Chapter Text

Part One: Mud, Blood, and Hatred

Chapter One: Captive

"I think you're going to like this one," the trapper remarks as he carefully slides the net from his horse's back.

"Hm. I'll be the judge of that."

"Uh, yeah. Of course."

Despite the disinterest of the trader behind him, the young trapper smiles to himself. This has to be worth a lot. He's sure of it. Once untangled from the netting he drags his catch back to sit slumped against a tree, then steps back to allow the trader a full view, nervously running his hand through his short brown hair.

"A tribeswoman."

"Yes."

"Which tribe?"

"One of the North-Eastern ones. I don't quite remember the names…" He scrunches up his bright blue eyes, trying to remember what the traders call the local tribes.

"Coyotes? Smokestack?"

"Smokestack, yeah, that's it. She's from Smokestack."

That piques the man's interest. He crouches down beside the unconscious woman to investigate further, tucking a lock of loose hair that has escaped his ponytail behind his ear. Two patterned bands are tattooed crossing over each other just above the captive's right elbow, the black outlines of fire rising above them to lick at her shoulder. Her left palm is rough and mottled with pink. Some kind of black paste has been smeared under her eyes.

"Flame tattoos, burn scars, and charcoal on her face. Checks out. I don't think I've seen a Smoker caught before."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Well. We don't know how feisty their tribeswomen are. And we don't know how the rest of the tribe will react to this one's removal."

"...Oh…" The trapper shuffles nervously in the other man's piercing gaze. The trader almost laughs when he sees the look on the pale man's face. Must be a newbie, at least in this area.

"Do you know how old she is?"

"Not entirely certain. Twenties, maybe? But your guess is as good as mine."

"Small one, isn't she? Do you know anything about her? Skills?"

"Well, we found her out on her own with a wolf and a spear. The mutt ran off, though."

"A huntress?"

"Presumably."

He picks up the bone necklace resting on her chest, examining the large canine teeth strung on it. His eyes take in the feathers over her shoulders and around her ankles, the small pouch strung around her waist, and the fur that makes up her dress. It could all be worth something, in addition to the girl herself.

"She's not lame? No noticeable issues?"

"From where we were, looked like a perfect specimen."

He pulls back her lip to check on her teeth. Some yellowing, a spot of rot, but nothing worse than what's expected from a tribeswoman. No lice, from what he can see. Her eyes seem fine, and apart from a few scars she appears to be in good condition. Albeit being small her body is lean and fairly toned. She'll sell well. For a minute he pretends to be deep in thought, scratching his blond stubble.

"We'll take her. The spear too, if you still have it."

Negotiation is swift and the trapper is paid. It's not quite as much as he had hoped to get, but then again the trader didn't seem as interested as he had expected. He mounts his horse as said trader stoops to pick up the girl.

She's deposited carelessly on the rickety table near the centre of the camp. The trader selects a pair of pliers from a toolbox, pulls open the tribeswoman's mouth and extracts the rotten tooth he saw earlier. A few moments of pressure with a cloth on the bleeding gum, then he moves on to removing her accessories. The necklace, ankle cuffs, earrings, and hair tie are set aside in a box. Once the fang that serves as a toggle on her little pouch is undone he's slightly disappointed to find only flints and dry grass. Tinder, presumably. No matter; there are idiots back in his home country who will pay good money for knick-knacks like the bag. Dumping its contents out onto the ground, he packs it into the box too. Glancing back at the tribeswoman, his nose wrinkles. The fur can be dealt with later, if it's even worth anything. Filthy, singed, worn, and God it stinks. Somebody's going to have to dunk that girl in the river. But for now, he picks her up and sets off towards the empty crate he’s been keeping beside the cart.

Zazzalil's head hurts. It's never hurt this bad before, and she’s had some intense headaches in her time. The pain is the only thing that seems real; she feels almost like she’s underwater. Despite the grogginess she tries to curl herself up, but almost immediately pauses. The floor feels different as she pulls her limbs over it. Wrong. With a jolt of fear she realizes that she can't feel even the slightest touch of another human; Jemilla never gets up without waking her. Although she tries to open her eyes, the sudden brightness forces her to cover them. It's too bright to be morning, but why would she be waking up in the middle of the day?

"...Jay?" she eventually manages to mumble.

No response.

"Jemilla? Babe?"

She can hear people walking around and talking, but the words seem garbled and far away. There's an ache in her jaw too, and a brief investigation with her tongue reveals a missing tooth. That's… strange.

Slowly removing her hand from her face, she squints in the harsh light. She's not in their hut, she quickly realizes. She doesn't know what she's in, but it's small and enclosed and she immediately hates it. She sits up, bashes her head on the roof of whatever it is and begins kicking and pushing it. Her thoughts are racing. How the fuck did I get here?! Who shut me in this thing?! She’s too dazed to think of possible answers; all she can do is panic. But despite all her efforts, the structure holds firm.

Eventually she stops trying to break out, instead opting to check out her surroundings. The crate is constructed of pieces of wood with gaps in between, so she can easily look out. From what she can make out through the haze in her head, it seems to her like she's in another tribe's village. That can't be good; she's never had the best relations with the neighbors. What do they want with her?

It's only when she moves to push her hair out of her eyes that she realizes it's loose. Someone's taken her hair tie. Not only that, but somebody's taken her necklace, her earrings - everything but her dress. Her flint pouch is gone too. Whatever's going on here is, in her humble opinion, fucked, and she's pissed off.

"Hey!" She calls out. Nobody responds. Ignoring her, apparently. Glaring out at the camp, she begins to knock on the wood. Hopefully if she keeps the noise up long enough someone will get annoyed enough to acknowledge her existence.

"Hey!" She yells. "Hey, bastards!"

The tribeswoman's attempts to be annoying are... working. Unbeknownst to her, conversation between the inhabitants of the camp has turned to debating who's going to have to deal with her. Raising another hand to drum against the planks, she continues to shout words that nobody understands. What they can interpret, however, is that her grunts and yells are absolutely furious.

"For God's sake, will you shut that girl up?!"

"I’m not interested in starting a shouting match with her."

"She's probably just hungry."

"If she doesn't stop I'm going to go over there and bash her over the head."

After much discussion, a dark-haired woman breaks away from the group to approach the crates. The captive doesn't appear to notice at first, too engrossed in the sound she's making. The drumming and shouting has become rhythmic, more reminiscent of a chant than mindless noise. This comes as no surprise to those in the camp familiar with the area's tribes. Smokestack, as the trappers and traders refer to it, is known for many things. Music is only one of them.

"Dooo wat tata ta ta da," the tribeswoman chants, a snarl on her face, "doo wat tata ta ta da!"

The trader, though frustrated with the constant noise, keeps her face blank - not letting the captive know her plan is working. With one swift motion, she unhooks her weapon from her belt and brings it down hard through the slats of the crate onto the tribeswoman's arm. The chant stops immediately, drumming ceasing as she snatches her arms away. The shock is something the trader expected; the girl is used to primitive stone weapons. The sharp sting of the folded leather strap is unlike anything she ever would have felt before.

"Quiet," the trader commands. Holding her strapped arm to her chest, the captive tilts her head to one side. She doesn't understand the order, at least not yet; a dog doesn't understand the first time she's called to heel. But that can change. Though, from the bared teeth of this dog, the trader guesses it may take a while.

That's three things that hurt now, Zazzalil notes as she rubs her arm. It's nothing she can't deal with, though. It only takes a glance down to remind her of that. Patches of skin on the hand of that same arm are discoloured and twisted, and when that injury happened she just shook it off… and did it again. It took an age for her to even realize she was wounded. There were more pressing issues to worry about. She curls the scar into a fist. There are more pressing issues now. She was trying to get someone to acknowledge her and now here someone is, acknowledging her. Time to figure out what's going on.

"Who are you?" She growls. And near instantly the stinging is fresh again. The woman standing in front of her gives that same sharp word.

"Who are you?!"

The same result. Zaz draws a breath to ask again, but then pauses. Think about the consequences, Zazzy, she reminds herself.

"Who the fuck are you?" She demands. But this time her arms are carefully tucked behind her back.

The blow hits her leg instead. The word is repeated.

Zazzalil tries to back away as far as she can before speaking again, but the attack still lands. The crate is too small, there’s no way to protect herself, and all this trying to get out of the way feels too much like cowering. Even when caged, this woman will not be forced into cowering.

Shuffling herself forward and leaning her head against one of the planks, she stares up at the trader with the one eye that can see through the gap between the slats.

"My name is Zazzalil the Firebringer," she says as calmly as she can, raising her burned hand to point to her tattooed upper arm, "wife to Jemilla the Peacemaker. I am a leader to our great people. I demand to be released from this… thing and be given an explanation as to what the actual fuck is going on here!"

For a long moment neither says a word. The feathers adorning the Firebringer's shoulders gently rise and fall with her heavy breathing, her face threatening to twist back into a snarl. The leather strap taps lightly against the trader's leg as she stares down into that dark, wild eye. That outburst was indecipherable to her, but the tone was unmistakable. Making sure the tribeswoman sees, she hooks her weapon back onto her belt. She crouches to the captive's eye level and slowly reaches out a hand. The dark eye shifts down, and after a few moments' consideration the captive decides to accept what she assumes to be a sign of respect and offers her hand too. But she quickly realises her mistake when the trader grabs her wrist and holds it in an iron grip.