Open Chronicles An Open Daght

[Namidre Dhendizad]

”Where did you come from? Why are you chasing her?”

“She’s escaped property.” He said simply, “she belongs to Reginald Van Freninch, and she ran away. We come from Fortress Huron. I don’t recommend you go there unless you intend to turn her over or buy someone.”

Namidre listened to this and stepped back, despite not being the one at swordpoint, she still felt threatened by the slaver. And she couldn’t stop the uneasy feeling from her mind that her current company might actually consider it.

 

[Farzad Oldsummer]

"Ahhhhhh..." Farzad whined as he just got comfortable too in his chair, taking and eating the last few figs of his Sproot and Tater stew. "Ya know." Farzad mused aloud, dragging his finger through the stew before bringing it to his lips, probing around on his gums to warm his tired soul. "Fort Huron seems like a realllllly long way away." He stated with finality.

"Scale of one out of ten. Is she worth enough to chase to the ends of the world?"
​

Farzad asked the slaver, maybe with a little too much callousness to the whole thing, ambivalence in his posture as he looked at the licking flames of his freshly made firepit, the birth of charcoals only now accenting the bubbling cauldron. "Becuase now she has two guards. And both of which pretty easily dispatched of your guys. You to if you say the wrong thing." Farzad watched with passive disinterest watching the creek of bone fromt he Skeleton guardsman, the pressure of his weight and armour soon to cracking the man as if he was nothing more than a twig. A sensation few found themselves alien too. Who hadn't crushed a twig? Especially one as pathetic as this man. "So. Can I convince you to just go back home and say she's gone?"

 

[Namidre Dhendizad]

Sir

 

[Sir]

The skeleton‘s face, by necessity, remained unmoved. In his mind, however, he felt hot. He did not like this slaver under his boot, and he found he desired to step down harder and break through him. He did not remember the places this person mentioned, but the concept of slavery was unusually fresh in his still-awakening mind.

After all, he had been made to be a slave himself. The necromancer’s spells had hurt him like any lash or cane, and sought to bind him like chains. It was not a feeling he wished to experience again, nor would he wish it on another.

He did not kill the slaver, though. Even with his hatred, he felt some small sadness at the thought of extinguishing him. He was an evil man, and deserved to die... but he was living now. The armored figure could not remember life... but he knew somehow that it was better than whatever he had now. He wrestled with the conflict in silence.

”What if he lies?” he asked Farzard. ”What if he sends more?”

Perhaps he did find life precious, but there were other lives more deserving of his protection.