Young Writers Society

Xander nodded stiffly and followed Sera out, holding the flap open for Ky to exit.

Ky murmured her thanks, decidedly refusing to so much as glance in the direction of the blood, and started toward her tent.

(Wanna skip to Pratik and Utrid?)

(Works for me!)

(Shall I start or would you like to?)

(You can! I can make Pratik be anywhere haha)

"The audacity," Tarr snarled as he threw down Tomhas Loquitur's letter. General Utrid sat at the chair in front of the desk, hands clasped in front of him as he waited out the rant in silence. Pratik had been ordered to stand at Tarr's side with mead ready. "She's my wife! We had a deal! I supplied food, soldiers, supplies! I was his ally and he's trying to snatch that little whore back? I won't have it! I'll declare war on him! See how he likes fighting on two fronts! I'll draw up the order now!" He paced away from the desk, fists clenching and unclenching. "I'll have his whole family slaughtered before I let him offend me like this again!"

Well, that was certainly a development. He was going to get this information to Roland right away -- as soon as he left this room, if he could. Ash would win this war in no time, if Loquitur had Tarr coming after him, too.

Tarr was too stupid to be strategic. He'd send in the brunt of his forces. Destroy himself and cut down Loquitur's forces -- then Ash could swoop in for the win, easy-peasy.

"My Lord," Utrid began, "I would advise caution. You need to clear this with King Harold first, and he won't be likely to approve a second war decree only two months after the last."
"Fuck the king," Tarr retorted. "Does he command my army?"
"If there's a war against another Realm he does." Utrid remained seated, glancing at Pratik. "Don't waste resources on a petty insult, sir. You can find a new wife. Lord Adree may wish to wed his daughter to--"
"I'm not marrying some slave's bitch. Slaves' bitches are for whoring, not making heirs!" Tarr paused in his pacing, then pointed at a servant who had been about to enter the room. "Send that new one up to my chambers for later. Shave her this time."
"Sir, Utrid protested. "Please. We need to talk this over logically. Take a moment to clear your head."
"My head is clear!"

Pratik grasped the mead with both hands, but was careful to keep his face completely neutral and made his gaze look as distant as possible. The animal Tarr so desperately wanted him to be.

His twitched involuntarily at Tarr's command. How dare he? How dare he --? Pratik took a slow, deep breath, focusing on keeping his body language entirely neutral and disengaged.

He couldn't help her.

He couldn't.

The fuck he couldn't. He could go bash Tarr over the head this very instant. Save a poor girl from being brutally raped. Get Utrid the power he desired. It wouldn't help Ash as much as Loquitur having to fight a war on two sides, but it'd still cut down the problem by half.

And he'd take what ever sort of tongue lashing Ash wanted to give him. Hell, maybe he'd even give up his pay. It'd be worth it, to get to rip Tarr's liver out through his throat. See how horny he felt then.

Utrid clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly.
"My Lord," he began, "have your girl. Then please come talk to me before you do anything. I'm here to advise you on military matters, and this is a very sensitive issue. The Ashes are a very tight knit family, and even if Lord Ash is at war with Loquitur now, he may ally himself with him until Lyra is secured. We can't risk fighting those two together; they have too many resources."
Tarr glared haughtily at Utrid, then huffed.
"More mead," he demanded.

Pratik stepped forward instantly, tipping more mead into his cup.

Maybe he'd kill them both -- if Utrid thought Tarr raping a slave was even remotely acceptable. Not to mention he was trying to talk Tarr out of the very thing that would help his employer win this war.

He wasn't exactly helping things here.

"Which girl was it you wanted, sir?" Utrid inquired, rising. "Let me fetch her for you." The sooner this was over, the better. Hopefully this would cool the boy's temper and avoid a crisis.
"The dark one, from the South," Tarr muttered, plopping down in his chair. "The Eastern one's too old."
"She's only two years your senior, my Lord."
"The other one's one year my junior," he snapped back. "I don't want to be fucking an older woman, Utrid!" Utrid kept his face carefully expressionless as he gave a short bow.
"It will be as you say, my Lord." He strode off, grimacing as soon as his back was turned. The boy was shaping up to be nearly as bad as the previous Lord Ash had been. He prayed he could trust Aren to keep his head.

Pratik stepped back into his former position -- withdrawing into the emotionless shell of a person he knew he needed to look like. But inside he was hot. And he didn't like it when he got this angry.

He was such a good mercenary because he was always so detached from the situation. A quick blade to the gut. A payoff from some man richer than whatever poor sod he'd stabbed. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Except killing Tarr. That mattered.

Tarr downed his mead and shoved the glass back toward Pratik, then began to pace again.
"Fucking bastard," he muttered. "Farmer-fucker. Half-breed. I'll show that twiggy pillow-biter what happens when he fucks with a wolf. I didn't want his whore daughter anyway. She's bad blood, just like all the bastards and peasants. What's worse than a fucking mix? I'll see him and his cripple brother flayed and hung from my walls, I swear it."