"Weapons?"

"Just what we could carry. Swords, axes, bows, the usual."

"Money?"

Burned Man made a face and shrugged. Oddly enough, Razkar understood the cynical gesture. Weapons and food were one thing, mainly because the looting sellsword couldn't really hide them. But could you trust one to turn over every miza once he finished riffling a body? Of course not.

"A handful of gold, some silver, mostly copper." He handed over a bag to Manfred. "Who knows, eh?"

"Indeed..."

Then his gaze went to the Myrian. He was still coated with blood and showed no desire to wash it off. Four fresh scalps were tucked into his loincloth, still dripping and livid redish-pink. Yellow muscles clung to some of them. A kukri was stuffed down it, too, but he overlooked that. The savage had earned it.

He looked up and into his eyes, above a crimson-coated mouth.

"You be trusted to control yourself around 'em on the way home?" Fury erupted briefly in the savage's eyes, like a lightning strike on a far off horizon. He put a hand up. "Had to ask, mate."

"I be fine."

"OK... time to get moving."

All was movement, and Razkar was part of it. The sellswords cajoled and threatened and pushed and prodded the slaves to their feet. Manfred consulted his infallible parchment, looked to the sun for a bearing and directions... then pointed outwards at the endless grass.

"Follow."

Everyone did. The procession of slaves trudged behind him, all bound together with clanking metal. Razkar smirked to himself as he walked to the right of them. Even if they did want to run, how far would they get, all chained together? The mercenaries around them would not care to kill a few just to make a point. Unarmed, with their kin and children to worry about, and then, even if they did escape, trapped on the most hostile grasslands in their world...

They would behave, Razkar thought, as he walked with ax and gladius in hand. And if not, well... he still had a job to do.

The grasslands swallowed them without so much as a belch. Three dozen bodies, already stiffening, were left behind. Weapons gone. Horses milling around confused, or long since bolted. Flies already arriving in droves, word spreading fast about the massive new buffet opening. The mud was turgid with red, blackening, hardening as it coagulated. Limbs were strewn, and some of the bodies had scalps missing.

One had both legs missing. Razkar was not one to waste free meat.

Barely half an hour had passed since Provedan's sellswords fell upon the caravan. Now it was over. The message had been sent.

[Razkar]

"Suma, don't stare!"

Razkar looked up just as the boy's glance fell back to his mother's lap. She was so frightened, but not for herself. She put her hand on the boy's head and stroked it, willing herself not to look. In the torchlight the Myrian looked positively demonic, blood still sticking to him, shadows played a merry dance over his piercings and tattoos. It made it all the more jarring that he was calmly, silently, earnestly sewing.

But what he was sewing...

The four scalps were almost finished, attached to the hem of his cloak. The thread and needle were from his healing kit, and after Burned Man had finished sewing his back up, he had turned his attention to flesh of a different nature. Now his hands moved steady and monotonous, remembering how his mother taught him how, so many years and a continent away.

The slaves, huddled in a tangle of limbs in the center of the clearing, snuck furtive glances at him. Finally finished, he threw out his cloak as he stood and looked critically at his handiwork. Well... not Yurta's best, but certainly good enough for her son.

"Happy now?"

He smiled lopsidedly at Burned Man, who looked down his nose at the reeking cloak. The Myrian shrugged and sat back down at his fire, shank of fresh meat gone beyond brown and now burnt. He used his new kukri to hack himself off a chunk and offered it to his new "friend".

"Gods, no!"

Razkar sighed and began to eat by himself. Honestly, what were they so squeamish about? Meat was meat, after all. Strong, sharp teeth tore into the sizzling flesh and he chewed contentedly. Three days since they had left the ambush site with their bounty. Now they were nearly home. The slaves had been obedient, cowed and intimidated by what they had seen. Manfred had labored his presence of course.

"Do as you're told, or the Myrian will eat you!" That had been his favorite, though he rolled his eyes.

Burned Man moved behind him and Razkar instinctively gripped his kukri, just in case. But the sellsword was merely checking the stitching on his back, and grunted.

"It's healing faster than I thought."

"We heal faster than human."

"Aye, I'm seein'." He sat down opposite him and gnawed at some black bread, washed down with cheap grog. Around them, half the others were sleeping, the other half ringing the slaves. Still three hours until that watch was over, so Razkar thought it best to finish dinner and bed down. "Never seen a Myrian fight before."

Razkar frowned a little. "Never? You been sellsword long time."

"Yeah, but ain't many of youse around, are there? You all stick in the jungle. Petch did you leave for, anyway?"

Razkar grinned again and held up his cloak, nodding to the fresh scalps.

"For these."

[Razkar]

In the late morning, when the mist had gone and the sun was still scaling the sky, they emerged from the forest. Provedan was below ground, quill diligently scrawling over parchment, when Caracatas approached his desk.

He looked up, and knew why before the Drykas even opened his mouth.

"They've returned."

"Good."

He made his winding way up to the surface. Past dim cages that housed his livestock, enclosure after enclosure packed with well-fed but hopeless souls. The sun came gradually, light seeping through the closer he got to the tunnel mouth. By now, when he steps out into the air, he didn't make him blink or wince.

Not that he would easily miss the new arrivals.

A company of slaves approached, clanking manacles audible from two hundred yards away. His sellswords flanked them in two lines, weapons ready. Manfred led the way, of course, and stopped in front of her master. He nodded curtly.

"We did as you ordered."

"My message was sent?"

"Yes. In the way you wanted it."

There was no smile on jovial clap on the shoulders. That was for being who felt joviality, among other emotions. Beside, the bag of gold mizas placed into Manfred's hand was thanks enough to a sellsword.

"The livestock?"

Caracatas emerged from behind Provedan and walked up and down the line of tried, muddy humans and Kelvics. When she got back to her master, she nodded in approval.

"In good health. No bruises or blemishes. Good enough for sale, I think."

"That may be the case, when the Akalak's buyer finds out that I, not he, is now in possession of his order." Haev turned back to Manfred. "The men did well?"

"Ably enough. Seven were lost."

He did not even shrug. Just grunted softly and recalculated the compensation he was due to give out. He made a gesture over his shoulder and his elite guard marched forward, leading the slaves downwards into the mine.

Razkar watched them go. Three days and four nights had not softened him towards them. Even the children that passed him were treated only to a vague, stony gaze. Then they were gone, and only the mercenaries were left. Provedan snapped his fingers and Caracatas went to each man in turn, a clinking bag handed over.

Razkar felt his own bag, looked inside it... and nodded. It would be less than the others, as agreed before. Provedan and he knew the reason he fought was not for gold, but for what he had consumed and sewn onto his cloak the previous night.

A fine arrangement all round.

"All of you are off duty as of now." Provedan said with a raised voice, his words greeted with a muted chorus of satisfaction and anticipation. "I am sure the brothels and taverns of Riverfall have need of you."

That actually raised a laugh. Razkar merely tapped his foot, waiting to be dismissed, then realized he already had been. Mrrko was where he had left him, apparently well-fed. He was halfway over to him when Provedan's voice barked out, "Myrian!"

He stopped and turned to see the slaver approaching. The man looked him up and down in that odd, piercing way that made even him feel uncomfortable. Hairless features remained inscrutable as he stared, until his bottomless eyes came up to Razkar's own.

"Will you return?"

"Only you need me here. You do?"

"As I told you before, Razkar, I do not employ you as a guard. You are a warrior. But I may have... other affairs in need of your skills. Two weeks. Return then, and we shall see."

Razkar nodded, nothing else left to say. Provedan's feud with this unknown Akalak concerned him only whre his services were needed. The why's and wherefores were none of his business, and neither was the day-to-day running of Rattling Chains. He knew what he saw. He saw a cutthroat business that that bald-headed sociopath jealously controlled, and would accept no competition in. He saw what he did to those who went against him.

That was what he saw. He was not stupid. But did he care? Not really.

Mrrko meant more to him at that moment. He stroked the horse's nuzzle and it gave a little snuffle of greeting, turning those soulful brown eyes to the Myrian. Razkar smiled and pressed his forehead to his snout and patted it.

"Good to see you too, brother. Time for us to go."

And they did. Away from Rattling Chains, with fresh scalps and a new blade on the rider's belt. A bag of gold was in there too, almost as an afterthought. Razkar made a note to return when the slaver told him to.

And then he left. Without fanfare or ceremony or bellowed cry. He did not need to, and when the forests swallowed him and his mount again, it was without incident.

[Jackalope]

Razkar

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Sewing	+1	Not Wasting Flesh
		Provedan Will Have More Work

Ledger: +90GM

Witty Remark Here

Not too much in the way of XP. Good job on this whole set of threads. If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can figure it out.