The next morning I woke when the people started moving around the camp. I ducked out to do my business let Padfoot wander around to do his, and get his early morning stretch in. I took the time I was out of sight of other people to check the bandage job I'd fumbled in the dark the night before, fixing things as best I could with what I had. When I came back they were passing around yet more food, and some type of bread. I ate it quickly, thrilled to have something even remotely bread like again. After so long of only meat and the occasional edible plant I recognized this variety as heaven. When I finished eating I stood, dusting off my pants, ready to leave. But when I went to gather my things one of the men was already loading it onto the wagon with the supplies and some of the women. I raised an eyebrow at him, starting a staredown. Apparently they have those here because he complied, staring right back at me. I didn't know what they wanted from me. For all I knew they saw my short hair and assumed I was a whore of some sort, a body for hire. Not on your life.
They hadn't tried to tie me up, they had freed me, fed me, and were nice to my dog. Yes, I think I can deal with them. At the very least I could escape if need be. If they wanted something from me or were too much to deal with I could always leave. As it was I wasn't actually ready to leave behind human companionship.
I eventually blinked, making it deliberate, and turned to find Padfoot, letting out a high pitched whistle that had him streaking towards me. I leaned against the side of the wagon, making it obvious that I wasn't leaving them. They attempted to get me to sit in the wagon, but I refused, holding onto Padfoots collar, and eventually they figured I wanted to walk with him. This was somewhat true. I really just didn't want to feel trapped in a damn wagon again, if those other girls could handle it then all power to them.
We moved for most of the day at a pretty good pace, some of the men going on ahead of the wagon, probably to tell everyone else the rest were on the way. It took almost all of the day, and I would have been confused over the time crunch if we had actually gone back over wagon tracks. The slavers must have taken a different route to throw people off their trail, as much good as that did them in the end. We arrived at a collection of wooden buildings, a small village straight out of a medieval movie, and their farms around nightfall. The wagon was unloaded in the center of the town, families had tearful reunions and the supplies taken from the slavers was distributed between the families of the men who had chased after them and a few that were looking a bit on the skinny side to me.
My attention was captured by one of the oldest of the women who had been with us, maybe in her mid twenties. She reached gently for my hand and half dragged me to one of the buildings. Sign with writing I can't read, bar in the bottom floor, several stories, yeah, probably the local inn. I took note of the script, blockish with a vaguely Russian feel, for all the three semesters of Russian language classes made me an 'expert'. She spoke to the man at the counter, speaking rapidly, gesturing with her hands, a smile on her face. When she finished the innkeeper nodded, smallish pale green eyes and greying hair that curled every which way, he was a bit on the pudgy side, but from appearances seemed friendly enough.
The woman pointed to me and said some very fast things, and I barely caught my name in there somewhere. The innkeeper guy just nodded along and when she stopped he turned to me and pointed to himself,
"Oswyn."
I pointed to myself,
"Holly."
I then pointed at Padfoot, who was sitting beside me with his tongue lolling out, a doggie grin on his furry muzzle.
"Padfoot."
He glanced down at the dog, looking unsure for a second before pointing up to the stairs and saying something to the woman. She grabbed my wrist and I pulled away, unsure how I was supposed to pay for this room they were giving me. I pointed to a bag of what appeared to be coins, shrugged, and pulled out the lining of my pockets before shrugging again. Oswyn shrugged himself before waving his hand wildly, pointing to the woman, and then to the stairs. Okaaay, is she paying then? Answers weren't coming soon so I followed the woman upstairs, the dog following. No one tried to stop either me, or him, and I wasn't worried about him having any accidents. I'd taught him long ago about doing that anywhere near where we were camping. Hopefully he would wake me with a whine like usual so he wouldn't have to go alone.
I slept in a real bed that night. It was brilliant. I missed it so much, that whole thing about it being too soft, and not being able to sleep? Bullshit in my case. It was a medieval bed in an ancient inn. It wasn't too much better than the ground, but I still saw it as Nirvana. Padfoot slept beside me, like always, heating the bed quite nicely. He did indeed whine to wake me, and for the first time in a very long time I broke out the hoodie string and tied it to his collar, leading him outside in the predawn light. He tried to stop in the main room, but that was what the leash was for.
When we got back inside Oswyn was already behind the bar, serving customers. The woman from yesterday was also inside waiting for me. She took my wrist once again, dragging me outside once more. Padfoot followed, right up until he saw a bunch of children running around. I gave him a good scratch and a slight push in their direction and it was all he needed. He was bred to herd animals and be gentle with them. Children were right up his alley. And he was right up theirs, gentle giant with stupid amounts of soft fuzzy-ness.
What the woman lead me to was a bathing area. There were already women there bathing, and some over to the side washing clothes. I had to wonder how sanitary it was, but hey, they had soap. After being away from human contact for about a year and a half I wasn't exactly sure where I stood in the shyness range. The woman made to grab the edge of my hoodie and I resisted, taking a step back and clutching onto it. She seemed to realize I was a bit attached so she smiled softly, pointing over to where the clothes were being washed. Well, I suppose I can live with them being properly cleaned. And me as well.
I stripped, still aching dully from the beating I took. The water showed that the bruising on my face was very much visible. My clothes were whisked away and I waited uncomfortably while the women nearby flocked to me in order to gasp over my injuries, and new bandages were provided as well as some sort of funky smelling paste I could only hope would stave off infection. I was handed soap by one of the older ones, her grey hair braided and tightly bound close to her head. It smelled a bit earthy, but that was better than nothing, and definitely more pleasant smelling than the infection-be-gone paste. I emerged from the water feeling clean, even though my injuries were stinging. One of the women held up a dress with a smile, it was a dark brown, like most of the dresses the women wore and I stared at it, then at them with a deadpan expression before pointing to my pants where they hung with the rest of the clothes drying by the river. The women had already cooed over the strange stitching and symbols on my clothing, probably taking notes or coming up with ideas about what kind of place I came from. The woman who had drug me to the water looked smug and handed over a different set of clothing. Boys pants and a tunic thing. Both were a bland brown but I grinned at the woman, putting them on quickly and ruffling my hair once more with the towel I was given.
That changed where the women were focusing pretty quickly. Their hands were in it before I could blink, talking amongst each other and making vague motions that I didn't understand in the least. I blanked them out after a while, looking around for my shoes. They were wet too of course. Someone must have noticed me staring at them kind of sadly because a pair of soft leather boots were shoved into my hands. I plopped down on a dry patch of grass to pull them on, wishing my socks were already dry. Someone who picked out the clothes must be a parent or older sibling because they managed to eyeball my size pretty accurately.
When they left me alone long enough to slip away I headed back to the inn, seeing Padfoot gallivanting in the distance. When I went back inside I was met with a large crowd, clamoring for food. Owyn was the only one there, and I had to wonder how he could have stayed in business if this is how it always was. He was cooking in the back and immediately running it out, serving drinks, giving people rooms, and then ducking back into the kitchen.
With a motioning of hands, and a little too much foolish goodwill I was set to work carrying food to whoever he pointed to.
Well, at least I was earning my keep.
As it turns out things were not, in fact, always like that. The woman who had showed me to the inn originally, whose name turned out to be Lisbet, was usually the one who handled things but was given a day off due to her recent trauma. Once she was 'recovered' she went right back to work, leaving me with nothing at all to do. I communicated mainly with hand motions and exaggerated facial expressions, and Lisbet was one of the few who didn't laugh when I attempted to join the small group of hunters who gathered some mornings to bring in game for both meat and furs, though whatever she said to try and comfort me felt a bit condescending, even through the language barrier.
I'll admit that the men had several advantages over me, not the least of which being size, experience, and knowledge of the land surrounding the village, but I had my own advantages. Namely Padfoot and nothing else at all to do with my time. The others had families to look after and responsibilities to get back to. My only family was one and the same with my one responsibility, and feeding Padfoot would depend on catching something to eat anyway. As for Padfoot, he had long ago learned several commands involving tracking and herding, the latter of which was what he was born and bred to do anyway, though it felt strange to be perverting what was meant to be used as caring and nurturing technique to instead trap and kill.
The main difference between hunting for only myself and my dog out in the middle of nowhere, and hunting for trade in the village, was that instead of feeding myself and the dog with whatever I could possibly find, I had to worry about what would sell, and get as much of it as possible with no worry as to it spoiling. Here there were ways to treat it so that it would last, and if I didn't want to do that then I could give it to Owyn in exchange for letting me stay there. The room I'd been given was directly facing the stables, with a defective window latch, so it wasn't exactly prime real estate anyway, which is probably why such little fuss was given to my lack of funds in the first place.
The first time that I left the village for almost a week to track a particularly fat buck I returned to mixed reactions. On the more pleasant side was Lisbet, who had apparently become as attached to my company as I was to hers because she threw a pseudo sign language fit to let me know her displeasure with my disappearance. On the other, less pleasant side, was Wymark. Wymark was a jeweler whose daughter had been killed at some point during the abduction because of a scuffle of some sort, from what I gathered, and he linked her death to my 'kin'. In his eyes I was very much to blame for her death because it was my people who had done it, or perhaps because I hadn't done something before she had died. I couldn't be sure, I didn't have any direct way to understand what people tried to tell me about him, or to make sense of his drunken ramblings when he lost himself to drink in the middle of inn dining room, but I understood enough.
When I returned unharmed and carrying on business as always Wymark threw a fit of legend, and I got the feeling that it was meant to get me thrown out of town. A man known as Halldor, who seemed to me to be more or less in charge of this place, put his foot down, and the shouting stopped. I would've given a few toes to know what was said. After that it stuck in my mind that Halldor was a good person to be on the good side of, so I visited his business often to spend my hard earned, meager, share of gold. It wasn't difficult to find a reason to shop there, seeing as he had an entire wall of archery equipment. I was able to trade a small pile of gold and a particularly soft and fluffy rabbit for a new bow. What was special about the rabbit was that it was still alive, and very very young. His daughter was absolutely thrilled with it. What was special about the bow was that it was properly made, unlike my original.
It took uncountable weeks of practice to get used to the new bow, though I was almost giddy with excitement when I drew back the string and it went smoothly, and I felt the need to grin every time I released it to have decent force and a slight hiss fill the air, rather than the 'shaking-laminated-paper-fwub-fwub-fwub' sound that my previous bowstring had made upon each release by the end of the day. I was able to learn things hanging around his shop, such as how to properly make arrows. It was a wonder I hadn't been laughed at more with what they saw of what I'd been carrying around before. Apparently I'd only been surviving this long on pure enthusiasm. I also splurged on a new, properly made, quiver, as well as some decent clothes that fit this time period. Well, male clothes that fit this time period.
I respected that they lived like that, and I wasn't going to start some sort of feminine revolution, this world probably wasn't ready for that anyway, and this wasn't some 'I am equal to men and I refuse to be forced to conform' sort of thing, no. I simply felt uncomfortable in a dress most days seeing as I was running around among the tree chasing animals or something, should skirts get caught they'd be ruined, or I'd get tangled or break an ankle. If I was going to be hanging around town with Lisbet and helping people with washing or something then I would wear a dress. Sometimes with leggings underneath, sometimes not. It depended on what I was going to be doing. Whenever I had to do something in Wymarks part of town I was a model citizen, though that didn't help anything.
My wounds from the incident with the slavers healed up rather nicely, with only one of them scarring. There was a jagged line streaking from my ninth to my fourth rib on my right side. It was a half an inch thick stripe of white, hardened skin, that throbbed when the weather did anything funny. But hey, at least there was no internal damage or something. The stitches had been some of the worst pain in my life, and the woman doing them had looked like she wanted to cry with me. But all in all, it could've been worse. For most the incident faded from memory almost as quickly as my bruises did, though not so much for Lisbet. She worked with me on my language skills, walking me around town and immersing me in the world and the words, taking me under her wing as much as she possibly could. I ate dinner at the inn with her when she was on break every night that I spent in the village, Padfoot under our feet and begging for scraps that she snuck to him under the table. I never mentioned I didn't mind, it was too amusing watching her attempt to be secretive.
I'm sure it was almost entirely due to Lisbet's dedication that I was able to make myself understood to traders, and that I could understand them in return, after what I reckoned to be about five months. Words I didn't understand, I asked about. I threw my pride out the window, because fuck it, gotta learn. It was better to look stupid one moment than to spend a lifetime looking like an idiot for misusing a simple word or fudging grammar. Sometimes there would be extreme difficulty with explaining words, so they would be left by the wayside and then shouted at a random moment whenever the perfect example showed itself. One such incident happened at the market one day, where I was speaking haltingly with a man who was, surprisingly, slightly shorter than I was, about a knife of decent size and make.
He was explaining something about the heat treatment with great enthusiasm, thrilled to have an attentive audience, one hand switching between motioning with his words and dragging a hand through his considerate amount of dark black facial hair, and the other petting Padfoot just right behind the ears. As he was pausing to clarify a particular term for me Lisbet appeared at my shoulder, triumphant, pointing to him and practically shouting a word that had been shelved a while ago. I had been so sure it was a simile for short, or small, but she was adamant it wasn't. The man was giving her a blank look and she turned a brilliant shade of red before speaking to him quickly enough I couldn't understand most of the words, but it was obvious she was trying to convey our system of random vocabulary lessons.
What followed that was a very long discussion with 'Krumran', whose fathers name was apparently Fremran, about a glorious people who lived in mountains and were the best fighters/metal workers/miners/musicians/poets/heroes who ever existed. It took me another two months, and a visit where he returned with more short, bearded, people, for me to realize they were dwarves. In my defence, one doesn't always jump to the conclusion of a semi-mythical race of people who dwell inside mountains in most legends. It certainly jived with what Kyle had been going on about. This was some sort of alternate reality with magic and shit of course. It was better than Dinosaurs and shit, I suppose, but I couldn't exactly trust anything because of what I knew from home, either. For all I knew in this reality Dwarves had the secret ability to suck your soul out dementor style, and were capable of turning into moles when there was digging to be done.
But since Padfoot had dubbed Krumran his absolute best friend ever, with the exception of myself and Lisbet of course, there was no avoiding him. To be perfectly honest I didn't want to. I needed to exercise a certain amount of caution, true, but I would do that with any stranger anywhere. To be extra careful because he was a dwarf would be a bit...is racist the right word even? Speciest? In any case, Krumran was well traveled, and through him I heard all sorts of tales and stories. Some tickled memories in the back of my mind, and others bore no resemblance to legends I'd heard in another world.
I turned nineteen with this new language at functional level of proficiency, a dog who loved the stuffing out of me, a best friend who put up with my language struggles, and a good friend who was well over a century old. It was a brave new world and depression was finding it harder to get a hold on me, though it certainly tried in the form of hissed insults and glares across rooms and streets. Wymark was coldly, quietly furious, and he wasn't completely alone.
~TimeLordOfPie