View Full Version : Wherein Slavery Is Justified
(Solo)
"Hear the Nation's call,
Freemen, one and all,
Hear Poor Kansas' earnest cry:
See her bleeding land lift its beckoning hand;
Sons of freedom, come ye nigh."
- Our Country's Call
The Griswald barony, like many other plantations in the surrounding region, lie in backcountry where the open fields may have ran for as far as the eye could see, but at some point they were all surrounded by the thick, tumultuous brush of the woodlands that were difficult to travel outside the beaten path. To add to that, a bridge spanning a valley that furrowed the earth to the Niema River that lie hundreds of yards below acted as the only safe passage back to civilization. Outside of that, one would have to hazard the surrounding steep and jagged hills and savage mountains to find a way back to the outside world, but as legend would have it, such places were often populated by the kind of inbred, cannibalistic hillmen that sought the company of outsiders only in times of sacrifice and hunger.
As it would seem, this region known as Lecompton County was known more affectionately by outsiders as "Backwater" and was the heart of slavery in Corone. The reasons for this varied, but as a practice slavery was considered an institution protected by the law and was something that the Empire found itself unwilling to question so long as the farmers and plantation owners that utilized it continued to produce results. Fortunately, slavery as an institution to the public was one that had been dying out over the past few decades. Unlike in the dismal isolation of Backwater, fugitive slaves were prevelant in so many other parts of Corone that it became insensible to own property that could and would run from you, especially when there was nothing short of vigilante justice to act as the enforcers of weak fugitive slave laws.
And of course, incidents of slave rebellion kept farmers and anyone below that of an agricultural baron afraid and honest. It was for these reasons that Backwater acted as one of the most prominent and remaining bastions of slavery in the entire nation. It was all but easy for a slave to escape during the day and was downright impossible at night. Short of open rebellion, slavery was incredibly easy for slavers to police and runaway slaves often met brutal ends to act as an example to those wishing to make an escape. This kept the plantations lucrative, especially with fertile soil that was capable of withstanding both cash and food crops.
Not a man who had a very strong opinion of slavery like most people from the 21st century in Massachusetts, Louis Harris had found it difficult to stomach as he witnessed the treatment of slaves on Griswald's plantation. The slavers whipped and beat the slaves incessantly to maintain some kind of brutal order that managed to control the behavior of the slaves through fear. It had only been a week ago that the engineer had been given the offer to come to the Griswald Barony and make a bid on what had been promised as a lucrative job of of designing an improved system of irrigation for the fields. The engineer had stood to make a decent profit for a job that would have taken less than three months of labor.
Baron Peter Griswald's demeanour was that of an incredibly old-fashioned and stubborn businessman. He was in his mid-forties and stood taller than most men Louis had ever seen. Griswald bore the kind of lambchops and well-groomed beard typical for a plantation owner of that era. He dressed in the richest of fabrics, but did so with simplicity with only suspenders to hold up his trousers and a white, silken shirt stained with sweat. For his part, Griswald played the role of a big plantation owner very well.
Unfortunately, Louis found the Baron's offer to be lackluster and his unwillingness to negotiate frustrating. The engineer knew how to haggle with businessmen, but he was sure that this tyrant seemed bent on having this work done his way and on his terms. And as someone who sought to come to this strange and backwater country outside of his comfortable home in Radasanth for profit, he refused to do work for wages that were so low he would practically be doing it for free.
For that, Louis had respectfully asked the plantation owner for time to consider his offer of staying the night and be a guest to their famous hospitality. In Louis' mind he had thought this was the Baron's attempt to allow his offer to ferment over night, but the engineer found the offer and the way Griswald presented it short of being creepy. Taking the air, as chokingly humid as it was, Louis waited until the eyes of the Baron were off him and he slipped out the back and down the country road. As a guest of the baron's the slavers would give him no grief to his departure, for they were unaware that their business had been concluded even before it began.
Unwittingly, luck would have that this was probably the smartest decision Louis would ever make. Little did he know that if he had accepted the Baron's offer, Griswald had no intention of letting him go and would see to it that he irrigated the fields at the same price his slaves received for doing his bidding. Even if it were to be by force. But, just as well, Louis had narrowly avoided the same fate as the baron, his family and his handlers would be met with in what newspapers would come to call the "Griswald Massacre" the following day.
Chaos erupted early that morning as screams from pierced the crisp, spring air as the Baron's slaves, filled with rancor and now freed from their toiling labor, took to their revenge on their fallen master as the countryside continued to burn. Already the fields of Coronian wheat, once as gold as the sun's fiery dew, began to crumple and blacken as the fire quickly consumed the fields on Baron Peter Griswald's plantation, its hunger unsated. As well, the sweet, country air once filled with the scent of wheat, fresh butter and sweet water from the nearby brook was soured by the venomous coils of black, foreboding smoke that pillared into the cloudless, blue sky.
Muddled, primitive screams howled from inside the Baron's illustrious manor as his wife, Lady Rhea, begged her field slaves for mercy as they tore at her clothes and ravaged her body. The irony of crying for mercy to the very men and women she had personally treated as little more than beasts of burden that were no better than dogs had been lost on her. She had been loathed by the slaves, for if the Baron had been so despised for his brutality, Lady Rhea was feared for her unrelenting cruelty. She had made it practice to have any of the slaves, from the house or the fields, beaten or hanged on a whim judging from her mood that day, and despite the financial protests from her husband, she couldn't resist taking pleasure in the torment of people she commonly referred to guests and friends as "creatures." Unlike the rest of her family, the lady of the house would suffer to live as her servants keep her alive in one last attempt to rival her cruelty.
The eldest son, Edward, ran through the burning fields seeking refuge in any hole he could find, his thirst for survival proving greater than the fear that ran deep into his bones, threatening to paralyze him. Scrabbling for some place to hide himself, and very much like his parents, the baron's son didn't contemplate once on the sins that had brought him to this point. His greatest sin was not that of brutality or cruelty, but of darker machinations that he had engineered repeatedly for his own amusement. Because, unlike his father, Edward was grossly impotent from the very diseases he had caught from his run-ins with the female slaves, ravaging his loins. No longer able to spoil his property in such decadence, Edward had taken it upon himself to see to it that others did it for him and did so in such a way that he could sit back and enjoy the profane show with a glass of wine and a nice cigar. It had gotten to the point that this rape he commanded from his servants did little to satisfy his hunger, and his tastes could only grow darker and more unspeakable as the years went on.
However, none of this seemed to have dawned on Edward as he hobbled for his life as his loins burned as pustules burst and bled into his trousers. Like his parents, he would see his end not as vengeance being undertaken by the evil practices that had led to his undoing, but rather as random and unprovoked savagery. He would manage to find an empty badger's burrow to dig himself into where he would hide for the remainder of that awful day. But, eventually hunger and thirst would cause the young man to raise himself from that refuge and he would be quickly overtaken by the restless slaves that had continued to roam the grounds.
But, while Lady Rhea was being made victim by the very demons she had created and Edward pitifully hid in the only hole big enough to contain him, the Baron had his own battles to fight. Beneath the manor, the wine cellar's door cracked and splintered under the angry, eager hands of those he had enslaved, desperate for the justice only a slave could know. Armed with only a spade, still clotted with dirt from yesterday's work in his garden, Baron Griswald could only watch on in horror as the people he had caught and beaten into submission had turned into animals eager to tear their master limb from limb for his tyranny. It was an odd sight, seeing this giant of a man, trapped beneath his very own property, once one of the most prominent of baronies in the entire country, and only moments away from his very own end as he witnessed it fall to ruins. His face red and stained with tears, the fallen baron stank of fear as he fouled himself when he heard the lock break and grim sunlight pour into the cellar. Unable to properly wield his spade from the crowded racks of wine, the Baron only had time to gut and rend the first of the slaves to reach him, his back to the wall. But, it wasn't long before he was quickly overwhelmed and the Baron was beaten and dragged from the cellar to his doom.
Typically, this kind of insurrection could have been put down easily by the brutality of the Baron's slavers, that was unparalleled even by the horrors witnessed by the barony this day. It would have been too easy, for all this was well within the control of these monsters and the baron and his family would have been spared long enough to witness the executions of the worst of their contemptuous slaves. But, much to their chagrin, the cavalry never arrived and the family and whatever guests they may have had on their property met their awful ends while they still cried for help that would never arrive.
Unfortunately for the masters of these slaves, that delicate balance of order had been disrupted by outside forces that had taken to slaughtering the slavers in their longhouses only the night before. It was only when the slaves had realized the break down in such order that they had broken their shackles and openly rebelled against their masters, setting in motion the chaos that bled into the barony that day. For the rest of the day, the slaves exacted their vengeance before most took to the wilds in search of use of their freedom. While the rebellion at the barony would die in a matter of hours, the Griswald Plantation would only burn for days until its dark heart lie smoldering in the furrowed ruins of the estate, exposed for all to see.
Not knowing how close he came to awaking in a guest room to the faces of angry, vengeful slaves and be made to pay for someone else's tyranny, Louis awoke instead beside a campfire tens of yards off the dirt roads. He was miles away from the barony and unable to become victim of the reprisal, but the engineer was still unaware of the fate that had befallen the Griswald barony.
At least, he was until late in the morning when the first of the screaming began.
It was very much unlike the cries he heard from slaves being manhandled by their captors from what he witnessed on his journey to and from the plantation, but the screams of someone being murdered was unmistakable, even to those who had never heard it before. Breaking camp and packing everything together as fast as he could, the engineer found himself on the road before the first of the black, foreboding smoke coiled into the sky.
The smell of the burning fields traveled on a strong breeze and wafted in the engineer's nostrils, spoiling the scent of that fresh, spring air. It and everything else that morning was all the evidence the engineer needed to travel as far and fast as he could to the bridge and back to civilization. It would be a long trek as the winding roads that rose into the foothills stretched for miles and made for almost a day's travel on foot, especially without a horse. Having originally hitched a ride from a merchant to the town of Lawrence that lie just a few miles on the other side of the bridge, Louis was already cursing himself for being too cheap to spring for a horse when he was back in Radasanth.
"I definitely won't be making that mistake again," Louis muttered in a drawl, his boots hitting the dirt as he tried to finish an apple that would be his breakfast.
For a couple of hours, the engineer traveled the roads without much sign of any trouble. Though there was an inn that lay two or three more miles down the road, Louis found it in his best interest to cut around it, especially if word got around of the calamity that was unfolding in his wake. However, throughout the day, he found himself looking again and again over his shoulder and not to the smoke that coiled over head but at the brush that lie behind him. No matter how much he tried to shake the feeling, it seemed as if he were being watched.
However, it was a feeling that was short-lived as the sound of hooves thundering down the path caused the engineer to make a bee line for the brush, only to trip and fall with a yelp into the ditch that stood between him and what he thought to be his freedom. Scrambling to lift his heavy tool pack and making one last rush for the brush, he stopped as he saw a group of heavily armed men on horseback come around the bend and begin to ride straight for him. All five of the men bore the look and demeanour of mercenaries, and in this part of the country the only mercenaries were slavers.
If I run, it's suicide, Louis thought, trying desperately to at least get out of the muck with his crossbow awkwardly wedged between the small of his back and his cumbersome tool pack. Doing the only thing he could as they rode up on him, the engineer raised his hands in defeat as they brandished their weapons.
It was only when Louis saw himself looking down the barrel of the weapon of their leader, that he realized how screwed he truly was. A tall, gangly man with a dark complexion and a handlebar mustache, the leader of the slavers looked at him deadpan and asked flatly, "Who are you, outsider, and what are you doing hiding inside of a ditch?"
"Just passing through," Was all Louis was able to manage as he moved to wipe the mud that was beginning to drip into his eyes. Wiping great gobs of muck from his face, the engineer felt himself finally exhale; unaware he had been holding his breath this whole time. The sensation of how unnerved he was becoming, especially a grown man born in Oklahoma with a certain amount of pride of showing strength over weakness, only served to wind the tension further along Louis' spine.
"Well then if that's the case, you wouldn't mind telling me why my friends and I happened upon you meandering within the comforts of that ditch, would you, friend?" The slaver said in a drawl before adding with a smirk, "Or is there some secret you've come upon beating the mud against your heels that just out does the simple comforts of a dirt road?"
Waiting for the other slavers and their laughter to die down, Louis found himself chuckling in cadence with the other mercenaries as he stared intently at the dark void leading into the barrel of that revolver. Turning his nervousness on its head, he found the kind of confidence needed to respond. "I apologize if I look a bit out of place here, but I found myself at the wrong end of that tangle of briars just near your feet and took a tumble," He said with a weak smile before going for broke, "But, if you wouldn't mind, you're making me a bit nervous pointing your gun at me like that seeing as I'm just a lowly carpenter who found himself on the bad side of poor timing and misfortune. Would you please lower your weapons?"
With a pause for thought, allowing the cold, plastic fear of tension threatening to creep back up Louis' spine, the leader of the slavers chuckled and lowered his weapon. He signaled for the others to do the same. "Well isn't this a pleasant surprise, boys. A carpenter and one with a pair big enough to ask us kindly. Why, you wouldn't believe how many times we find ourselves in a situation akin to this and the man we've happened upon usually gets so nervous they about shit themselves while walking right into an altercation. My boys and I are awfully itchy on the trigger too, so you could see how something as ugly as that could play out."
"Well I suppose its fortunate I find myself well within the control of my bowels then. For both our sakes." Louis said, lowering his hands as he looked up to the slaver in a scene that must have born a kind of pity that bordered on disgust.
Leaning over in his saddle, the slaver's mouth curled into a grin that could steal a weeping widow's attention from her beloved lying in their casket. "My name is Willy. Willy Quantrill and my boys and I are The Bushwhackers. Proudest outfit in all of Lecompton. Tell me, friend, what's yours?"
"Louis Harris." The engineer replied in a cordial tone. In truth, Louis was making no mistake in falling under the delusion of the slaver's friendly manner. In fact, he understood just how delicate a situation like this really was. But, it didn't take an engineer to figure out how easy it would be for him to pull the wrong block to this conversation and find himself staring up at the sky with a piece of lead buried in his chest.
"Harris," Quantrill said, playing with the name along his vile tongue like a man who was trying saltwater taffy for the first time. Squinting as if trying to recall a lost memory, his eyes widened when he happened across it. "Any relation to James Harris? Lives down by the creek just a few miles south of the Brooks Plantation? You sound like you're from parts like these."
Momentarily disarmed by the fact he recognized the drawl to his accent, a compliment given to him by his Oklahoman heritage, Louis found his agile mind quick at work with a reply. "James? Naw. Can't say that I've had the pleasure of making his acquaintance let alone share his blood. I'm actually coming back from an estimate I had made down at one of the plantations. Trying to get back to Lawrence to buy materials and find a couple eager hands for a well job."
"Ah." Quantrill said in an exaggerated exhale. "Well, it’s a good thing you never met James. Yeller bastard still owes me a pig and a poke for spotting out a prick named Johnny Brown that wished to do him harm. Hung the sucker from a maple not far from here. If you were his kin, I'd probably have to do my part and ask to collect on that debt or remind Jimmy of his obligations, y'know."
"Oh rea-"
"You mentioned something about going back to Lawrence? You from there?" The slaver said sharply, finding the piece of meat he needed. By this time, the other slavers had moved about different parts of the path, setting up some kind of perimeter. If Louis hadn't realized it before, their shift of focus and Quantrill's occasional signal to direct his men showed there was something going on besides their verbal spar.
"No, actually. I'm from another part of the country. Further south in a small town called Pontotoc. Just stayin' in Lawrence for the work. Sending the money back to my family." Louis said as he watched the slavers dismount and move into their various positions. "If you don't mind me askin', what are they up to?"
Never shifting his attention from the engineer, Quantrill's focus and expression grew momentarily dark before resuming his pleasant demeanour. "Don't worry about those boys. They're just working on making sure we're secure. Y'know, can't trust the sort of folks around here sometimes. Occasionally you get the kind of fellow from Lawrence who comes across the bridge seeking us and our employers ill by the type of life we choose to live."
"Can't be too careful." One of the slavers called out, silenced at the dark expression that had crossed their leader's face.
"Shut up, Pete." Quantrill snapped, momentarily averting his gaze from the engineer. When he was satisfied his dominance had been re-established, the slaver continued his conversation as if nothing had happened at all. "Say now, I don't mean to labor your memory, but earlier you mentioned that you were coming from a plantation. We were actually on our way to the Griswald Plantation as we were making our patrol to stop and have a bite to eat before carrying on.."
"Well, I actually have to get back to Lawrence within the next couple days to order those materials. I have to get that job started within the next few days and can't do it with idle hands." Louis quickly interjected, realizing his mistake as the slaver's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, well I'm sorry to have kept you." Quantrill said as he raised his revolver once more, "But, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist. Why don't you come with us back to Griswalds and then we can sort this whole thing out? What do you say?"
Finding the noose tightening around his neck, Louis couldn't find the words to get out of what he was sure was going to be Quantrill's easiest catch of the entire year. At its climax and their most raw moment together, the pair stood at odds until the first shot rang out of the brush. And then the slaughter began.
Firearms in Althanas, unlike the modern world Louis was used to on Earth, are archaic and vary incredibly. Especially with the people who used them. It was common to see instances of one man who owned a musket long past its prime and was held together with ill will and baling wire, while his enemy could be carrying a revolver or repeating rifle that looked as if it had come straight out of the factory. The variance in such weaponry bordered on anarchy, leaving combat on Althanas in a perpetual state of the Wild West where the weaponry was as unpredictable as the user's expertise with it. What was generally understood about firearms, other then their use, was that people in power generally had access to them and those with the most wealth had the best weaponry available.
However, none of this seemed to occur to Pete while his boss was having a falling out with their newest catch as he lay against the side of a hard, sturdy oak. No, the only that passed through the slaver's mind at that very moment was the .357 slug that tore through his skull and pulped his brain before he even heard the thunder of the rifle deep from within the brush. It was only when Pete gave his last gasp that all of hell broke loose.
The slavers, though skilled in pursuing and catching their victims with minimal risk of an all out firefight, brandished a few revolvers and an old scattergun that far outpaced their ability to use them effectively. It was for this reason more then any other that the group of mercenaries didn't have a prayer against the enemy that lie hidden deep within the tumultuous thicket.
At the first shot, all of the slavers under Quantrill's command abandoned their positions and opened fire in the direction they had heard the gunfire. And it wasn't before long that all of these slavers who bore the pomp and pride of the weapons their employers had bought for them abandoned whatever cover and concealment they may of had to move and eventually converge as a line in the direction of their would-be assassin.
Except, everyone who had moved in this direction as they shouted and tripped over each other failed to realize that the line they were planning to converge on lie on top of a ridge that overlooked the ditch and bore none of the tall grass or boulders that littered the area below that could have protected or potentially hid them from the coming onslaught. In fact, the only real cover that could stop a bullet was a single sapling that rested at the front of the ridge, dead center.
So, much to the ill surprise of these mercenaries as they screamed and tore at each other with insults trying to find their enemy, the next shots that thundered out of the darkness broke the line in a matter of seconds. Slugs from high-caliber rifles zipped from the brush and punched into the group of slavers, killing most of them before they even managed to fire off their third round from one of their revolvers.
One slaver, Perkins, had been sitting up against the sapling with his nose pressed against the edge of the scattergun never even had a chance to fire the volley that would have broken his collarbone from the recoil. Instead, two rounds caught him in the gut just below the sternum and the other buried itself into the meat of his right shoulder, pushing him backwards into tumbling off the ridge.
Another, Olly, had been the sharpshooter of the group having fired off all of three rounds before a slug bit into the right side of her face and into her brain, killing her instantly. It was only when these two died that the rest of the slavers had realized their grave tactical error and were left breathing only by the luck that had been the sapling which had taken the brunt of the fire, splintering it to pieces.
For Willy Quantrill, things were going very badly. With more than half of his posse killed within the first moments of the firefight, the odds of him turning the tide to the slaughter were miniscule. As the horses of his fallen comrades, now spooked began to take off in either direction down the path in a mad gallop while their owners either lay dead or dying, it only added another layer to the chaos.
Leveling his revolver directly at Louis' skull as he watched his men being butchered by an enemy with weapons and skill that far outclassed their own, Quantrill had flown into a towering rage. His wild, red hair and blue eyes that now gleamed with madness made him look all the more malevolent as he pulled the hammer back to his weapon and shouted, "You! You did this, carpenter!"
"How?" Louis spat with as much venom as a dying man could muster. The engineer had fallen to his knees and was covering his head even though he was well within the safety of that ditch, staring up at his adversary with the kind of animosity and hatred that could stagger an elk. "Go fall into a briar patch, you son of a bitch."
The irony was lost on the slaver as he began to squeeze the trigger of his revolver, his other holding the reins. To his credit, out of any one in the posse of slavers, Quantrill was the experienced gunfighter and was a remarkable shot. But even he would have been in awe if he had witnessed the .357 slug that sped through the air and into the trigger of his revolver. The result was the slag of molten steel burning into his hand from the dismembered trigger guard as the bullet ripped off two of his fingers and threw them in the direction of his falling revolver.
The slaver and the engineer were in complete and utter shock of the miraculous shot, unable to put into words what they had just seen. Instead, Louis took the chance and ran down the length of the ditch and out of the slaver's reach while Quantrill, finally realizing he was not only outgunned but was now a sitting duck as the last of his men rolled off the ridge and into the great beyond, brought his horse around and took off in a mad dash towards the direction he had come and disappeared around the bend.
With the smoke from the revolvers and the metallic and artificial smell of gunfire thick in the air, Louis found himself only a few feet from the ridge when the men who had saved his life came bounding out of the brush. Ignoring him, soldiers bearing repeating rifles and clad in camouflaged, dark green uniforms ran through the ditch and past him as he could only watch, their silent movement as loud as the gunfire had been while they fanned out and quickly set up a perimeter. Any of the slavers they came across were quickly bayoneted, alive or dead, and their weapons confiscated.
It had all happened so fast that Louis didn't even realize that within seconds he had been completely surrounded.
Pulling his wet boots from the muck, Louis stepped out of the ditch and onto the hard dirt road with his hands in the air until he realized that none of the soldiers had been paying him any mind. Instead, the group of commandos fanned out and lay against cover facing outwards until every direction was under their careful watch. While they secured the area, their leaders ran quickly around each side of the ring of soldiers and made a check on supplies. Within minutes the only soldiers left standing were the leader of the unit and what appeared to be their commander. It had all happened so fast and quietly that Louis found himself both impressed and embarrassed from his current state that just screamed feeble to all of those who could see.
Standing at about 6'2'' with a stout frame and weighing at a hundred and ninety pounds soaking wet, the officer of the unit was a giant of a man compared to the typical Coronian, but he stood at eye level with all of his men. He was a clean shaven young man who looked to be in his early twenties, but with combat and so much field experience he looked considerably seasoned. Sending the leader of the squad back to get the reports from his subordinates, the commander of the outfit turned and walked up to Louis with a hearty smile and a rag in hand. "Here, son. Take itand clean yourself up. You look like you've been through quite the ordeal."
"Thanks," Louis managed to squeak as he took the rag and quickly tended to his face. "Only been knee deep in a ditch for fifteen minutes with a gun to my head. No harm done."
The commander laughed and patted the engineer hard on the back, so hard he almost stumbled over. Meanwhile, the team leaders were organizing their soldiers under the direction of the squad leader as the two spoke. "Bravo team, I need buddy teams to move the bodies off the road and into the brush and dispose of their weapons! We've got ten before we step off and we've still got a decent trek before sundown. Make it happen!" One of the team leaders barked before having it immediately parroted by the other. With only a reply, two pairs of soldiers moved from their positions and immediately went about their tasks as they hauled the dead slavers off the road and into the woodlands.
"Don't mind them," The commander said, his eyes fixed on the engineer. "Just carrying out orders. Relax a bit and drink up, you're making me nervous staring at me like that.. what's your name again?"
"Louis," He said as he accepted the canteen offered to him by the officer. "Louis Harris. Thanks for the assistance back there. Those bastards had their shackles on me even before we exchanged names. Didn't even buy me drink first."
Laughing, the officer nodded, "Well said. Good to meet you, Louis. My name is Lieutenant John Douglas of the Coronian Rangers. 61st. Dog Company."
Resisting a moment of stupidity to break down and salute him, Louis instead mustered all of his confidence and gave the Lieutenant a hearty handshake. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."
"No need for the formalities, son. Just call me Douglas," The Lieutenant smiled as he offered an explanation. "Anyway, I wanted to apologize for how long the Sullies kept you. We had just broken off an engagement with another patrol a few minutes prior to finding you here that it took a lot longer then expected to set up that ambush."
"You're good. Don't worry about it." Louis said, realizing how dumb he sounded before adding, "I'm just glad to have that gun out of my face."
"Right." The Lieutenant said before showing a bit more concern. "You all right, though? Any injuries or anything you need taken care of? I can get our medic to give you a once over if you need to. You look as if you're coming out of some kind of shock."
"No. No, I'm fine, sir." Louis mentioned, starting to feel the ache in his body and the sludge in his boots for the first time since he had squared off with the slavers.
"All right. Well, listen. We're going to be heading out in a bit and I'd be beside myself if I let you run into another group of those pricks. Why don't you stick with us and we can take you wherever you need to go. Which way are you headed anyway?" Lieutenant Douglas offered as he took a sip from his canteen with a casual glance towards his men who immediately began to do the same.
"Lawrence. Truth is, I'd be happy to be anywhere if it meant getting out of this shithole." Louis replied as he adjusted his pack and his crossbow into a more comfortable position.
"That's great news. We're actually moving out of the backcountry and moving back to civilization anyway. I'd appreciate it if you accompanied us. I'm sure we'll run into some others like yourself along the way." Douglas said, his mind clearly anywhere but the conversation they were having.
"Sure." Was all Louis managed to get out before the Lieutenant thanked him and politely stepped away to go follow up with his soldiers. Strangely, not once did the officer bring up what it was that had brought such a powerful force into the part of the country of Backwater and why they were in such a hurry to leave.
Those questions quickly were put to the wayside as the soldiers were ordered back into formation and Louis was ushered beside the Lieutenant as they walked to the center of formation, surrounded and protected by the same heavily armed soldiers that had saved his life. Soon enough, the squad began their march to Lawrence anew.
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