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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 2:48:04 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2019 2:48:04 GMT
Seeing the viking approach had made Ruald stiffen, Arlan finally able to turn his head to see… invaders! Before either could respond the the approaching threat, Ruald found himself being bodily dragged up, Arlan’s upper body falling from his lap. Didn’t stop the Celt from trying to get up, however weak he was. “Let ‘im go! I’ll kill ya!” he managed to growl from the deck, however softly, trying to reach for the knife that was pulled. Ruald had, of course, let out a short cry at being dragged up, unaware of the man’s strength before, but seemed to patiently wait for whatever was in store.
To his surprise, the knife was used on his robe, and before he could question he was made to sit again, but as the viking moved towards Arlan he began to get up again, more interested in defending the Celt than he was himself.
Arlan, meanwhile, was still recovering obviously, as his initial thrashing meant he punched the air. The reason for it became clear a moment later. “I’ll kill both ya bloody bastards!” The arm he punched with happened to be the one that was injured, the invader trying to bind it and was therefore holding onto it. Not one to give up, Arlan tried to use his other arm to get one of the two versions of the invader he was seeing, but unexpectedly another pair of hands grabbed that arm.
“Arlan, be still!” Ruald chided, knowing better than to try to explain the situation when Arlan was delirious. “Easy, boy! Don’t punch the one who’s trying to help!” he added, watching the viking’s work with a wary eye, knowing very well who had likely been the one to cause the wound on the Celt’s temple. But he had spared Arlan’s life, and for that he was willing to gamble.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 3:20:02 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2019 3:20:02 GMT
This monk was full of surprises. After dealing with him as he had, the last thing Fell had expected was to find an unlikely ally in him, as he tried to help hold the fighter down. The warrior had expected some kind of a struggle from the fighter, but not one of such renewed vigour, especially after being injured as he had been. It soon became clear that the man’s volatile behaviour was fuelled by delirium rather than fear of him, and as the man babbled the warrior was once again struck by some of the familiar words. Fell settled, in the end, for pinning the man down with a knee on his chest, his behaviour rough but rewarding as he was finally able to stem the flow of blood. He pulled away as soon as the wound was bound, and was suddenly aware he had an audience, a few of the men nearest to him laughing at the struggle they had just witnessed. “I was about to ask if you needed a hand.” One jeered, to which Fell merely threw his hands up in defeat as he stood. “Too rough and they break in your hands.” He responded, to a chorus of laughter.
“Land!” their attention was suddenly diverted away, and a few men raised their drinking horns with cheers, looking towards the dark smudge on the horizon.
***
“Uncle! Uncle!” the children wasted no time in barreling into Fell, who laughed at the collision, reaching down and sweeping his arms beneath their legs, lifting them both up so that they sat on his arms, holding them against his chest. “What are these foul creatures, come to torment me?” He growled as he walked, nuzzling his nephew in the stomach, the children laughing, before dropping them carefully to their feet again. Released, they ran to accost Balder next, who gave them both a playful ruffle of their hair. “Hello little prince, and you, shield-maiden.” “What are those, Balder?” “Those, Sigrid, are Englishmen.” Balder responded to the young girl, who was pointing at the slaves as Ove pushed them off the ship. Leaning down close to the girl, he uttered low in her ear. “And you better be careful… I heard they eat children!” with one last growl, he reached to grab her but she was quick, ducking from his clutches with an excited screech.
“Sister.” Fell acknowledged with a grin, approaching the woman. She smiled in response, lifting a hand to wipe away some of the blood on the warrior’s face. “Not yours, I trust?” She teased. “The Gods still smile on me, but why, I do not know.”
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 3:41:28 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2019 3:41:28 GMT
As soon as the viking stood, Ruald pulled Arlan back to him again, the Celt fortunately still fighting invisible warriors rather than the monk. While he had been tempted, Ruald hadn’t touched the rope binding his hands together, knowing that such an attempt would be a waste and possibly dangerous. But it had proved at least safer in one respect; Arlan’s attempt at a punch had been disturbed by having to drag the other arm with it, not seeming to understand the situation and was mentally still at the abbey.
He looked over as the men around began to call out, looking out as they did and seeing something on the far horizon. “Be easy,” he repeated to Arlan, who was still muttering curses in his native tongue, if under his breath after the exertion. “May God have mercy upon us.”
---
By the time the boat had docked, Arlan had finally come round in full, still a little bleary eyed but at least not fighting anymore. The most grounding thing that Ruald had said to him had been calling him by the unusual but meaningful name “Brother Slave,” the Celt unhappily realizing that it was in fact too late to fight. So instead he watched, returning any looks cast his way. Mostly there were laughs from his continued defiance, given that half of his struggle with the one viking had been in a language they could understand, but for the sake of the other monks with him, he kept it to that.
When it came time to stand and get out of the boat, Ruald rose and immediately turned to Arlan, helping him up. The reason why became clear, as his limp became an obvious hinderance as he left the boat. A few curious looks were cast at him, seeing the blood on his face and arm but not his leg, but the invaders were now focused on the task of unloading their treasures, and bringing all to a large building that they were also being taken to.
As they were shuffled towards the building, Ruald and Arlan lingered behind the rest, the limp worse for the blood loss and new injuries. “Where do they take us?” Ruald murmured, looking about with genuine curiosity, watching men splattered with blood reuniting with happy children and wives. Well, hopefully wives, as far as the monk was concerned. “Great hall,” Arlan replied softly, Ruald shooting him a surprised look. “You understand them, then?” he asked, trying to keep his voice down as a viking walked past. “Mm. Most of it, anyway,” Arlan replied, unable to help but twisting his wrists within his bonds, the tightness making his whole arms ache.
Silence fell over the new slaves as they were finally brought into the hall, although a few of them made signs of the cross as they entered. Arlan didn’t want to admit how familiar such surroundings were, coming from a clan not too dissimilar it seemed, but he was more focused on the men around them, recognizing certain faces in the crowd. Especially that one… he’d seen it close enough before clocking the man with a candelabra. “Blaigeard…” he breathed, soft enough even Ruald didn’t seem to hear him.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 4:40:35 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2019 4:40:35 GMT
Upon entering the great hall, Turid left Fell’s side to go on ahead and take her seat. At the end of the long hall were two thrones, both covered in animal pelts and clearly belonging to two important people. Turid sat at one, but the other, for now, remained empty. Meanwhile, her children milled about the warriors, as did other free men and women whom had been left behind during the raid, welcoming them back with cheers and slaps on the back. The slaves were greeted with curious stares, after all, this was the first time a raid had returned with such, and they were gawked at for their strangeness. The atmosphere, for the Vikings at least, was warm and welcoming, torches blazing on the walls, and the fire pit in the middle of the hall was in the process of being lit. A sudden hush fell over the people at once, as a rather formidable figure, with elegant clothing embellished with metal-work, and a great, heavy cloak of furs about his shoulders, approached the thrones. As he took his seat next to Turid, the mood of the room had changed to one of seriousness. For now with the Earl present, it was time to divide the treasures.
He motioned Fell and his men forwards, who did so, bringing three chests of treasures with them to set before the Earl, opening the lids to reveal to all as they did so. Crosses, crucifixes as well as bejewelled goblets could be seen peeking from the top, and would be bartered off or else melted and made into coins. Fell, as leader of the raid, was the one to speak. “As you can see, Earl Eirik, the raid upon the West was a success. We bring riches and slaves, if you wish it.” He added, motioning towards the huddle of men behind them. For, it was the Earl’s decision if he felt there were too many slaves. As it happens his eyes only roved over them briefly, before speaking. “You have all done well, Odin blesses each and every one of you.” A few of the warriors seemed to stand taller at that, chests swelling with pride. “I see three chests, and a handful of slaves, and I will divide them as so: Half a chest for the warriors who fought so hard. The rest will go to myself and my wife.”
A moment of stunned silence befell the hall, then, slowly; a murmur of disagreement ran through the crowd like a ripple in a pond, growing gradually louder as it spread. Turid’s face was ashen, whilst Fell’s became like thunder, and he took a moment to calm himself before speaking. “Earl Eirik… it’s customary to offer the main share to the warriors who…” “I know what is customary, Fellbjorn, do not presume to lecture me on the way of customs! I am Earl, am I not?” Fuming, Fell stilled his tongue. Regarding the sea of unhappy faces, the Earl seemed un-phased as he spoke next. “These men were ordered to raid to the East. Instead, they ignored my orders and sailed West. I will not reward such insubordination.” The murmurs of disagreement would not be silenced, but the normally vocal warriors remained still, stunned into silence. “As a gesture of good will, I will also let the warriors choose slaves as they may wish.”
For a moment, no-one spoke.
“I’ll take the red-head.” Fell eventually responded, still seething at the turn of events, and determined that he would at least get one thing of worth out of this. The rest of the slaves were then spoken for, which left Ruald, which Turid claimed. Then, as they were about to move to other business, a voice rang out.
“My lord, I would like to contest Fellbjorn’s claim for that slave.”
Ove’s voice did nothing to improve Fell’s current mood.
“Oh?” Earl Eirik countered, eyes moving to the warrior curiously. It was not often that slaves were fought after, not when they were in such abundance, and it was evident that Ove had not tried to claim any of the others when they were first being spoken for. “Yes, Earl. My last slave unfortunately passed prematurely.” The Earl moved his gaze to regard Fell, reading his expression easily and recognizing the dark look in the warrior’s gaze, something that, considering the circumstances, pleased him. “And do you, Fellbjorn, have any right to a higher claim than Ove?”
“It was I who spared his life.” His words were firm. The Earl sat back, then, realising grimly that he could hardly deny Fell the slave after that, without another wave of discontent. “Well, there is no contest, then. Fellbjorn will take the red-headed slave.”
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 5:29:43 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2019 5:29:43 GMT
As the Vikings spoke around them, the monks kept looking to Arlan for help, unable to understand what was being said. He could only whisper when someone was talking, for fear of being overheard, knowing how many eyes were upon them.
It was this concern, more for the monks than himself, that stayed his tongue when the spoils were mostly taken from the men who had raided the abbey. Arlan’s gaze dropped as he controlled the laugh, a bit of a smirk trying to push through. The monks watched his reaction quizzically, but didn’t speak.
The smirk died as soon as his “name” was called out, his eyes jumping to the man who had spoken. Fellbjorn, as he had been called. The same bastard who had captured him. But he couldn’t say anything, he knew what the deal was. It wasn’t his first time being auctioned off, after all.
As claims were made on the other monks, young Tutilo whispered, “What are they doing?” Arlan, still soured by who was going to be his new master, didn’t respond at first. “Deciding who they want,” he finally replied, Brother Robert looking at him. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, as indignant as he was worried. Arlan glanced at him, shaking his head a little. “Welcome to being property,” he replied grimly, the monks glancing at each other as their hope for rescue by the Lord faded.
By the time Ruald had been claimed by the wife of the earl, Arlan was slowly steeling himself for what he assumed was to come, belonging to Fellbjorn. Had he insulted the Viking so much by disarming him that he had to enslave him as well? But his gaze jumped to the one who called out in protest, strangely enough at the end, not recognizing the voice but instantly recognizing the face. The same face that had been leering at Ruald with a sword in hand. The same face that had enjoyed shoving him off the boat when they had landed. The same face that he had added a black eye to.
Unsurprisingly, Arlan’s eyes went wide as he realized the sudden danger he was in. HIs last slave had “prematurely” died? Horse shit.
Which was exactly what he was in, it seemed, if he was going to live in a place with someone like that with a vendetta against him. Suddenly, Fellbjorn didn’t seem like such a horrible prospect… as Ruald might say, better the devil you know.
Even with this thought in mind, Arlan’s gaze hardened as he watched the gathering breaking up, almost everyone discontented with the earl’s decision, and the Viking strode towards his “red-headed slave.” Fellbjorn might be the safer of the two evils he’d have to deal with, but it didn’t mean he’d make life easy for his new master.
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Saga
Feb 3, 2019 23:52:53 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 3, 2019 23:52:53 GMT
Whilst Fell resisted the urge to voice his anger, it was clear by the thunderous look on both his and the warrior’s faces that there was much yet to say.
The monks visibly shrunk away as Fell approached, all but, interestingly, the same odd pair that had caused such a stir on the ship. Ignoring the monk this time, the warrior grabbed his slave by the shoulder, shoving him in the direction that he wanted him to go. The red-head objected, with a few muttered choice words, but for the moment Fell was too distracted to take any notice. Leaving the Great Hall they walked out into the crisp evening air, the chill of evening slinking between the houses despite the warmth of the day. The night sky had rushed in quickly, all too happy to relieve the day. Although the village was bathed in darkness, it was occasionally relieved by the soft orange glow of a small campfire here, or a torch there, and the people that had not been present to welcome the warriors back lifted their eyes to the red-head curiously. Fell walked with long strides, and was frustrated to find that the slave was falling behind. As he stopped and waited for the man to catch up, he realised that the reason for the man’s slow pace was not necessarily reluctance alone, but perhaps due to the limp in his step, which had not been noticeable in their fight before.
Fell sobered a little upon noticing this, feeling his bristling anger reside a little. He waited till the red-head caught up, and then soon they were at the doorstep of his own home. It was a humble building, no larger nor smaller than the other houses they had passed, and, upon opening the door, Fell motioned for his slave to step inside. The dwelling consisted only of one wide expanse rather than separate rooms, with a pit for a fire in the centre, as well as unlit torches on the walls. There was a table and chairs, but it was clear that this acted as more of a workbench, judging by the wood shavings and the bows, half-carved with intricate markings as they rested on the table-top, as well as various iron tools. In the corner, there was a collection of further tools and weapons hanging from the wall at waist-height, - axes, bows and arrows, as well as an empty sword scabbard. In a small space to the right was a bed, made from furs and skins. Shutting the cold out with the heavy door, Fell went straight to the pit, and after a few dashes of flint on steel; there was now a fire to relieve the gloom and chase away the chill. Retrieving a large bowl and a jug of water, he set them on the table, pouring the water into the bowl. It was ice-cold as he splashed it across his face, his back to the slave as he washed away the blood. “What happened to your leg?” His voice suddenly emerged, as he grabbed a towel, turning to the slave as he dried his face, and removed the last of the blood. “Hm? I don’t recall hitting you there.” His words were clearly rhetorical, assuming that the slave couldn’t understand him anyway, but still he eyed the red-head up and down as he spoke.
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 5:36:10 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 4, 2019 5:36:10 GMT
Arlan’s greatest protest was simply being pulled away from the monks, Ruald’s expression betraying his concerns about their separation, but wisely remaining silent on them. His curse at the Viking was quick, if low, but his eyes hardly left the monk. Ruald was soon pulled aside by his own new owner, going out a different way than Arlan and Fellbjorn.
Now alone, Arlan felt the old, deep anger at being enslaved start to return, one that had mostly faded when he lived at the monastery. There, being a slave wasn’t so oppressive, and even his worst tasks were little better than what the free novices were charged with. But losing another fight, becoming a slave to his enemy… it was hard to take for the second time. He had gotten used to pushing the feeling down, however, and knowing his behavior might influence how the monks were treated, he fell in line.
At first, Arlan’s pride didn’t let him fall behind his new master, not wanting the bear of a man to best him at something else. But he wasn’t able to maintain it for long, as the fight and blood loss had only worsened his stride, teeth gritted to keep himself from wincing at the pace. Seeing the Viking waiting for him to catch up did nothing to improve his already dark mood, bound hands clenching tight even as he kept his gaze lowered. If he made eye contact, he was likely to act upon his gut instinct, bound as he was.
The closest he came to looking at Fellbjorn was in slight confusion before stepping into the building, looking about the dark space as the Viking worked on the fire. Part of him grew nostalgic seeing the bows, curious to see in spite of his circumstances. But his eyes lingered on the number of weapons about, far more versatile than the crude knives and gardening tools he was used to at the monastery. Given how he was bound, Arlan had little hope that he’d ever be allowed near such weapons without a rope. Why he was even in the same home he wasn’t sure. Before, he and the other slaves had been kept in a barn, considered unfit to be near the living quarters of his English masters. Here, he could see the bed, the man’s home… the confusion was clear in his eyes as he looked about.
As the Viking finally spoke, Arlan’s gaze jumped to him, somewhat surprised at being spoken to after the prolonged silence. Part of him was annoyed to find that the blood on the man’s face simply washed off, with no sign of it being his own. Unlike himself, still aching where the sword hilt had connected with his temple. The contrast between victor and slave, like the situation, was hard to take. Even though he had made no move that suggested anything but resentful acceptance, his tone was still defiant as he replied, the confusion at his presence there fading quickly as his gaze hardened.
“A spear,” he responded, not fully in the Viking dialect, but close. “Killed my horse,” he added, with a curled lip that almost tried to taunt that he had been handicapped when facing the Viking, that the greater injury done to him was done by another. The memory still stung, losing his beloved Fechin, but that had been a true battle, not merely running from marauders attacking unarmed men. And at least in the monastery, he hadn’t had to look his captor in the eye again.
What Arlan hadn’t considered, however, was that the Viking wasn’t expecting an answer, and that his understanding of the language was greater than anticipated.
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 12:35:55 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 4, 2019 12:35:55 GMT
Fell paused in the motion of drying his hands, the surprise lighting up his face for a moment. So, the slave spoke his language, or at least, one that was close enough to his own to understand. It was not the same tongue he had heard the monks muttering in, and it instantly piqued his interest as to what else his slave knew. A horse? He must be referring to some past event, from Fell’s understanding the warriors had found the red-head with feet firmly planted on the ground. This was good; it meant it was not an extra wound Fell had to worry about.
Instead of commenting on the slave’s surprising knowledge of their language, it was his turn to curl his lip, this time humourlessly. “So I’ve claimed a lame slave… the Gods are surely smiling on me today.”
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 18:23:18 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 4, 2019 18:23:18 GMT
A flicker of fury lit his eyes at the other’s words; only Ruald could use the word “slave” around him without making him bristle. The smile he offered was one of a very dark humor, taking a morbid pleasure at the other’s so-called misfortune.
“Go ahead and kill me, then,” he growled, not tempting fate so much as ready to accept it. “Or give me over to that other oaf, I’m sure he’d be happy to take on a lame slave…”
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 21:15:07 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 4, 2019 21:15:07 GMT
It would be impossible not to notice the way the other visibly tensed at the word ‘slave’, which was understandable, but still amusing to the warrior. He would not expect such defiance from the monks, but this man was clearly very different from they. At his words, Fell’s brows furrowed for a moment. “Oaf?” He repeated, questioning for a moment who the red-head was referring to. After a moment, the light of understanding settled over his face, and with a chuckle, he began to busy himself with unstrapping his blood-spattered leather chest-plate. “You are speaking about Ove. I assure you, you would not last long as his slave. He means to kill you, not keep you.” The words were spoken conversationally, aware that that was probably what the slave had been implying. “I don’t intend to kill you. Even lame, I believe you can be of some use to me.” He approached the weapons then, laying his armour down on the ground, leaning it against the wall besides them. Before he could speak again, a hammering could be heard on the front door. Glancing at the red-head, Fell leant his back casually against the table as he called out. “Come in.”
The door swung open without further invitation, and Balder stood in the doorway, a plate of salted pork and bread in his beefy hand. In contrast to Fell, he had not yet taken the time to clean up, and yet still his arm ensnared the narrow waist of a young woman. Both shared a grin wide enough to split their faces in half, and it was clear by their stance and expressions what exactly they were about to do before they had chosen to drop in and see Fell. “Brother! You left the party so soon, you forgot to collect your treasure.” Stepping inside, Balder pulled the gold, jewel-encrusted chalice from where he had strapped it to his belt, chucking it to the warrior, who caught it smartly. Meanwhile, the woman had pulled free from Balder, boldly approaching the red-headed slave with wide, curious eyes, mouth hanging open as she unabashedly studied him, from his toes to his face.
Balder approached Fell, “Will you not drink with us? We may have been screwed, but it was a successful raid nonetheless. There is reason to celebrate!” the warrior's voice was loud, perhaps louder than intended, spurred on by his excitement of the evening’s events that were sure to come. He placed the food-laden metal plate on the table, slapping Fell on the arm in his enthusiasm. Before Fell could decline the offer, Balder spoke again. “Oh, I almost forgot, your other trea…” He paused upon turning to the woman, to find that she had by now lifted a hand to run her fingers through the slave’s hair, her face aglow with wonder. Balder’s gaze soured immediately, approaching the two angrily, pulling the girl away roughly by her arm. Instead of appearing shocked or fearful, the girl merely laughed, and exclaimed- “But he’s so pretty, Balder! If only you had beautiful red locks like his.” Balder squared up to the slave then, face merely inches from him, the warning clear in his eyes. But instead of doing anything, he turned back to the girl, offering an open palm to her. With a giggle, she handed over the heavy tome she had been holding, lustful eyes still on the slave. Balder handed it over to Fell, who was surprised to see that the object had indeed been salvaged, as he had requested. “Thank you, brother!” He replied, mood instantly lifting. “But I will not drink with you tonight.” Before Balder could object, Fell placed the book on the table, grabbing the warrior by his shoulders and spinning him round, pushing him towards the door. “Go! Drink, fuck. Enjoy yourself, both of you.” Balder needed no further encouragement. Turning to shoot a grin at Fell, he suddenly swung the woman onto his shoulder with ease, who screeched with excitement, and as he carried her out, he only just remembered to grab the door to slam it on their noisy departure.
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 22:36:48 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 4, 2019 22:36:48 GMT
Arlan’s expression lost its mirth, his anger hiding the near disappointment of an easy way out of this situation. Disappointment fueled by resentment, and for the moment, ungoverned by sense and survival instincts.
Seeing the large man enter the house made the Celt take a step back, as if ready to defend himself in spite of the rope, but the woman’s presence altered the situation, pulling away to approach Arlan. While the two Vikings conversed, she studied him so intently he couldn’t help but do the same in return, his expression softening a little as she played with his hair. It was a mix of returned curiosity for her brazen study, and returned interest, tempered by knowing they weren’t alone. Seeing her dragged back made him tense again, and to his credit held the giant’s gaze steadily, defiant to the end. It didn’t help that a challenge was lit in his eyes at the warning look, one that lingered even as his own eyes were drawn back to the woman, seeing her own interest hadn’t faded.
He was visibly surprised to see the book handed over, however, received with such delight. The lightened mood helped wheel out both giant and maiden, leaving Arlan once more alone with his new master. His eyes were still on the door where he had seen the woman disappear, letting out a soft sigh. It had been a while since he had last seen an attractive woman able to show at least some interest… he’d had a few moments with some of the novices or servants who came with their masters as they visited the monastery, but most had been momentary looks, maybe a few minutes in private. Her touch, while that of a stranger, was already being missed. Particularly as his attention was once more left to ponder this strange barbarian, who was seemingly happy to have a slave kept in an area filled with weapons.
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 22:47:28 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 4, 2019 22:47:28 GMT
“If you want to fuck her, you’ll have to wait until Balder has finished fawning over her.”
His words broke into the silence suddenly, and it was clear then that whilst Arlan’s eyes had been on the woman, Fell’s attentions had been on him. He then did something perhaps unexpected, unsheathing a dagger fluidly from his belt at ease. His movements were decisive, closing the distance between them in just a few long strides, grabbing the slave’s wrists before he chance to pull away. The dagger slipped through the rope easily, freeing the redhead abruptly, his bonds falling to the floor. Sheathing the dagger again, Fell pulled away, seating himself on one of the wooden chairs as he lifted a leg and began to pull his boot off. “Get yourself cleaned up.” He ordered, kicking his boots away.
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Saga
Feb 4, 2019 23:32:26 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 4, 2019 23:32:26 GMT
The remark surprised Arlan, and he in turn thought that he must not understand the Viking’s language as well as he thought, given what was said. Truthfully he wasn’t all that sure about the “fawning,” as he was pretty sure he knew exactly what such a mountain of a man was capable of, but… would he actually be given a chance? Was life going to be that different?
As Fellbjorn approached with the knife, however, Arlan stiffened, unflinching even as his wrists were dragged up. This, he was sure, proved his suspicions about what the other had said. Until the ropes fell from his wrists. Even as he was released, his hands stayed in the air, the utter confusion showing clearly on his face as he turned his hands, looking at the marks the ropes had left. The anger had subsided in the wake of this strange handling, eyes finally moving up to the Viking as he finished speaking, already kicking his boots off.
Naturally, as a warrior Arlan had kept part of his attention on the weapons around him, always seeking alternatives around him. To be left near so many options bound was surprising, as he could free himself on a number of them, but to be freed… he hadn’t been given the freedom of movement until after he was offered to the monastery, as the “lame slave” that was worth little else. Part of him began to view this confidence as an insult, that he was so harmless that it didn’t matter, but it was kept in line by the humbling memory of when Ruald had removed his bonds, tending to the injuries left by the rope. Even just having the free range of motion to his hands and arms…
While his gaze questioned, he silently went to the bowl of water to wash his own face, noticing with annoyance just how much blood had come off of his own temple. He figured there would be some… but he hesitated as he dried his face off, glancing down at the makeshift bandage made from the unmistakable cloth of a monk’s robe. He had seen the rough edge of Ruald’s own robe, and had assumed it was from him. Surely, his standing there was proof enough for the other that he’d live? Why bother with his slave’s injury himself?
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Saga
Feb 5, 2019 0:12:03 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 5, 2019 0:12:03 GMT
If Fell had noticed Arlan’s confusion at his actions, he did not comment on them. Slavery was a part of life in his society, and although slaves had little rights, and could be put down and treated as ill as their captors pleased, many were treated with a certain amount of respect, as long as they fell in line. In Fell’s eyes, it made no sense to treat a slave badly if there has been no wrongdoing, although he was aware that his standards as to what he perceived to be a wrongdoing may be very different to what someone like Ove might perceive as one. But just like any of his property, a slave needed to be tended to, so to him, it was not strange that he should want to patch the redhead up. It would do him no good to have the man bleeding out on him.
As for the slaves thoughts, he was correct. Fell was confident that if the redhead were to grab a weapon, then the warrior could defend himself with ease.
He watched without restraint as the man did as he had ordered, and as he did so, he spoke what was on his mind. “You’re no holy man, and you speak in my tongue, as well as theirs. What are you?”
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Saga
Feb 5, 2019 1:08:30 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 5, 2019 1:08:30 GMT
Arlan finally met eyes with Fellbjorn at his question, growing curious at the man’s remark about the language. Was that so unexpected then? For a moment, he considered not responding, having only spoken before to insult and push back. Now, it wasn’t being volunteered. But there was no point in being defiant about this, not when he knew he was still weak from his injuries.
“A marcach,” he finally began to reply, slowly. “I fought on horseback. I was felled by English, who then sold me to the monks.” Still he didn’t move to show his injury to the Viking, nor did he volunteer his name, despite already knowing the names of several of the Vikings from hearing them speak to one another.
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