Two Crows Watch from the Gallows Tree (cont'd)

They were led into a nearly unbearably hot room filled with steam. Four elderly women with thin engraved chains around their necks met them there. They led the group to a set of tubs sitting atop a low-burning fire and gestured for them to get inside while they picked up rough-looking brushes.

Pratik eyed the brushes, suddenly realizing that scrubbing them down hadn’t been a metaphor. This was going to hurt. Still, it would be nice to get a bath no matter how rough it ended up being. And he obediently crawled into the tub as he was told.

The women set about cleaning up the new arrivals wordlessly, rubbing roughly at the grime on their skin and dumping water over their heads.

Pratik felt like a toddler. Of all the degrading, humiliating, debasing things — here he was letting old women bathe him. He scrubbed his own face with his hands every time they dumped water over his head in hopes of avoiding the brush being turned on it. He wasn’t sure whether his pride or the rough brushes against his bruised skin hurt his pride worse, but he was thoroughly displeased with the entire situation.

After everyone had been rubbed pink, their collars and chains were removed and tossed in a pile near the back so the woman could bathe the raw skin with a slightly softer brush. It was here that Rickard let a small whimper, which he quickly cut off.

It was everything that Pratik could do to keep from cursing everything in existence: the brushes, the women, Ash, Tarr, and the gods themselves. Instead, he clenched his teeth and screwed his eyes shut and took it silently — mentally cursing everything he wanted to say out loud.

Finally that particular ordeal finished, and the group was toweled off. The women presented them with ragged albeit warm fur clothes.

Pratik was grateful for the new clothes. And, he supposed, even for this godsdamned room since it was steamy and warm and chased the chill from his bones. He got dressed and looked around, desperately wanting to ask what happened now. But he’d been hit enough by the slavers to learn that he wasn’t allowed to ask questions anymore. So instead he cautiously reached up to touch the raw flesh on his neck, cringing. It needed salve. And yet something told him he wasn’t going to get any.

(Hey, I've got German class for the next four hours, so I won't be able to post for awhile. Then I've got work at 4)

The women measured them next, taking their height and then wrapping a tape around their necks to get a measurement for a chain. The group was led through that small longhouse to another room, where an impossibly long length of chain hung. A sallow-faced man with a similar chain around his neck spoke quietly with the women who had brought them in, then took up a pair of pliers and began to remove lengths of chain. Each one in turn was brought to a captive and re-linked firmly around their necks, with just enough slack to allow them not to choke.

(Thanks for the heads up! Good luck with it ^-^ )

Pratik realized he’d never noticed that slaves had chains on them at all times. He’d thought the chains were just until he got here. That made this plan that much worse. And also made him hate the slave trade and slavers even more than he already did. He resolved to turn his attention on slavers for his next job after this. He’d bought the freedom or quite a few slaves in the past — but no more. The bastards didn’t deserve his coin. They didn’t deserve their lives. If he’d lost his humanity for his career, they were in a deficit. And he was done playing nice. He’d take out slaver caravans. Take their coin to give to the slaves. Send them on their way better off than they’d been and offer to accompany any of them who wanted him to for protection until they got home.

But, for now, he lifted his chin and bent down a bit so the woman could reach easily as she clamped the new collar around his neck. He cringed as it scraped across his raw flesh. Then he accidentally made eye contact with the woman.

Her expression was completely calm and withdrawn, but he almost thought he caught the faintest glimpse of sympathy in her eyes before she turned away. He straightened his back and swallowed hard. At least this one didn’t press against his Adam’s apple. That was something.

He obediently sauntered forward as they were ushered into yet another room. His chest was tight with apprehension he waited to see what nastiness awaited him now.

The next room held nothing but a desk, a chair, and a tall, gaunt man with a bent back. His craggy face was expressionless, and in one calloused hand he held a quill, which he set to parchment the moment the group walked in.
"One at a time," he said, gesturing for Pratik to step forward and the rest to go back into the other room. This man also had a collar around his neck, and he wore the furs of a slave.

(Did we come up with a fake name for Pratik? I remember he’s pretending to be illiterate but otherwise can’t remember lol also sorry for the delay! I’m road tripping and didn’t have service)

Pratik didn’t like that they were being separated. Not that he had any particular affinity for any of them. But they’d gotten a certain kind of trauma bond. And he didn’t like what this meant for them now that they were being separated. He straightened his shoulders and walked up to the table. “Sir?”

(It's Aren or something like that, I think. Page 80 or somewhereabouts? And no worries! I'll be away til about 9:30 anyway.)

"Sit." The man gestured to the chair across from the desk. "Name, please."

(Also, this guy looks the way Gaius described Roland.)

(Thanks! I'll go refresh my memory on that in a minute)

"Aren," Pratik answered, the lie rolling smooth off his tongue. He looked the man over, trying to assess if this was the contact Ash had given him or not. He glanced around, gauging whether it was safe to try his code phrase on this man or if he should bide his time. "Aren Presha."

The door had closed behind the others, leaving Pratik and the man alone in the room.
The man scribbled the name down. "Age?" He glanced up.