Yet more Outlands!
They're almost to the door. >.>
The city is spread out before them, gleaming stone buildings and fortress battlements around a palace within a city. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before. The churches in the Outlands are simple houses of stone and mortar with altars and wells within. The clan holdings are stone cities of simple construct, homes and stores one and the same, all around a central tower made of hardwood.
Outlanders had to be mobile, flexible, ready to evacuate or go to war. Such edifices were traps for sieges. Didn’t the people see how the very walls that kept out attackers could become a death trap? Then again, with so many people in one place, how did they police and govern everyone?
Had these Outsiders built their homes to reflect the halls of the gods? He could only imagine what the halls of the high mountains were like.
The Outsiders were truly different in their approach. The Outlanders lived in the clans and the clans were always able to move. Defend, attack, run and hide the way to become rich and powerful was to be smarter, stronger and luckier than your rival clans. Marry into strong clans, have strong and intelligent children, be faithful to the ways of the gods; these were the edicts of the Outlander’s.
Because so many of the gifts of Hyne were passed from mothers to daughters women tended to hold the power in the Outlands. Even female slaves were held in higher regard than males, given more praise and easier lives. The elders of the clans were almost always women who outlived their more feeble husbands. The warriors who became chieftain were still one step below the elders. Chief’s were obeyed and lead the clans through battle and peace but the elders made laws and dealt with politics.
Hyne graced all who could choke her brine, but it was from mothers that the gift was passed and usually a mother was closer to her daughter than her son. So it was that power consolidated in females.
“Gaia to Princess, come on, we’re almost done here, you can at least *pretend* you like being clean again.”
They’re bathing in a secluded waterfall that spouts from the rock. The tiny stream is dirtied by their filth and while it is nice to be cleaner, it’s not as though he’s not been dirtier. During skirmishes and such, his old master would take him to the front lines and use his abilities to devise ways of securing more territory. He has spent weeks in mud and sweat before.
“He’ll need to be dressed in your colors. You have spare livery in that pack?”
“Are you kidding me? I have three sets of clothes. Most of my stuff is back with your servants so unless you want to wait for them to catch up, no, I don’t. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve even worn this get up in the last five years.”
He sits naked on a stone and watches them bath, having finished scrubbing himself already. The sun is gentle warmth on his face and he knows that before too long it will burn him.
His white cotton robes are folded in Seifer’s pack. His blue and white silks hang from a few tree branches, drying. They are creased and stained. He doesn’t care what he wears. They could parade him naked through the city if they chose. It’s rather common at auctions and such in the Outlands but for some reason the Outsiders seem reluctant to leave him naked for long.
It could be that he is so physically unappealing that they cover him so as not to see the mockery of his flesh. This is something he can understand. Scars litter his body and his lower limbs are wasted to be almost useless. Looking from their eyes he would not wish to look for long on such a creature either.
The cuffs and color glint in the sunshine, removed so that he could wash the skin rubbed raw by the rash and chafing. Seifer has placed chocobo oil on the red, angry skin. It sooths the itching pain and the slave is grateful for the thoughtful treatment though he wonders why the blond cares. The minor injury will be hidden by clothing and the bronze again.
“Well at least the cut of the robes is modest, he won’t be mistaken for a pleasure slave.”
“You don’t mean for him to wear those ratty things again do you? Odin on a, look, just put him back in the white. He’ll be warmer, look better, and the hood will hide his face until we get to the palace.”
“A lord does not dress his most prized slave in bare cotton. It’s bad enough the collar is brass. We want you to put on a good impression. Not that the King will care but if anyone else, particularly the nobles or advisors see you in such a shoddy state…”
The sorcerer trails off, scrubbing his hair and looking frustrated. Rarely is he anything but these days.
He wonders what they mean. True he was his former master’s most prized slave, but that had nothing to do with how he was dressed. If his master dressed him in finery it was to show off his own wealth. He was wealthy enough to waste money on dressing even so lowly a thing as a slave. It’s similar to having a fine collar made for a prized hunting dog.
Turning his gaze to the city again he wonders at his own thoughts. It should not matter what they choose to dress him in. He should not be worried about understanding the Outsider’s and their ways. He is a slave, his existence does not need explanation, merely obedience. They tell him little of his duties, and so he must interpret from their actions what they wish from him and so far that has been little. Cooking, predicting, and washing the few items that require care, such as the bridals.
They have not touched him and he can only guess it is because they find him repulsive and perhaps, because of his sin against his old master.
“Look, the Princess is a Seer right? But beyond that he’s an Outlander. If you play up that angle it won’t matter that he’s in plain robes because he’s exotic. Now, I’m gonna cut his hair real quick and shave off this growth on my face and then we’ll be about ready to go.”
Seifer’s voice is reasonable and wheedling and he watches the big blond pull on a set of leather breeches with a puzzled expression. What is this about his hair?
“Sorry Princess, I don’t know why Heidigger let you grow it this long but it’s ragged and the ends are split and frankly it looks like a mess. Have you ever even taken a brush to this?” Seifer takes his boot knife and makes sure it’s sharp before bringing the blade against the slave’s locks. The Seer goes deathly still as Seifer starts hacking the waist length hair off.
He doesn’t understand. No one cares about a slave’s hair, as long as it is free from such things as lice. Isn’t it a bit late to be worrying about him having possible parasites *now*? For that matter wouldn’t they shave the brown locks of instead of hacking them short?
This is another lesson he thinks, that his flesh isn’t his own. Like the skin on his hand where not even a scar remains to show his sacrifice to Hyne, he is not in charge of his body. He is not allowed to change it.
By the time Seifer steps away his knife is dull and the hair that the slave used to hide behind barely brushes his neck. The sun feels cold suddenly and he hopes they let him dress soon.
He liked his hair. It hid some of the damage wrought on his skin. Now, if he could find a way to care, if he could get out of the cold place, he would hate it.
The city is spread out before them, gleaming stone buildings and fortress battlements around a palace within a city. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before. The churches in the Outlands are simple houses of stone and mortar with altars and wells within. The clan holdings are stone cities of simple construct, homes and stores one and the same, all around a central tower made of hardwood.
Outlanders had to be mobile, flexible, ready to evacuate or go to war. Such edifices were traps for sieges. Didn’t the people see how the very walls that kept out attackers could become a death trap? Then again, with so many people in one place, how did they police and govern everyone?
Had these Outsiders built their homes to reflect the halls of the gods? He could only imagine what the halls of the high mountains were like.
The Outsiders were truly different in their approach. The Outlanders lived in the clans and the clans were always able to move. Defend, attack, run and hide the way to become rich and powerful was to be smarter, stronger and luckier than your rival clans. Marry into strong clans, have strong and intelligent children, be faithful to the ways of the gods; these were the edicts of the Outlander’s.
Because so many of the gifts of Hyne were passed from mothers to daughters women tended to hold the power in the Outlands. Even female slaves were held in higher regard than males, given more praise and easier lives. The elders of the clans were almost always women who outlived their more feeble husbands. The warriors who became chieftain were still one step below the elders. Chief’s were obeyed and lead the clans through battle and peace but the elders made laws and dealt with politics.
Hyne graced all who could choke her brine, but it was from mothers that the gift was passed and usually a mother was closer to her daughter than her son. So it was that power consolidated in females.
“Gaia to Princess, come on, we’re almost done here, you can at least *pretend* you like being clean again.”
They’re bathing in a secluded waterfall that spouts from the rock. The tiny stream is dirtied by their filth and while it is nice to be cleaner, it’s not as though he’s not been dirtier. During skirmishes and such, his old master would take him to the front lines and use his abilities to devise ways of securing more territory. He has spent weeks in mud and sweat before.
“He’ll need to be dressed in your colors. You have spare livery in that pack?”
“Are you kidding me? I have three sets of clothes. Most of my stuff is back with your servants so unless you want to wait for them to catch up, no, I don’t. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve even worn this get up in the last five years.”
He sits naked on a stone and watches them bath, having finished scrubbing himself already. The sun is gentle warmth on his face and he knows that before too long it will burn him.
His white cotton robes are folded in Seifer’s pack. His blue and white silks hang from a few tree branches, drying. They are creased and stained. He doesn’t care what he wears. They could parade him naked through the city if they chose. It’s rather common at auctions and such in the Outlands but for some reason the Outsiders seem reluctant to leave him naked for long.
It could be that he is so physically unappealing that they cover him so as not to see the mockery of his flesh. This is something he can understand. Scars litter his body and his lower limbs are wasted to be almost useless. Looking from their eyes he would not wish to look for long on such a creature either.
The cuffs and color glint in the sunshine, removed so that he could wash the skin rubbed raw by the rash and chafing. Seifer has placed chocobo oil on the red, angry skin. It sooths the itching pain and the slave is grateful for the thoughtful treatment though he wonders why the blond cares. The minor injury will be hidden by clothing and the bronze again.
“Well at least the cut of the robes is modest, he won’t be mistaken for a pleasure slave.”
“You don’t mean for him to wear those ratty things again do you? Odin on a, look, just put him back in the white. He’ll be warmer, look better, and the hood will hide his face until we get to the palace.”
“A lord does not dress his most prized slave in bare cotton. It’s bad enough the collar is brass. We want you to put on a good impression. Not that the King will care but if anyone else, particularly the nobles or advisors see you in such a shoddy state…”
The sorcerer trails off, scrubbing his hair and looking frustrated. Rarely is he anything but these days.
He wonders what they mean. True he was his former master’s most prized slave, but that had nothing to do with how he was dressed. If his master dressed him in finery it was to show off his own wealth. He was wealthy enough to waste money on dressing even so lowly a thing as a slave. It’s similar to having a fine collar made for a prized hunting dog.
Turning his gaze to the city again he wonders at his own thoughts. It should not matter what they choose to dress him in. He should not be worried about understanding the Outsider’s and their ways. He is a slave, his existence does not need explanation, merely obedience. They tell him little of his duties, and so he must interpret from their actions what they wish from him and so far that has been little. Cooking, predicting, and washing the few items that require care, such as the bridals.
They have not touched him and he can only guess it is because they find him repulsive and perhaps, because of his sin against his old master.
“Look, the Princess is a Seer right? But beyond that he’s an Outlander. If you play up that angle it won’t matter that he’s in plain robes because he’s exotic. Now, I’m gonna cut his hair real quick and shave off this growth on my face and then we’ll be about ready to go.”
Seifer’s voice is reasonable and wheedling and he watches the big blond pull on a set of leather breeches with a puzzled expression. What is this about his hair?
“Sorry Princess, I don’t know why Heidigger let you grow it this long but it’s ragged and the ends are split and frankly it looks like a mess. Have you ever even taken a brush to this?” Seifer takes his boot knife and makes sure it’s sharp before bringing the blade against the slave’s locks. The Seer goes deathly still as Seifer starts hacking the waist length hair off.
He doesn’t understand. No one cares about a slave’s hair, as long as it is free from such things as lice. Isn’t it a bit late to be worrying about him having possible parasites *now*? For that matter wouldn’t they shave the brown locks of instead of hacking them short?
This is another lesson he thinks, that his flesh isn’t his own. Like the skin on his hand where not even a scar remains to show his sacrifice to Hyne, he is not in charge of his body. He is not allowed to change it.
By the time Seifer steps away his knife is dull and the hair that the slave used to hide behind barely brushes his neck. The sun feels cold suddenly and he hopes they let him dress soon.
He liked his hair. It hid some of the damage wrought on his skin. Now, if he could find a way to care, if he could get out of the cold place, he would hate it.