Breakfast was a rather more boisterous affair than Ulric had become accustomed to. The Iriel'en took their meals in silence and the Celestin and Legranel shared quiet small talk. The men sharing his fire traded insults, cursed, bitched, and stuffed themselves with all the aplomb of hardened sailors fresh to port. Ulric was always a bit reserved, so eating in silence suited him just fine. He didn't resent the noise though. It was sort of refreshing and, after a few minutes passed, the reforged man found a rare moment of nostalgia for his old life.
Unless it was Taipan or the Iriel'en speaking to him in human out of courtesy he mostly heard and conversed in Elven. The wash of accented human language, like something out of some of the more provincial regions of the Appalachian territories, threw him backwards in time to a conference in New Knoxville. The materials science being presented wasn't so fascinating, his company had already resolved, in a proprietary and still highly confidential fashion, several of the core issues being presented on, but they'd thrown one heller of post conference party. And the locals had worn their dialect proudly. Ulric had picked up a few choicer bits of vocabulary in his short stay to spring on his colleagues later, to their horror.
To his current predicament of playing humble host to these Barbarian theif-takers, things were acceptable shifting towards dire. Ulric had been rationing his supplies, not because he couldn't afford more but to avoid the necessity should he need to bypass a town or cut short his stay in any one place. However, that had been under the presumption that he would be able to navigate the plains according to Taipan’s rough guidance.
Needless to say, that had not happened.
Ulric’s stock of produce or grain flour was virtually nonexistent, but he had a small pouch of emergency reserve flour that he broke into now. Salt was aplenty, as were a few common spices, his paranoia at not having ways to build variety into camp food having paid off. For greens, he’d been foraging around camp daily for two weeks, trying to make up the shortfall when he ran out of the odd “plates” of mixtures of dried cabbage, spinach, and green onion that Legranel Herdriders used to provide produce on their long journeys.
Results were sufficient. The prairie was rich in edible grasses, shoots, and tubers. High climbing stalks promised many varieties of grain, at a later point in the year. So too did a host of flowering bushes and scrub trees. None of those did the wayward Reforged any damned good just now, so it was that eating wild edible salads alongside fresh meat hunted from wild ox, a couple of [Amberfangs] that had tried to kill him, rabbits, if you could call a creature the size of a small deer that also had a huge horn sprouting from the middle of its long eared head a rabbit, and, once, an impala like creature that was blistering fast on the go, had become his main source of sustenance. Meat and fiber heavy diets did marvelous things to your digestive tract, by the by.
So it was that a repeat of the incident at the Moot, assassins finding him due to his having remained stationary too long, was not to be had.
But neither had resupply.
Despite this, the last bit of hoarded flour dusting his forearms made a flaky bread when baked with butter, scraped from a jar abandoned last week as “empty”, worked into it and some salt and whispers of same butter over top of it did not go amiss for the weary guests. Tea brewed strong tided them over and Ulric broached one of the small kegs of mead he'd carried away from the Moot, a parting gift of Prenya and her kin. The recipe for that mead he had in mind for future use and he'd gladly traded away the way to brew it without heating the must and thus deadening many of the richer flavor notes. The man who'd asked for beer accepted mead gratefully. And by gratefully, he'd declared Ulric to be his patron Saint of fellowship, welcome to wed his sister and join his clan. Alcohol, food, and exhaustion lead to only one thing and the troop was mostly unconscious within an hour.
Bemused, Ulric surveyed the sleeping men, so utterly faithful in the safety of Guestright and the obligations of hospitality. To the civilizations of this wild world, it was sacrosanct. Taipan’s great sin had been violating her brother’s given oath of Guestright in Iriel’en lands, a crime great enough that her own mother had thought it warrant of death. Only Bald’rt’s soft spot for his favored daughter had compelled him to stay that judgment, in favor of her being made Ulric’s Shadow, for so long as he lived.
Properly dressed, his artifact sword Xef'tocht sheathed upon his back, he considered his appearance and theirs. There were definitely similarities of feature in these men, compared to the ones he'd seen in Celestin. Squarer jaws, hairlines more like his own, higher cheek bones, and the same rough proportions of shoulders and torso. No doubt about it, Ulric could have passed for a child of these people. Their leader even had almost matching grey eye color to Ulric's own, which he hadn't observed as a trait in any others so far.
Speaking of whom, the leader of the men, who'd offered the names of his tribesmen and his own, Harlan, noticed the inspection, having taken upon himself the first watch while the tired men slept.
A chuckle preceded his observation, "They're a right mess, the entire lot. Not good for much but huntin', fightin', fuckin', and diggin' graves. But they're honest men and I'm grateful to you for toleratin' our intrusion."
Ulric waved that off, "It is the way, hospitality between travelers. A lesson hard learned, not to be too hasty with unexpected guests, sometimes strangers prove themselves future friends."
In spite of yesterday's events, he didn't specifically set out to kill everybody he met. He'd actually rather not have to hurt anybody, all the way to the fortress city that hoarded the wealth of the Vaytn sea. The gracious ways of his family in the Before and those of the perpetual travelers, the Legranel remained appealing to his sensibilities.
Generosity to strangers was one of the lessons he'd had from the Legranel, especially when he considered how he and his compatriot met the Plainsfolk and stress and tiredness had led to hard feelings initially. That conflict had been avoidable, likely. Nomads by nature, the Plains Elves entire culture was designed to streamline interactions between peoples moving from one place to another, meeting as they passed by. In spite of the friction of their initial exposure, he'd come to appreciate Joclyn, to say nothing of his Aunt. The others, the husband and wife pairs had rated similarly. When they weren’t suspicious that you might be another foreign mercenary plotting on their kin, they were the very souls of hospitality.
He'd come to appreciate the easy way they took in guests, even though he'd only been amongst them for a short time. Just as the Iriel'en imparted reverence for the land and respect for its dangers, the Legranel were all about peaceful coexistence between peoples. Or they had been, before Prosper sent a mercenary company to murder their former ruler's entire family. No doubt after abusing those principals of welcome and compassion for those on the road.
Ulric couldn't keep the anger out of his features when the thought occurred to him.
"Somethin' bothers?" Inquired Harlan, noticing his host's faint grimace.
It was a moment before Ulric decided to answer truthfully. He considered a few ways to cover or sidestep but, at some point, he needed to know how things stood with the peoples of Prespang in the coming war, both his personal one and, far more relevant one between Orlethrem and Prespang, who acted as proxy for the Merchant Lords. Knowledge from these natives of this land would, in some ways, be key to shaping his own actions. A rules of engagement sort of thing. If he found that all of the Valin were of the same attitudes that had bred the attack on Irielhos and the planned assault on the Elf Havens, he was going to employ a more scorched earth strategy than if it turned out that it was mostly just the leadership from Prosper pushing their grudge down onto the general populace.
"I traveled from the Legranel not long ago, they treated me as a long-lost friend, after we settled our minor initial disagreements. It was their notions of hospitality that I have tried to adopt, so generous were they with myself at their Moot." Ulric told the barbarian, who reclined on his back using his satchel as a pillow.
A thoughtful expression found its way to the Valin as Ulric spoke.
"You speak the Elf tongue?" He asked, after a moment's delay, putting the pieces together.
"Competently, if not as well as a native born Aes'r." Ulric confirmed, using the somewhat Icelandic flowing language of the Elves.
"I do, thanks to a patient young Elf whom I chanced upon in my travels, as a younger and more foolish man." He reiterated in the shared species language of Humans, the Valin.
"Ah. Then if ye've but recently come afar from the Wanderin' folk, I'm thinkin' I know the direction of your mind. They were riled somethin' fierce were they not?"
"It is so." Ulric confirmed, unconsciously using the Iriel'en hand sign that accompanied a firm statement in the affirmative.
"The Moot. A great gathering of their peoples, the first in living memory for men. They were coming together to choose a new ruling faction on account of the old dynasty was murdered, by what I have been told was mercenaries hired by Prosper. I had intended to travel to Prosper, to return a favor and pay a debt. It seems like there is no good to be found there." Ulric told his guest honestly.
He was certainly going to be paying someone what he owed them. They were not going to enjoy it.
"Mph." grunted Harlan with a scowl directed skywards, "If true, it bodes ill for the M'rakur and fer all the tribes in the outer reaches."
His already rough tone grew harsher as he continued, "Unfamiliar with yer clan as I may be, we’re both knowin' the Longstriders have been a boon to those far betwixt the holds. They kept the predators of the open ranges in check and have even betimes assisted in the guidin' of our herds to good grazin', on our side of the border, of course, which some resent." His tone implying that opinion to be one he did not share.
"Fools." Commented the tribesman. "Like the Wanderin' folk or not, you cannae think they were any worse neighbors than the Lupid Beastkin in Northern holds or the Sauri Beastkin livin' in their villages along the coasts, all of them fair and decent folk, taken all things t’gether. At least they don’t load the bottoms of their grain sacks with stones like those shites from the Yalu tribe. Better off we all were with the long lived not beatin' war drums across the plains."
Interesting. Not exactly a glowing recommendation but there wasn't any of the harshness of attitude Ulric had been expecting. He nodded agreement and kept the conversation moving, curious to learn more about the dispositions of these genetic cousins.
"Is it not so that the Valin and the Aes'r make war with regularity? Our peoples are not fast friends, not especially with Prosper making its grudge the problem for all of Prespang." Ulric said, not exactly playing devil's advocate, but trying to determine how far the shadow of the Merchant Lords fell.
The man waved absently, discounting Ulric's comment, as if it were a small matter.
Harlan considered the youth probably from a remote but prosperous tribe, by his clean accent and the quality of his kit. One of those scions sent abroad to gain broadening of perspective and training in dealing with outside clans. It was unusual for such to be traveling alone, but it was not the way to pry into another's business. Besides, the young tribesman was no babe. Suggesting that he was so weak as to need the aid of minders might move him to adopt that slayer's attitude from when they'd disturbed his camp's peace. Don't grab a tiger's tail unless you plan to ride it.
"All peoples war Young Honor. It is known. A Beastkin farmer kills a Human's [Woolshed Rabbits] for getting into his crops. The Human burns the Beastkin's crop storage. Things come out of hand, a few folk lose tempers and some other folk die, we man the trade caravans a little heavy for a few years, and things settle back down. It's like this all over. But. What isn't done is that ye bring outsiders who ain't got no speak to say in things to come do yer murderin' for ye, that ye kill the women and children an’ hide yer deeds like a coward." Harlan explained.
The hand that waved clenched into a fist, an eloquent summary of thoughts on the matter.
"Coward indeed. Then we are both of a mind that the Legranel deserve their upset, even if we must be wary to avoid having it pointed our way in error?" Ulric enjoined.
The hard man laughed, “So we are. The M’rakur can and have salted ashen piles of our enemies for less than the murder of man an’ his family in their beds, when some jackal couldn’t earn favorable terms by honor or deed. Like those fucks in Prosper.”
That last held venom that gave Ulric profound hope that Prespang was not wholly contemptable.
"Tell me kinsman, would it surprise you to learn that the Bane was used against the Aes'r recently?" Ulric said mildly, his tone hiding the disgust he felt.
Harlan jerked upright, and stared Ulric down.
"This better not be some idea of a jest. You speak true, the Bane was used?" the leader demanded to know, some of his accent falling away to emphasize the seriousness of the question.
With absolute certainty Ulric reported, "It is true. Word was spreading amongst the Legranel like a brushfire. I have acquaintance with some that have deep ties to the Iriel'en. The information is confirmed by those I trust with my life."
Referring to the Iriel'en as acquaintances felt kind of shabby but he couldn't be running around telling everybody he was a guest amongst the hardcore isolationists of Orlethrem. No human had been amongst the boughs of Irielhos in centuries, that information would identify him as surely as a fingerprint, for any that knew of the unusual circumstances. Like Prosper's spies or their hitmen.
"Well fuck me then." Exclaimed the tribesman scrubbing his hand through his beard in agitation.
"Glad indeed am I that I tripped across yer Honor. When I bring the Elders word of this, the M'rakur are headin' North, as fast as we can. Afore those fuckin' Brownies start disappearin' people for the next thirty or so years or that blood-soaked Elf King of theirs takes it into his head to burn Prosper to its hearthstones again. You should do the same cousin, regardless of if yer cargo loses value. Take yer kin with you too, this isn't war, this is the end of an era."
Ulric was slightly confused by this.
Bald'rt's felling by the Bane wasn't common knowledge in these parts yet. Information wasn't spreading like Ulric would have thought. It was fantastic news. It meant that the Artifact used to give the Elves' enemies their ability to gain perfect intelligence hadn’t been able to see his wounding and, or, whatever knowledge it did was being held so closely to the chest that it wasn't generally useful.
That meant, outside of Prosper's direct pay roll, Ulric was invisible, so long as he didn't say anything stupid. Harlan's comment also revealed that the Merchant Lords did not have as tight a hold on the general populace of Prespang as Ulric had feared. They would get no help from the tribes of the Outer Reaches. Perhaps there was a chance to stir the pot? Maybe put pressure on the manpower that could be martialed against the Elves?
"Good advice. I wish it was some I could take. I am Honor bound to go to Prosper, with all haste. All that I call friend and family depend on it." Ulric said, without exaggeration.
Either he killed the animals that had sicced their murderers on him or, eventually, they would get him. Diplomacy wasn't an option, even without the consideration of what letting those fuckers do to the Elves would cost his conscience. Some people didn't deserve to live on his planet.
Harlan turned an understanding gaze on his person. The leader of men knew what it was to shoulder responsibilities for the lives of his kin.
Commiseration saturated his words, "Then Fortune's Feathered Cap do I wish you wear, stranger.”
Harlan appeared to consider something for a few moments, uncertain. Whatever thoughts passed the rough, sunkissed features, he made a decision and set his course with determination.
“Once my men and I have rested, we're back to ridin' for M'rakur lands. Aside from a couple to collect the heads from those men we were hunting. Not to doubt, but the Chief wanted their heads, an’ me, I’m a man who honors his word, an’ I said he’d have them. From there, we're gonna send riders to call the other tribes North to the Endless Pines to ride out whatever hell has been summoned by the fools shitting on ivory toilets. I’m not fer knowing you, or yer people, but I would ask that ye come with us.
He rolled on over Ulric’s clear disinclination for that idea, “First, so we can return the kindness shown here, an’ offer thanks fer pulling a sour tooth from our mouth. Those clanless fuckers had been loose fer too long and hurt too many.”
Harlan paused a moment, letting go the anger at remembered wrongs that sent he and his troop on their hunt, and began again in a formal tone, “Second, it is on your word that I tell the chief it’s time to take to the high hills. Me an’ the lads, we’re known and trusted, but this is a matter fer chiefs and sons of chiefs. Whatever tribe you hail from, Chief Orin, who leads the M’rakur, would want to see the face of the man who gave us warning for what comes and to see his eyes when he says it, to judge them true. Your seals are strange, but a cousin who holds to the ways is welcome upon M’rakur land. I think I’ll join my men in sleep, to be ready to lead us to the hold. It isn’t far, just a couple of days up the coast and into the Jaggeds.”
They fell to silence then, Ulric thinking out the implications of the apparently independently minded tribes out here in the coastal plains and expanses of Western Prespang, and the relatively live and let live attitudes demonstrated by Harlan, as well as the not quite “Come along quietly.” That had been presented to him. The man who had proposed his detour was sacked out now, catching a nap to recover from the ordeal of chasing those criminals. What the fuck were the Jaggeds, anyway?
With a sigh, he wiped his hands on his breaches and said “Guess I’m finding out.” aloud to himself.
Breakfast was a rather more boisterous affair than Ulric had become accustomed to. The Iriel'en took their meals in silence and the Celestin and Legranel shared quiet small talk. The men sharing his fire traded insults, cursed, bitched, and stuffed themselves with all the aplomb of hardened sailors fresh to port. Ulric was always a bit reserved, so eating in silence suited him just fine. He didn't resent the noise though. It was sort of refreshing and, after a few minutes passed, the reforged man found a rare moment of nostalgia for his old life.
Unless it was Taipan or the Iriel'en speaking to him in human out of courtesy he mostly heard and conversed in Elven. The wash of accented human language, like something out of some of the more provincial regions of the Appalachian territories, threw him backwards in time to a conference in New Knoxville. The materials science being presented wasn't so fascinating, his company had already resolved, in a proprietary and still highly confidential fashion, several of the core issues being presented on, but they'd thrown one heller of post conference party. And the locals had worn their dialect proudly. Ulric had picked up a few choicer bits of vocabulary in his short stay to spring on his colleagues later, to their horror.
To his current predicament of playing humble host to these Barbarian theif-takers, things were acceptable shifting towards dire. Ulric had been rationing his supplies, not because he couldn't afford more but to avoid the necessity should he need to bypass a town or cut short his stay in any one place. However, that had been under the presumption that he would be able to navigate the plains according to Taipan’s rough guidance.
Needless to say, that had not happened.
Ulric’s stock of produce or grain flour was virtually nonexistent, but he had a small pouch of emergency reserve flour that he broke into now. Salt was aplenty, as were a few common spices, his paranoia at not having ways to build variety into camp food having paid off. For greens, he’d been foraging around camp daily for two weeks, trying to make up the shortfall when he ran out of the odd “plates” of mixtures of dried cabbage, spinach, and green onion that Legranel Herdriders used to provide produce on their long journeys.
Results were sufficient. The prairie was rich in edible grasses, shoots, and tubers. High climbing stalks promised many varieties of grain, at a later point in the year. So too did a host of flowering bushes and scrub trees. None of those did the wayward Reforged any damned good just now, so it was that eating wild edible salads alongside fresh meat hunted from wild ox, a couple of [Amberfangs] that had tried to kill him, rabbits, if you could call a creature the size of a small deer that also had a huge horn sprouting from the middle of its long eared head a rabbit, and, once, an impala like creature that was blistering fast on the go, had become his main source of sustenance. Meat and fiber heavy diets did marvelous things to your digestive tract, by the by.
So it was that a repeat of the incident at the Moot, assassins finding him due to his having remained stationary too long, was not to be had.
But neither had resupply.
Despite this, the last bit of hoarded flour dusting his forearms made a flaky bread when baked with butter, scraped from a jar abandoned last week as “empty”, worked into it and some salt and whispers of same butter over top of it did not go amiss for the weary guests. Tea brewed strong tided them over and Ulric broached one of the small kegs of mead he'd carried away from the Moot, a parting gift of Prenya and her kin. The recipe for that mead he had in mind for future use and he'd gladly traded away the way to brew it without heating the must and thus deadening many of the richer flavor notes. The man who'd asked for beer accepted mead gratefully. And by gratefully, he'd declared Ulric to be his patron Saint of fellowship, welcome to wed his sister and join his clan. Alcohol, food, and exhaustion lead to only one thing and the troop was mostly unconscious within an hour.
Bemused, Ulric surveyed the sleeping men, so utterly faithful in the safety of Guestright and the obligations of hospitality. To the civilizations of this wild world, it was sacrosanct. Taipan’s great sin had been violating her brother’s given oath of Guestright in Iriel’en lands, a crime great enough that her own mother had thought it warrant of death. Only Bald’rt’s soft spot for his favored daughter had compelled him to stay that judgment, in favor of her being made Ulric’s Shadow, for so long as he lived.
Properly dressed, his artifact sword Xef'tocht sheathed upon his back, he considered his appearance and theirs. There were definitely similarities of feature in these men, compared to the ones he'd seen in Celestin. Squarer jaws, hairlines more like his own, higher cheek bones, and the same rough proportions of shoulders and torso. No doubt about it, Ulric could have passed for a child of these people. Their leader even had almost matching grey eye color to Ulric's own, which he hadn't observed as a trait in any others so far.
Speaking of whom, the leader of the men, who'd offered the names of his tribesmen and his own, Harlan, noticed the inspection, having taken upon himself the first watch while the tired men slept.
A chuckle preceded his observation, "They're a right mess, the entire lot. Not good for much but huntin', fightin', fuckin', and diggin' graves. But they're honest men and I'm grateful to you for toleratin' our intrusion."
Ulric waved that off, "It is the way, hospitality between travelers. A lesson hard learned, not to be too hasty with unexpected guests, sometimes strangers prove themselves future friends."
In spite of yesterday's events, he didn't specifically set out to kill everybody he met. He'd actually rather not have to hurt anybody, all the way to the fortress city that hoarded the wealth of the Vaytn sea. The gracious ways of his family in the Before and those of the perpetual travelers, the Legranel remained appealing to his sensibilities.
Generosity to strangers was one of the lessons he'd had from the Legranel, especially when he considered how he and his compatriot met the Plainsfolk and stress and tiredness had led to hard feelings initially. That conflict had been avoidable, likely. Nomads by nature, the Plains Elves entire culture was designed to streamline interactions between peoples moving from one place to another, meeting as they passed by. In spite of the friction of their initial exposure, he'd come to appreciate Joclyn, to say nothing of his Aunt. The others, the husband and wife pairs had rated similarly. When they weren’t suspicious that you might be another foreign mercenary plotting on their kin, they were the very souls of hospitality.
He'd come to appreciate the easy way they took in guests, even though he'd only been amongst them for a short time. Just as the Iriel'en imparted reverence for the land and respect for its dangers, the Legranel were all about peaceful coexistence between peoples. Or they had been, before Prosper sent a mercenary company to murder their former ruler's entire family. No doubt after abusing those principals of welcome and compassion for those on the road.
Ulric couldn't keep the anger out of his features when the thought occurred to him.
"Somethin' bothers?" Inquired Harlan, noticing his host's faint grimace.
It was a moment before Ulric decided to answer truthfully. He considered a few ways to cover or sidestep but, at some point, he needed to know how things stood with the peoples of Prespang in the coming war, both his personal one and, far more relevant one between Orlethrem and Prespang, who acted as proxy for the Merchant Lords. Knowledge from these natives of this land would, in some ways, be key to shaping his own actions. A rules of engagement sort of thing. If he found that all of the Valin were of the same attitudes that had bred the attack on Irielhos and the planned assault on the Elf Havens, he was going to employ a more scorched earth strategy than if it turned out that it was mostly just the leadership from Prosper pushing their grudge down onto the general populace.
"I traveled from the Legranel not long ago, they treated me as a long-lost friend, after we settled our minor initial disagreements. It was their notions of hospitality that I have tried to adopt, so generous were they with myself at their Moot." Ulric told the barbarian, who reclined on his back using his satchel as a pillow.
A thoughtful expression found its way to the Valin as Ulric spoke.
"You speak the Elf tongue?" He asked, after a moment's delay, putting the pieces together.
"Competently, if not as well as a native born Aes'r." Ulric confirmed, using the somewhat Icelandic flowing language of the Elves.
"I do, thanks to a patient young Elf whom I chanced upon in my travels, as a younger and more foolish man." He reiterated in the shared species language of Humans, the Valin.
"Ah. Then if ye've but recently come afar from the Wanderin' folk, I'm thinkin' I know the direction of your mind. They were riled somethin' fierce were they not?"
"It is so." Ulric confirmed, unconsciously using the Iriel'en hand sign that accompanied a firm statement in the affirmative.
"The Moot. A great gathering of their peoples, the first in living memory for men. They were coming together to choose a new ruling faction on account of the old dynasty was murdered, by what I have been told was mercenaries hired by Prosper. I had intended to travel to Prosper, to return a favor and pay a debt. It seems like there is no good to be found there." Ulric told his guest honestly.
He was certainly going to be paying someone what he owed them. They were not going to enjoy it.
"Mph." grunted Harlan with a scowl directed skywards, "If true, it bodes ill for the M'rakur and fer all the tribes in the outer reaches."
His already rough tone grew harsher as he continued, "Unfamiliar with yer clan as I may be, we’re both knowin' the Longstriders have been a boon to those far betwixt the holds. They kept the predators of the open ranges in check and have even betimes assisted in the guidin' of our herds to good grazin', on our side of the border, of course, which some resent." His tone implying that opinion to be one he did not share.
"Fools." Commented the tribesman. "Like the Wanderin' folk or not, you cannae think they were any worse neighbors than the Lupid Beastkin in Northern holds or the Sauri Beastkin livin' in their villages along the coasts, all of them fair and decent folk, taken all things t’gether. At least they don’t load the bottoms of their grain sacks with stones like those shites from the Yalu tribe. Better off we all were with the long lived not beatin' war drums across the plains."
Interesting. Not exactly a glowing recommendation but there wasn't any of the harshness of attitude Ulric had been expecting. He nodded agreement and kept the conversation moving, curious to learn more about the dispositions of these genetic cousins.
"Is it not so that the Valin and the Aes'r make war with regularity? Our peoples are not fast friends, not especially with Prosper making its grudge the problem for all of Prespang." Ulric said, not exactly playing devil's advocate, but trying to determine how far the shadow of the Merchant Lords fell.
The man waved absently, discounting Ulric's comment, as if it were a small matter.
Harlan considered the youth probably from a remote but prosperous tribe, by his clean accent and the quality of his kit. One of those scions sent abroad to gain broadening of perspective and training in dealing with outside clans. It was unusual for such to be traveling alone, but it was not the way to pry into another's business. Besides, the young tribesman was no babe. Suggesting that he was so weak as to need the aid of minders might move him to adopt that slayer's attitude from when they'd disturbed his camp's peace. Don't grab a tiger's tail unless you plan to ride it.
"All peoples war Young Honor. It is known. A Beastkin farmer kills a Human's [Woolshed Rabbits] for getting into his crops. The Human burns the Beastkin's crop storage. Things come out of hand, a few folk lose tempers and some other folk die, we man the trade caravans a little heavy for a few years, and things settle back down. It's like this all over. But. What isn't done is that ye bring outsiders who ain't got no speak to say in things to come do yer murderin' for ye, that ye kill the women and children an’ hide yer deeds like a coward." Harlan explained.
The hand that waved clenched into a fist, an eloquent summary of thoughts on the matter.
"Coward indeed. Then we are both of a mind that the Legranel deserve their upset, even if we must be wary to avoid having it pointed our way in error?" Ulric enjoined.
The hard man laughed, “So we are. The M’rakur can and have salted ashen piles of our enemies for less than the murder of man an’ his family in their beds, when some jackal couldn’t earn favorable terms by honor or deed. Like those fucks in Prosper.”
That last held venom that gave Ulric profound hope that Prespang was not wholly contemptable.
"Tell me kinsman, would it surprise you to learn that the Bane was used against the Aes'r recently?" Ulric said mildly, his tone hiding the disgust he felt.
Harlan jerked upright, and stared Ulric down.
"This better not be some idea of a jest. You speak true, the Bane was used?" the leader demanded to know, some of his accent falling away to emphasize the seriousness of the question.
With absolute certainty Ulric reported, "It is true. Word was spreading amongst the Legranel like a brushfire. I have acquaintance with some that have deep ties to the Iriel'en. The information is confirmed by those I trust with my life."
Referring to the Iriel'en as acquaintances felt kind of shabby but he couldn't be running around telling everybody he was a guest amongst the hardcore isolationists of Orlethrem. No human had been amongst the boughs of Irielhos in centuries, that information would identify him as surely as a fingerprint, for any that knew of the unusual circumstances. Like Prosper's spies or their hitmen.
"Well fuck me then." Exclaimed the tribesman scrubbing his hand through his beard in agitation.
"Glad indeed am I that I tripped across yer Honor. When I bring the Elders word of this, the M'rakur are headin' North, as fast as we can. Afore those fuckin' Brownies start disappearin' people for the next thirty or so years or that blood-soaked Elf King of theirs takes it into his head to burn Prosper to its hearthstones again. You should do the same cousin, regardless of if yer cargo loses value. Take yer kin with you too, this isn't war, this is the end of an era."
Ulric was slightly confused by this.
Bald'rt's felling by the Bane wasn't common knowledge in these parts yet. Information wasn't spreading like Ulric would have thought. It was fantastic news. It meant that the Artifact used to give the Elves' enemies their ability to gain perfect intelligence hadn’t been able to see his wounding and, or, whatever knowledge it did was being held so closely to the chest that it wasn't generally useful.
That meant, outside of Prosper's direct pay roll, Ulric was invisible, so long as he didn't say anything stupid. Harlan's comment also revealed that the Merchant Lords did not have as tight a hold on the general populace of Prespang as Ulric had feared. They would get no help from the tribes of the Outer Reaches. Perhaps there was a chance to stir the pot? Maybe put pressure on the manpower that could be martialed against the Elves?
"Good advice. I wish it was some I could take. I am Honor bound to go to Prosper, with all haste. All that I call friend and family depend on it." Ulric said, without exaggeration.
Either he killed the animals that had sicced their murderers on him or, eventually, they would get him. Diplomacy wasn't an option, even without the consideration of what letting those fuckers do to the Elves would cost his conscience. Some people didn't deserve to live on his planet.
Harlan turned an understanding gaze on his person. The leader of men knew what it was to shoulder responsibilities for the lives of his kin.
Commiseration saturated his words, "Then Fortune's Feathered Cap do I wish you wear, stranger.”
Harlan appeared to consider something for a few moments, uncertain. Whatever thoughts passed the rough, sunkissed features, he made a decision and set his course with determination.
“Once my men and I have rested, we're back to ridin' for M'rakur lands. Aside from a couple to collect the heads from those men we were hunting. Not to doubt, but the Chief wanted their heads, an’ me, I’m a man who honors his word, an’ I said he’d have them. From there, we're gonna send riders to call the other tribes North to the Endless Pines to ride out whatever hell has been summoned by the fools shitting on ivory toilets. I’m not fer knowing you, or yer people, but I would ask that ye come with us.
He rolled on over Ulric’s clear disinclination for that idea, “First, so we can return the kindness shown here, an’ offer thanks fer pulling a sour tooth from our mouth. Those clanless fuckers had been loose fer too long and hurt too many.”
Harlan paused a moment, letting go the anger at remembered wrongs that sent he and his troop on their hunt, and began again in a formal tone, “Second, it is on your word that I tell the chief it’s time to take to the high hills. Me an’ the lads, we’re known and trusted, but this is a matter fer chiefs and sons of chiefs. Whatever tribe you hail from, Chief Orin, who leads the M’rakur, would want to see the face of the man who gave us warning for what comes and to see his eyes when he says it, to judge them true. Your seals are strange, but a cousin who holds to the ways is welcome upon M’rakur land. I think I’ll join my men in sleep, to be ready to lead us to the hold. It isn’t far, just a couple of days up the coast and into the Jaggeds.”
They fell to silence then, Ulric thinking out the implications of the apparently independently minded tribes out here in the coastal plains and expanses of Western Prespang, and the relatively live and let live attitudes demonstrated by Harlan, as well as the not quite “Come along quietly.” That had been presented to him. The man who had proposed his detour was sacked out now, catching a nap to recover from the ordeal of chasing those criminals. What the fuck were the Jaggeds, anyway?
With a sigh, he wiped his hands on his breaches and said “Guess I’m finding out.” aloud to himself.
