Kaelen knelt. He took out his own water flask and a small pouch of dried meat—his own rations—and set them down. “What’s your story?”
“And walk into my village as refugees, not raiders. I’ll vouch for you. But I’ll need Marrow’s word that she can heal our blacksmith’s daughter. She’s had a fever for a week, and our healer is old and blind.” passive pillager
Marrow told him. Their band had been forced conscripts of a warlord to the east. When he fell, they fled. They had never wanted to pillage. They had never hurt a villager. They only wanted to cross the pass to the unclaimed marshes, where they could live as trappers and herb-gatherers in peace. But every village saw the crossbows, the axe, the tattoos—and closed its gates. Kaelen knelt
Kaelen sat in silence for a long moment. Then he did something no scout in Verveil had ever done. I’ll vouch for you
In the sun-scorched village of Verveil, a young scout named Kaelen was known for his steady hands and a sharper conscience. He had been tracking a small, separated band of pillagers for three days. These weren't the brutal, horn-helmed marauders of storybooks—just three ragged figures: a weary crossbowman, a pockmarked axe-bearer, and an older woman who carried no weapon, only a worn satchel.
Marrow’s weathered face cracked into a small, tired smile. “I can heal her. I was a bonesetter’s apprentice before the warlord’s men took me.”
Kaelen had his sword sheathed. His palms were open.