Backstory #32 - Frozen Eyes
It cowls on the floor besides the Inn Keeper, hands tethered to the rough iron collar about its neck. A collar that had worn the skin raw.
“It was with the butcher’s offal to be thrown to the Urts.”
A constant barely audible whimper emitted from the body, so emaciated it is hard to determine the sex. The Inn Keeper indicates the left thigh.
On the thigh are four common Kef brandings only a few days old, haphazardly applied and festering with infection. On the right thigh, another three.
“What? … Why?”
“Apprentice used it for practice I guess … disgusting.” There were tears in the Inn Keepers eyes he is gripping his hand in rage.
Kneeling I lifted its chin looking at the head, age undeterminable but young. The body trembled constantly and the whimpering continues. The skin an unnatural pale in pallor; cold and clammy to touch, eyes glassy frozen in their sockets.
Backstory #33 - Warm Broth
Taking up a small bowl of warm broth I place it its lips – there is no response the liquid runs across the mouth and down the chin. I indicate to Diana to open its mouth. There in no resistance as Diana pulls open the jaw pinching the nose to force it to swallow.
I spoon small portions of the broth allowing time for a swallow at first it coughs and splutters then seems to react a little and voluntarily takes the broth when Diana releases her grip.
The Inn Keeper kneels beside me observing this first but slight reaction to her surroundings.
Standing, he leaves the kitchen without a word. I look across at Otta the meanest and coldest man I know yet even he seems moved – there is a trace of compassion in his eyes I’d never seen before.
“Diana, go to Vula. Have her prepare and basin for my room.” I look at Otta, he nods approval.
Placing the now empty broth bowl back on the bench I try to lift it but cannot.
Backstorey #34 - Step by step
Otta comes and assists in raising it to a standing position, with the movement it reaches, regurgitating much of the broth onto the floor.
Diana returns and helps me slowly half carry half walk the girl, for standing it is recognisable as such, step by painful step towards my room.
How could such cruelty be inflicted upon the beast?
Backstory #35 - Thick Nimble Fingers
Diana is back in the Kitchen, Vula helps the girl stand and I strip rags from the body.
Some places the residue of offal sticks the fabric to the skin. Carefully lifting and peeling until the girl stands naked, spasmodically trembling in the basin. Her hands now bound in front lest she attempt to scratch at the infection.
The whimpering is constant monotone.
“Sssssh Huss, little pretty one, do not cry ….” Vula words a popular lullaby as she sponges and smooths the hair. The whimpering seems to take up the tune. Stopping, Vula looks at me inquisitively. The whimper returns to the monotone. I gesture Vula to continue, and again the whimper harmonises.
I am kneeling sponging and dabbing around the infection. Braggs has come with his father’s tools and is removing its iron collar. I look up at his large hands; thick stubby finger work so nimbly at the collar consciously protective of the ulcerated skin beneath.
Backstory #36 - Never trust the Physician
Braggs offers a brilliant smile when gesturing with my eyes I indicate my ankle on which his cherish gift now resides. Squishing my nose at him, I momentarily lay my head against his leg.
Vula pretends not to see.
“Look” Braggs holds the now released collar to the light. The owner's name had been roughly filed away.
Looking at the ulcerations on the girl's neck, he states “Done while still on the neck.”
The girl, an old cloak draped across her shoulders, kneels on a little kennel straw bunched into the corner, hands tethered behind her to the slave ring.
I lay on the sleeping fur thinking of the streets. She-urts never trusted the physician’s medicine, never trusted the physician if truth be known. Cuts, burns and ulceration were common problems.
I remember a flat leaf plant, not a native, possibly from some seeds blown from the deck of a visiting merchant’s craft. It grows under the foot bridge on the sullage lagoon near the docks. When smeared with bosk fat and bound against the flesh would lessen the pain and draw at the infection.
Backstory #37 - The Kaissa players
The Kitchen, as expected, is empty. Quickly moving to the grease trap near the waste bins I scoop a small amount of the greasy slurry smearing it in into my hair and over my skin. Cleanliness may do well for civilised society but on the street it brands one as sure as a Kef on a Kajira’s thigh. Taking a short bladed pearing knife I conceal it the folds of the girl's filthy rags which I now wear and tighten the soiled thigh wrap retrieved from the laundry.
A noise; a rustle; I startle; tense; relax – probably a furry urt no doubt disturbed by my presence – tomorrow I will have it caught. A deep breath and I’m into the public area. A gentle snoring emits from an alcove above. The dance pit is empty its sand disturbed by the nights entertainment, the musicians platform long since vacated.
In the corner a single tharlarion oil lamp flickers across two Kaissa players huddle over their board.
Backstory #38 - The Coolness
A paga girl kneels nadu fashion beside one of the players, she attempts to rest her head against his knee and roughly he brushes her aside.
A drunk slumbers head down on another table his empty tankard up ended against a platter of broken bread and crumpled cheeses. The air is permeated with odours of burning tharlarion oil and stale ale.
Slap!. “Oh! … Ohhh Master!?” It is Tustu’s voice from within another alcove. Her pleasures would have been bought for more than the mere cost of paga.
“Grrrr” squeal “Oh Master! Get off!” laughter “Huh! Ohhh … Talk of the second coming!”
I smile, Tustu will be well used tonight and pleased with that use I vouch.
Carefully I slink out through the same door I arrived so ignobly those many months earlier, again to hear the silence of the city’s night and feel its coolness against my face …….
Backstory #39 - Symbol of Foreboding
Squeal, rustle, disturbance within the rubbish trough at the corner of the yard, well I remember that trough.
From the overhanging tree an alarmed nocturnal fruit eaters falls chattering from the branch to which it hung, with the spread of its proportionally giant wings and slow languid strokes of the same, gains flight to head away over the city an ominous symbol of foreboding shaped against the Prison Moon. The silence returns.
Backstory #40 - From the shadows
Warily at first I move out into the courtyard and across to the grilled metal gates. With great care, lest some slight noise should reveal my presents I unlatch the gate and ease out into the street, careful to leave it unlatched I pull the gate closed. Hurrying across the street to seek the shadows beyond for I am now in the domain of the guardsmen.
Anxiety surges in my belly, my breasts heave as I fight against palpitations; increasing heart rate.
Standing within the shadows now, I seek to calm myself; to steady and soon regain my breath.
Leaving the shadows I promptly step back into them - for something now moves within the courtyard. In the light of the three moons stands the shape; the silhouette figure of Otta.
He crosses to the gate and monetarily stops then, stepping out into the street looks each way then, to my horror, he seems to look directly at me. I freeze moments pass before he returns to the yard and with a loud click the latch snaps home. ….
Backstory #41 - water that broils
Crouching at the foot of the bridge I survey to opposite bank. Here none but the most foolish of guardsmen would venture, unless in a force of numbers, this the domain of the street demisons.
The danger is liquid almost palatably as the stench from the giant urt infested lagoon before me and equally as fatal a threat.
About 100 yards along from the bridge a small fire burns. The dark smoke wafts across the water offering a familiar odour which only the rubbish, the unwanted offal of society, can engender. I make out four humps around this fire, no doubt sister she-urts. Sister or none the she-urt is a territorial being. Territories are hard won, traded for by scavenged goods, bodily pleasures, blood and often life itself.
Beneath the bridge on the other shore I knew the plants grew. The decision is now. The waters swirl near the bank where I crouch, shapes rise sleek and reflective to disappears again beneath the water. The giant urts sense my presence; the urts sense my tension they hunger and squirm in anticipation …
I move onto the bridge keeping low and moving fast. Once over I stop and survey – no movement from the fire but still the urts squirm …
Backstory #42 - Survival
Laying, belly down on the walled embankment, warily watching for the urts, I cut each leaf by its stork at water level stacking it neatly on the path beside me.
“AHHeeeee” the agony, I coil against my pain, my ribs are on fire. Instinctively I unravel snake like to bite hard into the calf of the assailant. Mine is the automatic reaction of a street fighter; a street survivor.
“Ahh Yaa!” the agonising scream is accompanied by the surprised yelp of others.
My mouth fills with the assailant’s blood she kick me loose instantly I am up crouching knife in right hand the other ready to fend of any attack.
The she-urt leader faces me in similar pose but favouring her bleeding right leg. Hissing commands at her sister she places the three other girls as sure as an experienced Kaissa player’s strategically encircle the opposing Ubar’s Homestone
We circle each other. In each hand she grasps a sorp shell.
The shell of the Sorp mollusc is a common weapon amongst the she-urts of the port, its smooth oval edge is sharper than any warrior’s sword and, in the right hands, almost as deadly.
I grasp at the pain in my ribs a smudge of blood dribbles to my chin. She smirks sensing my weakness - the bitch is enjoying this!
I feign with my right - laughing she blocks the thrust out wide, her backhand brutally percusses jarring my head backwards. I clumsily roll left spluttering blood.
As I rise, too slow, rolling again I just avoid her kick. She pulls back.
Whimpering I rise my eyes dart seeking escape but everywhere I look there seems to be a laughing bitch revelling in the torment of their frail captive - they are playing with me.
We circle; my steps are faltering eye darting about. She dives at me only to pull out at the last moment laughing as I cringe indecisive in my movements.
Screaming I run at her again my right thrust is brushed aside and as I roll left I feel rhe slash across my right arm “Ahhhay!”
My roll ends against the feet of one of the girls. I breathing through gritted teeth against the pain of being lifted by the hair until I stand a few inches from her smirking face. A face which changed dramatically as my knife slide across her belly slicing through he rag to end, its point under her chin raising her to toe hight. A left to the solar plexus. I turn again to face my assailant ignoring the sounds as girl collapses gasping for breath behind me.
The smirks are a little hesitant now and my assailant looks decidedly more serious circling me again with more care. I spit the remainder of her blood from my mouth, threatening her with my right hand. Twice she sliced and twice I easily fended the blow countering with a tumble to the left.
I feel the edge of the embankment wall beneath my feet the sound of water movements behind. Cautiously I snap a glance over my shoulder – she comes at me screaming I dodge her right then her left thrust – promptly ending my ruse I throw the knife to my left hand slashing to her arm - spin to the right with jab kick on her weak leg sending her screaming to the water.
Shreeking in terror, two of my tormentors rush to her aid ignoring me – third now bare breast held her ground making to block my escape, hesitates and lets me pass.
Scooping up the leaves, and I hasten onto the bridge - looking back I see the three girl kneeling, anguishing over the convulsing body of their leader.
Backstory 43 – The Paga Wagon
In this alley beside the Perfumery I can see anyone heading for the Tavern’s courtyard. I am cold and shivering uncontrollably. The crushed leaves have eventual stopped the shoulder bleeding and nulled a little of the pain but the binding cloth, roughly torn from my waist wrap, is soak in coagulated blood. Knowing the courtyard gate is locked I wait for the early morning paga delivery. My intent is to enter the courtyard with the cart.
The squeak of wheels on cobble stone and the snorts of the burdened bosk alter me to the approaching wagon with it Wagon Master and his male slave.
Moving from shadow to shadow, ever alter to the guardsmen, I retrace my steps until I reach the same place from where I had earlier watched Otta lock the gate.
It is with almost audible relief to see Braggs come across the courtyard and swings open the gates for the approaching wagon. Something, however, warns me to wait; something is not as it should be.
The wagon is rumbling up the lane and Braggs has moved to one side of the gate, presumably let it enter. No!? He is talking to someone; someone in the shadows.
The rear door to the Tavern opens momentarily spreading a dim light across the courtyard as Bragg’s father comes to meet the wagon; light sufficient to see who Braggs is talking to – it is a Guardsman!
The wagon is in the yard now, as it pulls to a stop at the cellar doors a second guardsman steps from the shadows at the far end the courtyard to inspect the barrels and beneath the wagon. They are search for someone, or something, and I have the distinct feel that someone is me.
The ratchet chains rasps at the early morning as the twin cellar door open and the offloading ramp appears.
I remember now the movement in the kitchen when I left and the strange appearance of Otta in the courtyard.
Backstory 44 – “Urts! Bloody urts”
It had taken only a few moments for me to calm and refocus.
With little difficulty I had found old sack and captured two furry gutter urts which, once wrapped firmly in the sack they were quite and still.
I now stand on the courtyard wall amongst the branches of the tree above the garbage trough. Braggs and the wagon master’s male slave are manhandling the heavy barrels and rolling them off the wagon down the wooden ramp into the cellar. Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master and second Guardsman can be seen chatting behind the bosk.
I let myself down into the garbage. To my ears the noise of my rustling and disturbance of the garbage is like thunder, I might have well announced out loud “I am over here!”
The three men peer towards the noise and the guardsman strides across to investigate. As he nears I release the two urts which scurry squealing and fighting onto the cobble stones before him.
“Get out! Get away!. Filthy things” he mutters as he kicks at them and, after a cursory glance over the garbage, returns to his fellows.
“Urts! Bloody urts.” The other laugh and have soon returned to their conversation.
Backstory 45 - I do not hear ....
I scurry low across the courtyard and crouch beneath the wagon. Listen intently - alert to any movement – there is no indication that anyone has seen me.
The last barrel is unloaded. Braggs is taking the ramp back into the cellar. I cannot move for fear of being seen by Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master or Guardsman who now stand only feet away from me.
The ratchet chain rankles in its pullies and to my dismay the cellar doors start closing – with a gruffled farewell the Wagon Master and slave mount the wagon – and still the doors close
The wagon moves. In only moments I will be left crouching fully exposed – and still the cellar door edge closer the chain’s constant wrangling, howling in my brain.
I see the feet of the remaining two men change position – they have their backs to me – the wagon has moved from me I am fully exposed – the gap between the doors is narrowing faster now
I have no options. Diving through the gap I land with a roll on the sawdust of the cellar floor and scurrying behind one of the barrel.
The chain momentarily stops then recommences before the doors finally slam shut.
I hear the barrels of the locks slam into place.
I hear Bragg’s muffled footsteps as he crosses the cellar floor.
I hear the cellar interior door open.
I hear Briggs’s footsteps fade away.
I do not hear the door being closed.
I do not hear the lock being thrown ….
Backstory #46 - What happens when Tay returns to her room
I had noticed the old cloak soaking in the laundry when changing into a tunic its sleave long enough to disguise the shoulder wound. My bloodied rags and garments being burnt the laundry fire.
The rich odour of smouldering the scent sticks greet me on entering my room the girl, still tethered, now kneels on fresh straw and in a clean white camisk. Light from a tharlarion oil lamp reflects from small surface puddles on the bench top around the basin steam rising whispping off the water within. A fresh neatly folded rep cloth also rests on the bench along with a small bowl of fruit, a platter of sliced sa-tarna bread and bosk cheese. On the floor next to the girl but oiut of reach is a wooden bowl containing bosk fat.
It takes a few moments before the silence registers. I look again to the girl … the whimpering has ceased …. her unblinking bovine like eyes follows my movement about the room - it is eerie and I involuntarily shiver.
The expressionless face watches without reaction as I kneel beside her laying the leaves on the floor. Each leaf I prepare by lightly crushing it to bring the juices to the surface over which I smear a layer of bosk fat letting the fat and leaf residue intermingle.
The girl emitted a slight moan, like a trapped animal accepting its fate, as I smooth each leaf into place against the neck ulcerations. The leaves I bind in place with a leather thong tight enough to restrain the dressing but not to pressure greatly again the skin.
The eyes follow my hands as they closed on the infected left thigh; there is no sound as the leaves are similarly applied against the wounds, though I observe the thigh muscles tighten and attempt to withdraw from my touch.
Concentrating on the treatment I suddenly become aware of lips gently caressing the welt on my face. I turn to look at her; she abruptly pulls back and lowers her head.
A head I take in both hands raise it to my lips and kiss for she is a dear thing a frightened beast and I seek to reassure her. She blinks, a single tear crosses her right cheek trickling to the corner of the mouth – a warmth; a suggestion of recognition; of response seems to flicker within those eyes.
I continued treating the infection the girl’s head lulling against my shoulder as she quietly hums the lullaby Vula had sung when we had first washed her.
Even by the following morning the redness about the neck has reduced and within two days the girl wore a house collar with no discomfort. It took another 5 days before she could be untether without risking that she my scratch and re-infect the thigh – during this period she was fed on a clear broth made from vulo meat stock and grup cloves to clean the blood. Tustu says grup cloves is called garlic where she comes from - Tustu says some strange things at times.
It cowls on the floor besides the Inn Keeper, hands tethered to the rough iron collar about its neck. A collar that had worn the skin raw.
“It was with the butcher’s offal to be thrown to the Urts.”
A constant barely audible whimper emitted from the body, so emaciated it is hard to determine the sex. The Inn Keeper indicates the left thigh.
On the thigh are four common Kef brandings only a few days old, haphazardly applied and festering with infection. On the right thigh, another three.
“What? … Why?”
“Apprentice used it for practice I guess … disgusting.” There were tears in the Inn Keepers eyes he is gripping his hand in rage.
Kneeling I lifted its chin looking at the head, age undeterminable but young. The body trembled constantly and the whimpering continues. The skin an unnatural pale in pallor; cold and clammy to touch, eyes glassy frozen in their sockets.
Backstory #33 - Warm Broth
Taking up a small bowl of warm broth I place it its lips – there is no response the liquid runs across the mouth and down the chin. I indicate to Diana to open its mouth. There in no resistance as Diana pulls open the jaw pinching the nose to force it to swallow.
I spoon small portions of the broth allowing time for a swallow at first it coughs and splutters then seems to react a little and voluntarily takes the broth when Diana releases her grip.
The Inn Keeper kneels beside me observing this first but slight reaction to her surroundings.
Standing, he leaves the kitchen without a word. I look across at Otta the meanest and coldest man I know yet even he seems moved – there is a trace of compassion in his eyes I’d never seen before.
“Diana, go to Vula. Have her prepare and basin for my room.” I look at Otta, he nods approval.
Placing the now empty broth bowl back on the bench I try to lift it but cannot.
Backstorey #34 - Step by step
Otta comes and assists in raising it to a standing position, with the movement it reaches, regurgitating much of the broth onto the floor.
Diana returns and helps me slowly half carry half walk the girl, for standing it is recognisable as such, step by painful step towards my room.
How could such cruelty be inflicted upon the beast?
Backstory #35 - Thick Nimble Fingers
Diana is back in the Kitchen, Vula helps the girl stand and I strip rags from the body.
Some places the residue of offal sticks the fabric to the skin. Carefully lifting and peeling until the girl stands naked, spasmodically trembling in the basin. Her hands now bound in front lest she attempt to scratch at the infection.
The whimpering is constant monotone.
“Sssssh Huss, little pretty one, do not cry ….” Vula words a popular lullaby as she sponges and smooths the hair. The whimpering seems to take up the tune. Stopping, Vula looks at me inquisitively. The whimper returns to the monotone. I gesture Vula to continue, and again the whimper harmonises.
I am kneeling sponging and dabbing around the infection. Braggs has come with his father’s tools and is removing its iron collar. I look up at his large hands; thick stubby finger work so nimbly at the collar consciously protective of the ulcerated skin beneath.
Backstory #36 - Never trust the Physician
Braggs offers a brilliant smile when gesturing with my eyes I indicate my ankle on which his cherish gift now resides. Squishing my nose at him, I momentarily lay my head against his leg.
Vula pretends not to see.
“Look” Braggs holds the now released collar to the light. The owner's name had been roughly filed away.
Looking at the ulcerations on the girl's neck, he states “Done while still on the neck.”
The girl, an old cloak draped across her shoulders, kneels on a little kennel straw bunched into the corner, hands tethered behind her to the slave ring.
I lay on the sleeping fur thinking of the streets. She-urts never trusted the physician’s medicine, never trusted the physician if truth be known. Cuts, burns and ulceration were common problems.
I remember a flat leaf plant, not a native, possibly from some seeds blown from the deck of a visiting merchant’s craft. It grows under the foot bridge on the sullage lagoon near the docks. When smeared with bosk fat and bound against the flesh would lessen the pain and draw at the infection.
Backstory #37 - The Kaissa players
The Kitchen, as expected, is empty. Quickly moving to the grease trap near the waste bins I scoop a small amount of the greasy slurry smearing it in into my hair and over my skin. Cleanliness may do well for civilised society but on the street it brands one as sure as a Kef on a Kajira’s thigh. Taking a short bladed pearing knife I conceal it the folds of the girl's filthy rags which I now wear and tighten the soiled thigh wrap retrieved from the laundry.
A noise; a rustle; I startle; tense; relax – probably a furry urt no doubt disturbed by my presence – tomorrow I will have it caught. A deep breath and I’m into the public area. A gentle snoring emits from an alcove above. The dance pit is empty its sand disturbed by the nights entertainment, the musicians platform long since vacated.
In the corner a single tharlarion oil lamp flickers across two Kaissa players huddle over their board.
Backstory #38 - The Coolness
A paga girl kneels nadu fashion beside one of the players, she attempts to rest her head against his knee and roughly he brushes her aside.
A drunk slumbers head down on another table his empty tankard up ended against a platter of broken bread and crumpled cheeses. The air is permeated with odours of burning tharlarion oil and stale ale.
Slap!. “Oh! … Ohhh Master!?” It is Tustu’s voice from within another alcove. Her pleasures would have been bought for more than the mere cost of paga.
“Grrrr” squeal “Oh Master! Get off!” laughter “Huh! Ohhh … Talk of the second coming!”
I smile, Tustu will be well used tonight and pleased with that use I vouch.
Carefully I slink out through the same door I arrived so ignobly those many months earlier, again to hear the silence of the city’s night and feel its coolness against my face …….
Backstory #39 - Symbol of Foreboding
Squeal, rustle, disturbance within the rubbish trough at the corner of the yard, well I remember that trough.
From the overhanging tree an alarmed nocturnal fruit eaters falls chattering from the branch to which it hung, with the spread of its proportionally giant wings and slow languid strokes of the same, gains flight to head away over the city an ominous symbol of foreboding shaped against the Prison Moon. The silence returns.
Backstory #40 - From the shadows
Warily at first I move out into the courtyard and across to the grilled metal gates. With great care, lest some slight noise should reveal my presents I unlatch the gate and ease out into the street, careful to leave it unlatched I pull the gate closed. Hurrying across the street to seek the shadows beyond for I am now in the domain of the guardsmen.
Anxiety surges in my belly, my breasts heave as I fight against palpitations; increasing heart rate.
Standing within the shadows now, I seek to calm myself; to steady and soon regain my breath.
Leaving the shadows I promptly step back into them - for something now moves within the courtyard. In the light of the three moons stands the shape; the silhouette figure of Otta.
He crosses to the gate and monetarily stops then, stepping out into the street looks each way then, to my horror, he seems to look directly at me. I freeze moments pass before he returns to the yard and with a loud click the latch snaps home. ….
Backstory #41 - water that broils
Crouching at the foot of the bridge I survey to opposite bank. Here none but the most foolish of guardsmen would venture, unless in a force of numbers, this the domain of the street demisons.
The danger is liquid almost palatably as the stench from the giant urt infested lagoon before me and equally as fatal a threat.
About 100 yards along from the bridge a small fire burns. The dark smoke wafts across the water offering a familiar odour which only the rubbish, the unwanted offal of society, can engender. I make out four humps around this fire, no doubt sister she-urts. Sister or none the she-urt is a territorial being. Territories are hard won, traded for by scavenged goods, bodily pleasures, blood and often life itself.
Beneath the bridge on the other shore I knew the plants grew. The decision is now. The waters swirl near the bank where I crouch, shapes rise sleek and reflective to disappears again beneath the water. The giant urts sense my presence; the urts sense my tension they hunger and squirm in anticipation …
I move onto the bridge keeping low and moving fast. Once over I stop and survey – no movement from the fire but still the urts squirm …
Backstory #42 - Survival
Laying, belly down on the walled embankment, warily watching for the urts, I cut each leaf by its stork at water level stacking it neatly on the path beside me.
“AHHeeeee” the agony, I coil against my pain, my ribs are on fire. Instinctively I unravel snake like to bite hard into the calf of the assailant. Mine is the automatic reaction of a street fighter; a street survivor.
“Ahh Yaa!” the agonising scream is accompanied by the surprised yelp of others.
My mouth fills with the assailant’s blood she kick me loose instantly I am up crouching knife in right hand the other ready to fend of any attack.
The she-urt leader faces me in similar pose but favouring her bleeding right leg. Hissing commands at her sister she places the three other girls as sure as an experienced Kaissa player’s strategically encircle the opposing Ubar’s Homestone
We circle each other. In each hand she grasps a sorp shell.
The shell of the Sorp mollusc is a common weapon amongst the she-urts of the port, its smooth oval edge is sharper than any warrior’s sword and, in the right hands, almost as deadly.
I grasp at the pain in my ribs a smudge of blood dribbles to my chin. She smirks sensing my weakness - the bitch is enjoying this!
I feign with my right - laughing she blocks the thrust out wide, her backhand brutally percusses jarring my head backwards. I clumsily roll left spluttering blood.
As I rise, too slow, rolling again I just avoid her kick. She pulls back.
Whimpering I rise my eyes dart seeking escape but everywhere I look there seems to be a laughing bitch revelling in the torment of their frail captive - they are playing with me.
We circle; my steps are faltering eye darting about. She dives at me only to pull out at the last moment laughing as I cringe indecisive in my movements.
Screaming I run at her again my right thrust is brushed aside and as I roll left I feel rhe slash across my right arm “Ahhhay!”
My roll ends against the feet of one of the girls. I breathing through gritted teeth against the pain of being lifted by the hair until I stand a few inches from her smirking face. A face which changed dramatically as my knife slide across her belly slicing through he rag to end, its point under her chin raising her to toe hight. A left to the solar plexus. I turn again to face my assailant ignoring the sounds as girl collapses gasping for breath behind me.
The smirks are a little hesitant now and my assailant looks decidedly more serious circling me again with more care. I spit the remainder of her blood from my mouth, threatening her with my right hand. Twice she sliced and twice I easily fended the blow countering with a tumble to the left.
I feel the edge of the embankment wall beneath my feet the sound of water movements behind. Cautiously I snap a glance over my shoulder – she comes at me screaming I dodge her right then her left thrust – promptly ending my ruse I throw the knife to my left hand slashing to her arm - spin to the right with jab kick on her weak leg sending her screaming to the water.
Shreeking in terror, two of my tormentors rush to her aid ignoring me – third now bare breast held her ground making to block my escape, hesitates and lets me pass.
Scooping up the leaves, and I hasten onto the bridge - looking back I see the three girl kneeling, anguishing over the convulsing body of their leader.
Backstory 43 – The Paga Wagon
In this alley beside the Perfumery I can see anyone heading for the Tavern’s courtyard. I am cold and shivering uncontrollably. The crushed leaves have eventual stopped the shoulder bleeding and nulled a little of the pain but the binding cloth, roughly torn from my waist wrap, is soak in coagulated blood. Knowing the courtyard gate is locked I wait for the early morning paga delivery. My intent is to enter the courtyard with the cart.
The squeak of wheels on cobble stone and the snorts of the burdened bosk alter me to the approaching wagon with it Wagon Master and his male slave.
Moving from shadow to shadow, ever alter to the guardsmen, I retrace my steps until I reach the same place from where I had earlier watched Otta lock the gate.
It is with almost audible relief to see Braggs come across the courtyard and swings open the gates for the approaching wagon. Something, however, warns me to wait; something is not as it should be.
The wagon is rumbling up the lane and Braggs has moved to one side of the gate, presumably let it enter. No!? He is talking to someone; someone in the shadows.
The rear door to the Tavern opens momentarily spreading a dim light across the courtyard as Bragg’s father comes to meet the wagon; light sufficient to see who Braggs is talking to – it is a Guardsman!
The wagon is in the yard now, as it pulls to a stop at the cellar doors a second guardsman steps from the shadows at the far end the courtyard to inspect the barrels and beneath the wagon. They are search for someone, or something, and I have the distinct feel that someone is me.
The ratchet chains rasps at the early morning as the twin cellar door open and the offloading ramp appears.
I remember now the movement in the kitchen when I left and the strange appearance of Otta in the courtyard.
Backstory 44 – “Urts! Bloody urts”
It had taken only a few moments for me to calm and refocus.
With little difficulty I had found old sack and captured two furry gutter urts which, once wrapped firmly in the sack they were quite and still.
I now stand on the courtyard wall amongst the branches of the tree above the garbage trough. Braggs and the wagon master’s male slave are manhandling the heavy barrels and rolling them off the wagon down the wooden ramp into the cellar. Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master and second Guardsman can be seen chatting behind the bosk.
I let myself down into the garbage. To my ears the noise of my rustling and disturbance of the garbage is like thunder, I might have well announced out loud “I am over here!”
The three men peer towards the noise and the guardsman strides across to investigate. As he nears I release the two urts which scurry squealing and fighting onto the cobble stones before him.
“Get out! Get away!. Filthy things” he mutters as he kicks at them and, after a cursory glance over the garbage, returns to his fellows.
“Urts! Bloody urts.” The other laugh and have soon returned to their conversation.
Backstory 45 - I do not hear ....
I scurry low across the courtyard and crouch beneath the wagon. Listen intently - alert to any movement – there is no indication that anyone has seen me.
The last barrel is unloaded. Braggs is taking the ramp back into the cellar. I cannot move for fear of being seen by Bragg’s father, the Wagon Master or Guardsman who now stand only feet away from me.
The ratchet chain rankles in its pullies and to my dismay the cellar doors start closing – with a gruffled farewell the Wagon Master and slave mount the wagon – and still the doors close
The wagon moves. In only moments I will be left crouching fully exposed – and still the cellar door edge closer the chain’s constant wrangling, howling in my brain.
I see the feet of the remaining two men change position – they have their backs to me – the wagon has moved from me I am fully exposed – the gap between the doors is narrowing faster now
I have no options. Diving through the gap I land with a roll on the sawdust of the cellar floor and scurrying behind one of the barrel.
The chain momentarily stops then recommences before the doors finally slam shut.
I hear the barrels of the locks slam into place.
I hear Bragg’s muffled footsteps as he crosses the cellar floor.
I hear the cellar interior door open.
I hear Briggs’s footsteps fade away.
I do not hear the door being closed.
I do not hear the lock being thrown ….
Backstory #46 - What happens when Tay returns to her room
I had noticed the old cloak soaking in the laundry when changing into a tunic its sleave long enough to disguise the shoulder wound. My bloodied rags and garments being burnt the laundry fire.
The rich odour of smouldering the scent sticks greet me on entering my room the girl, still tethered, now kneels on fresh straw and in a clean white camisk. Light from a tharlarion oil lamp reflects from small surface puddles on the bench top around the basin steam rising whispping off the water within. A fresh neatly folded rep cloth also rests on the bench along with a small bowl of fruit, a platter of sliced sa-tarna bread and bosk cheese. On the floor next to the girl but oiut of reach is a wooden bowl containing bosk fat.
It takes a few moments before the silence registers. I look again to the girl … the whimpering has ceased …. her unblinking bovine like eyes follows my movement about the room - it is eerie and I involuntarily shiver.
The expressionless face watches without reaction as I kneel beside her laying the leaves on the floor. Each leaf I prepare by lightly crushing it to bring the juices to the surface over which I smear a layer of bosk fat letting the fat and leaf residue intermingle.
The girl emitted a slight moan, like a trapped animal accepting its fate, as I smooth each leaf into place against the neck ulcerations. The leaves I bind in place with a leather thong tight enough to restrain the dressing but not to pressure greatly again the skin.
The eyes follow my hands as they closed on the infected left thigh; there is no sound as the leaves are similarly applied against the wounds, though I observe the thigh muscles tighten and attempt to withdraw from my touch.
Concentrating on the treatment I suddenly become aware of lips gently caressing the welt on my face. I turn to look at her; she abruptly pulls back and lowers her head.
A head I take in both hands raise it to my lips and kiss for she is a dear thing a frightened beast and I seek to reassure her. She blinks, a single tear crosses her right cheek trickling to the corner of the mouth – a warmth; a suggestion of recognition; of response seems to flicker within those eyes.
I continued treating the infection the girl’s head lulling against my shoulder as she quietly hums the lullaby Vula had sung when we had first washed her.
Even by the following morning the redness about the neck has reduced and within two days the girl wore a house collar with no discomfort. It took another 5 days before she could be untether without risking that she my scratch and re-infect the thigh – during this period she was fed on a clear broth made from vulo meat stock and grup cloves to clean the blood. Tustu says grup cloves is called garlic where she comes from - Tustu says some strange things at times.
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