Gasping for breath as he staggered back from his work, Jorani leaned on his sledgehammer and craned his neck to check if the pillar was put in straight.
It wasn’t, which meant all his hard work was for naught and he’d have to pull it out and do this all again, else the whole wall would turn out crooked and improperly supported. Not so bad for a small hut, but this was meant to be a communal cooking area or something, so he would just have to keep at it until he got it right. That could wait until later though, when he regained feeling in his arms again, because this damned heavy sledgehammer was made with someone like Pran or Saluk in mind, not the likes of scrawny, slender Jorani. Besides, he never was one for hard work, and was only doing this for lack of anything better to do while keeping the bossman company at the Brotherhood’s monastery.
In Jorani’s eyes, hard work didn’t always pay off when it came to coin and wages. Ma worked harder than any two people he knew, and what did she have to show for it? He loved her dearly and would do anything to have her back, but in life, she was overworked and underpaid just like the rest of the working class in Sanshu. Things were supposedly better these days, but he hadn’t been back to see for himself yet, and had no intention of ever doing so. Far as he could tell, ‘better’ just meant ‘more like everywhere else’, where the common folk still worked hard and were underpaid, just not as much as they were in Sanshu. ‘Better’ was going to bed just a little hungry, but not hungry enough for the pangs to hurt. ‘Better’ was having enough downtime to whittle up an ornament or stitching together a nice leather jerkin in your hour or so of spare time every day, not to decorate your dark little hovel or have something nice to wear, but in hopes someone with more coin than sense would buy the work and you could maybe afford to eat half a fish for every meal instead of just a third for a bit.
That was part of the reason why he ran off to be a bandit, because if the nobles were gonna rob him of what he worked for just like they robbed Ma, then he figured it was fair play the other way around. Course things didn’t turn out that way and he ended up mostly robbing hard working folk who were already having trouble making ends meet, which left him conflicted but even more convinced that hard work was for idiots and optimists.
The Defiled had a different take on things. Murderous pursuits aside, no one could ever accuse the Enemy of being lazy, willing to trek hundreds of kilometres just for the chance to slaughter an Imperial. While the Brotherhood’s adopted Defiled rejects seemed less bloodthirsty than your garden variety savages, they clearly did not understand the meaning of the word ‘downtime’. Rhythmic grunts and thunks sounded throughout the burgeoning village as they set to building structures to reside in, with every last member expecting a spacious hut to call their own. Personal space was a foreign concept to the Defiled, one which appealed greatly to their suspicious nature, and Jorani could hardly blame them for it. If his neighbours sometimes devolved into bouts of frenzied bloodlust, he’d also want sturdy walls and a heavy door to keep himself safe. That being said, there’d been no deaths among the Defiled just yet, which was something of a miracle considering how often their gatherings led to fisticuffs, so Jorani assumed it would only be a matter of time.
Needless to say, he lacked the Brotherhood’s optimism when it came to the Defiled’s chances of reform. If the tribesmen didn’t kill one another, then they would surely kill themselves if they kept working at the pace they did. Day and night they toiled and sweat, working from Kukku’s crow right up until well after sundown when regular folk couldn’t see past their noses. Not the Defiled though; they worked and worked and then worked some more, with only brief breaks to drink water and eat white rice and vegetarian dishes the monks cooked up, coupled with whatever gamey meat or pungent fish they might scavenge throughout the day. The Defiled were not picky, and they saw no point in going out to hunt with food so plentiful around them, but Jorani suspected they simply preferred eating the food supplied by the Brotherhood. Not only were the monks some of the best cooks around, the Defiled were easily the worst Jorani had ever had the displeasure to witness at work. Cooking was a foreign concept to them, which made sense considering the scarcity of wood and coal way up in the frozen north, which was where this particular tribe hailed from.
Jorani learned this from the Defiled leader, a hulking, pregnant woman named Asmani with a crooked scowl and more scars than a ship full of Corsairs. Not that she cared to tell Jorani how she got them, or even answer basic questions like how old she was, how far along the baby might be, or who the unlucky father might be. No, everything Jorani learned, he learned from watching and listening, which wasn’t much because Asmani was the only Defiled in the bunch who knew more than a few words of Common. Some of the monks actually spoke the Enemy’s language, though as far as Jorani could tell, there was still a barrier even language had trouble breaking through.
So to remedy this, Monk Happy tasked Jorani with answering all of Asmani’s questions.
The woman wasn’t one for small talk or giving answers of her own, but she expected Jorani to hop to and tell her everything she wanted to know regarding even the most mundane of subjects. Things like: how do plants grow if they have no mouths to eat with? Why do birds make so much noise and fear no predators? Why was Jorani so short of stature despite having so much food available to him?
All asked in her curt, clipped tones as she loomed over him like an angry barmaid ready to tear him limb from limb for patting her on the buttocks. The only thing that kept him from taking offence was how much angrier she sounded when speaking to her kin, even the children who were some of the most disciplined brats Jorani ever had the displeasure to meet. Not disciplined in that they were well-behaved, but orderly and methodical about everything they did, as even playtime was approached like a learning exercise rather than the enjoyment it was supposed to provide. Tag, hide and seek, even flying kites eventually devolved into chaos, and while he was no stranger to roughhousing himself, this was something else. The children turned feral at the drop of pin, beating one another senseless in multi-sided brawls with no rhyme or reason, and if not for the Brotherhood’s attentive supervision, he imagined several children would have already died.
And yet they did so with the tactical precision of soldiers at war. It was uncanny and more than a little frightening to see how adept the Defiled children were at waging war.
Worst of all, the children’s fights were not the reason for Asmani’s tongue lashings, which were sometimes accompanied by actual beatings as if the children hadn’t suffered enough. No, the worst of her wrath was reserved not for the instigators or victors of the brawls, but rather those children who needed saving. When asked, she refused to answer with anything besides a derisive sneer, telling him, “Southlanders should mind southlander business, and leave us to do the same.”
Southlander. Not the worst thing Jorani had ever been called, but something about the way Asmani said it set his knuckles to itching. The woman had seventy five centimetres and at least a hundred and fifty kilograms on him, but something about her sparked a rage in him that made him yearn to drive his fists into her face. A terrible thing to do to a pregnant woman, even a Defiled one, but every night he dreamt of how satisfying it would be to defeat and dominate her in every possible way. A statuesque gorilla of a woman with features that could make milk curdle, she wasn’t much like the typical stars of Jorani’s dreams, nor were these ones particularly enjoyable, not after the fact at least, and he worried that by associating with these Defiled, he’d somehow caught the Father’s foul attention once more.
In fact, he was so worried he even went to Old Bones for advice, on account of how Monk Happy was busy with the bossman and Monk Eyebrows sided with Vyakhya and joined the defectors, leaving only the ancient but humorous Bones to turn to. Not that there was anything wrong with him, but Jorani preferred to ask for advice from the monks less willing to talk about his lack of genitals.
“This is what having a cock and balls will get you.” That was Old Bones’ response when Jorani first brought the matter up, to slap his thigh in a decidedly unmonklike manner and point at Jorani’s crotch with a knobbly finger. “Better if we removed them now and let you experience the clarity of mind for yourself. What’s the matter? It’s just a fleshy appendage, not your masculinity, and you can always grow it back if you ever come to regret it. Come, let me get my razor and a bit of string. We’ll tie it off, get it gone, and you’ll be up and about by lunchtime.”
Since he knew Old Bones would not be convinced otherwise, Jorani made some excuse and scurried off to the safety of the Defiled village. Then, the chop-happy monk came through a few days later and asked if Jorani was still having the dreams. Expecting another hard sell on genital mutilation, he nonetheless confirmed that he was, and explained how the experience was unnerving. “I don’t hate her, or like her, but fer some reason I can’t get her out of my dreams.” If he was going to dream of any women, he’d choose Lady Li Song or the beautiful Guard Leader and hopefully have some happier thoughts, but unfortunately, his unconscious mind fixated on Asmani and associated her with violence, hatred, and sex.
“You say the dreams are unnerving. Why? They are only dreams.”
Not prepared for the unexpected question, Jorani took a moment to consider the monks words, and when he couldn’t come up with a proper rebuttal, he defaulted to, “Dunno. Just bothers me to think about someone like that. I ain’t...” He was going to say a killer, but that wasn’t true, as he’d killed many a Defiled tribesman and Imperial citizen, too many for him to count really. “I ain’t bloodthirsty, not like that.”
“And how do these dreams change that?” Old Bones asked, continuing to play the fool and lead Jorani to the right questions and come up with answers on his own. “Does dreaming of murder make you a murderer? No more than yearning for food will fill your belly, so why does it bother you so?”
“Because it means deep down, I wanna kill her for no reason, even though that ain’t my sort of fun.” It really wasn’t. Soldiering was a job to Jorani, one that had him shaking in his boots after each and every battle, but he couldn’t give it up. Fighting needed to be done and the bossman wasn’t ever gonna back down, so Jorani was never gonna let him down. Not because he owed Falling Rain his life, but because the bossman made Jorani believe in the cause, to want to stand tall and defend the people like Ma who had no one else to stand up for them. Turning bandit was something he did to survive, but soldiering was his true calling, one given to him by the Mother Above.
If only She saw fit to make him better at it. Not a phenomenal genius like the bossman or anything, but something more than just competent would’ve been nice...
Flashing a knowing smile, Old Bones gave Jorani another question to ponder. “If you dream of sitting naked in public, does this make you an exhibitionist? If you dream of dying, does it mean you no longer care to live? If you dream of infidelity, does this mean you are unfaithful? Of course not, because dreams are nothing. They exist only within your mind, and there they will remain unless you make your thoughts reality. You dream of lust and violence because the three poisons have taken root in your soul, but they cannot change who you are, the same way dreams or thoughts alone do cannot make you a saint or murderer. Your dreams are a sign that all is not well, but so long as you hold fast to your morals and Balance, you will weather this rough storm and emerge stronger for it.”
And so even though those dreams haunted him every time he saw Asmani, he faced her down and refused to look away in shame. “They’re only dreams,” Jorani told himself, as the Defiled woman approached with more pillars for him to hammer, even though there was already a growing stack beside him. “They don’t mean nothing.”
In lieu of an actual greeting, Asmani stopped well over two meters away and eyed Jorani’s work. “This is crooked. You must fix it, Southlander.”
“I know,” he replied, trying to hide his exasperation with no success. “I’ll get right on it after I catch me breath.”
The woman studied him closely, as she was wont to do, and Jorani did the same to her. While most Defiled wore loose, western robes these days, the men and women of Asmani’s tribe had long since left those trappings behind. Not out of any symbolic defiance of their former allies or anything, but because their clothes didn’t survive the long trek through the Arid Wastes, which was how they got here in the first place. Neither did any of their mounts it seemed, but that was hardly surprising. The Arid Wastes were supposedly the most inhospitable land in all the Empire, though these Defiled apparently made it through with only minimal effort. Somehow, they didn’t encounter any hidden sand pits filled with deathstalker scorpions, dead trees housing hordes of banded beetles, flocks of Razor Shrikes soaring about in search of prey, roving colonies of Blessed thunder mice, or any of the other deadly beasts which called the Arid Wastes home. A spot of luck that, but Asmani chalked it up to the guidance of the Ancestors, which was pretty much the same as thanking the Heavens to them. Seemed a little blasphemous, but different strokes for different folks.
The real problem was that the Defiled refused any outright gifts from the Brotherhood outside of food, which they only accepted because the monks wouldn’t take no for an answer. The only sin worse than incurring a debt was to let food go to waste, so all the monks had to do was leave food out for the Defiled and they would eat up every last grain of rice and leaf of lettuce. Not so with the clothes however, which the Defiled refused to touch, eschewing any gifted garments in favour of wearing ragged loincloths which only barely hid their shame. Men and women alike went about barefoot and bare chested, both of which were far less enticing than it might otherwise sound. It wasn’t that they were all physically hideous, though more than a few were, but rather there was a wrongness about their features and physiques that made them seem odd and out of sorts. Their bodies were rippled with muscle, but not in a pleasant, aesthetic manner, with the skin stretched taut beneath bulging, veiny masses of brawn and sinew. Some had so many muscles, their necks seemed to disappear, while others were oddly proportioned or asymmetrical, with one arm bigger than the other or a hulking torso topping slender legs. It was just... out of the ordinary, like a child’s drawing of a person given life, as opposed to a realistic painting done by a master of his craft.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Take Asmani’s breasts for example, which were about as far from pale, full, and supple as could be, yet somehow, Jorani couldn’t tear his eyes away. They weren’t the same size, with the left being noticeably bigger than the right, and between all the rugged scars and filthy grime, it was hardly an erotic sight, but still... Breasts were breasts, and even bad breasts were pretty damned nice to look at.
“Your breath is returned,” Asmani said, still standing a bit too far for normal conversation, and it was a wonder she didn’t put both fists on her hip and glower. “Sunlight is burning, is this not so?”
A clever girl, this Defiled Chieftain. Two weeks ago, she struggled to understand Jorani if he spoke too quickly, but now she was starting to use the jargon like a real Imperial native, albeit one who was trying too hard to sound like she was from Sanshu. “That it is,” Jorani said, deliberately settling back onto his elbows to relax. “But it’s not like I got a deadline or anything, right? The work will get done when it is done, and not a second sooner.”
“Your words make little sense Southlander.” Never one to mince words, Asmani asked, “You mean to sleep here?”
“Maybe.” He’d sooner sleep in a pit filled with vipers, but Jorani wasn’t about to admit that. “If the mood strikes me, I might catch a few blinks.”
“...If you do not mean to work or sleep, we will have words.” She wasn’t saying they were going to argue, but rather she meant they would literally have a conversation, but Jorani had long since given up on trying to explain the meaning of idioms to her. Squatting down on her haunches without scooting closer, she settled in and fixed him with her hawkish stare, one he tried exceptionally hard to meet so as to keep his eyes from straying elsewhere. Mother in Heaven, was he really this starved for female attention, to the point where he wanted to peek at a Defiled Chieftain’s nether regions? The woman was visibly pregnant now, her belly protruding halfway to her muscular thighs, but it didn’t seem to inconvenience her any as she worked harder than anyone else in her tribe. “You are at ease here.”
Not even remotely true, but there was more coming, so Jorani simply waited for the Defiled Chieftain to continue. After struggling to give voice to her thoughts, she asked, “Why?”
That was a twist then. “Why am I at ease here?” The woman nodded, and Jorani used one of the Brotherhood’s favourite tricks. “Should I not be? Yer tribesmen fixin’ to gut me and mount me skull as a trophy?”
“You are weak.” There was no condemnation in her tone, as Asmani was merely stating a fact. The sun is bright. Water is wet. You are weak. “You should never be at ease, not if you wish to preserve your life.” Tilting her head in thought, she eyed his rat ears and added, “Your skull would make a poor trophy. Small and dainty, like a child’s, and lacking any impressive ornamentation. I do not think any of my tribesmen would so desire it.”
“Is that so?” Squashing down his indignation over her comment about his dainty skull, Jorani drawled, “Well, I suppose yer right. I should be more guarded, but it’s been three weeks and none of ye have tried to kill me yet, so I guess I just got complacent.”
“Complacent.” Rolling the word over her tongue like tasting a fine wine, Asmani asked, “This word, it means foolish?”
This woman really knew how to get his blood boiling, and not in the good way either. “No, it means... err... feeling safe and secure when ye shouldn’t.”
“So foolish.” Without missing a beat, Asmani asked, “If you were to visit another tribe of your people, one you had exchanged blades with, and they did not attempt to kill you, would you also grow... complacent?”
“Well... yeah, I suppose I would so long as we weren’t still fighting.” A strange question to ask, until Jorani saw her try to wrap her head around the concept of ‘not fighting’. Jorani thought these Defiled tribesmen were here to settle down, but in their eyes, this was just a break in between fights, because they were always at war. That was how the Defiled lived, always preparing for the worse and never letting their guard down even in the heart of their tribe. For Heaven’s sake, she refused to come closer to Jorani while they talked because she was wary of an attempt on her life, but she treated her tribesmen the same way and was utterly flummoxed that he did things differently. “There ain’t no threats here,” he said, offering what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Long as you stay close to the monastery, there ain’t anything that can harm ye.”
“If you truly believe your words, then you are truly a fool, Southlander.” Again, Asmani’s tone lacked any heat at all, though he sensed a note of frustration as she accepted how she would never get through to the ‘Southlander’ sitting before her. “Danger lurks within every shadow and around every bend. You only lack the eyes to see it.”
Not so different from ‘trials and tribulations without end’, and for the first time, he felt like he understood the Defiled mindset. They fought and killed because to them, it was not a means to an end, but rather a way of life. Weakness was death, and she thought him a fool that did not fear death, but still she came here to try and warn him. Sitting up, he dusted off his hands and hopped to his feet, only to stifle a smile as Asmani followed suit and watched him with a guarded expression, wary of his quick movements because suspicion was baked into her very nature. There were no friends or allies, only enemies you were fighting and enemies you’d fight later, a pitiful outlook devoid of cheer and happiness. “So let me get this straight,” he began, intentionally turning away from her as he went back to work, hefting his sledgehammer in hand again. “You ain’t ever had someone ye could trust? Someone to watch yer back and keep ye from gettin’ yer throat slit while ye sleep?”
“I did. He left.”
Ah. Even the Defiled could experience grief and heartbreak, if the crack in Asmani’s tone was anything to go by. “I’m sorry fer yer loss,” he said, out of natural reflex, but her response surprised him.
“You!” Grabbing him by the arm, Asmani broke his wrist with a roar, but Jorani put the pain out of mind as he fought for dear life. Reminding himself that she was pregnant, he avoided kicking her in the belly and reached for his Spiritual Weapon instead, all while surrendering himself to her pull. There was no contest when it came to physical strength, and fighting would only cause him more pain, so he went with the flow and tried to keep her off balance while his fingers worked his rope into a noose which shot up and looped over the Defiled Chieftain’s head. Yanking hard with one hand, he tightened the noose around her throat, and was glad to see her free hand go up to grab it. As she pulled forward on the noose, Jorani again went with the flow and let go of his weapon, and the noose widened as Asmani jerked it free. Not expecting his lack of resistance, she over-committed to the movement which sent her stumbling forward for a single step, one she never completed as Jorani intercepted it while still in the air. Pushing her elevated foot with his own and guiding it towards her other ankle, he got her all tangled up in her own limbs and pulled hard with his broken wrist, while his free hand regained control of his rope and twisted the noose to wrap around her upper body. Yanking as hard as he could, he pulled until the Defiled Chieftain arched her back and his feet touched the ground again, at which point he had her neatly trapped and at his mercy without putting any pressure on her belly or causing any actual harm.
Not a bad maneuver, if he did say so himself, though reflection on his Insight would have to wait. “Calm yerself now,” he began, gently lowering her to her knees before planting a boot against her back and pulling his rope for all he was worth. “I ain’t gonna kill ye unless I hafta,” he said, glad she’d stopped struggling since he was pretty sure he couldn’t hold her in place if she did. “But at least tell me why? We was having such a nice conversation just now, but ye had to go an’ ruin it.”
“You killed him, and now you taunt me,” she growled, and for a moment, he mistook her trembling shoulders for unchecked rage. “Kill me so that I too may join the Ancestors and reunite with his spirit.”
“Killed who? And how ye come to the conclusion that I even did the deed?”
Finally cluing in to the fact that there was something wrong, Asmani craned her neck to study Jorani’s expression. “You apologized. An apology is an admission of offence or failure. I took this to mean you killed him.”
“That’s it?” So bewildered by her wild leap of logic, Jorani almost released his hold, then loosened his grip anyways because she’d let go of his broken wrist and he wanted to fix it up before the swelling set in. Breaks were strange, in that so long as you Healed them quickly, they wouldn’t bother you even a bit, but leave them too long and it’ll ache for days, if not weeks. Strange that, but it is what it is, and Asmani had clearly given up the fight. “I say ‘sorry fer yer loss’, and that’s enough to throw ye into a murderous rage?”
“There was no rage,” she replied, coming to her feet and turning to face him, though his noose was still stuck fast around her. That was a trick Jorani picked up after trussing up them Demons during the withdrawal from Sinuji. It was a bit like Honing, without the edge, more of a bite than a slash if anything. The Rope would rend and tear if she tried to slip out of it, and do worse if she tried to break free. Granted, she could still give him the boot and turn him into meat paste or tackle him and send him flying, but he could kill her with a thought and somehow, she knew it. “If there were, you would be dead.”
“So what? Ye broke my arm as a warning?”
“No. I meant to take you alive so I could offer your suffering to Vithar’s vengeful soul.”
Well fuck. Vithar was it? The name sounded familiar, but Jorani couldn’t place it, not while keeping an eye on the Defiled around him and Healing his broken arm. For some reason, the others had yet to rush him and were simply watching the conflict play out, showing no emotion and not even watching their Chieftain. In fact, they seemed more amused than anything, or about as amused as Defiled could get, trading knowing glances as they watched things play out. Where the hell were the monks? Had they all left Jorani alone with the Defiled? He assumed Monk Happy had set a protector for him, or maybe one of the bossman’s crew was looking over his shoulder, but apparently Jorani was here on his own, and the thought terrified him to no end. “Look here,” he said, using a remarkably calm tone that surprised even himself. “I didn’t kill no Vithar, not that I know of. Last Defiled I killed was months ago, during the whole shindig at Castle JiangHu.”
“The tribe remembers you,” Asmani said, her words taking on a reverent cadence, like she was saying a catechism rather than stating a fact. “You fought well, but Vithar would have torn you limb from limb, as would I were it not for my weakness.”
Meaning her pregnancy, though Jorani wasn’t gonna touch on that subject. Let her call her unborn child whatever she wanted, but he was more concerned about how the Defiled tribesmen had seen him fight. If they saw him on the field of battle, then that means they fought, which meant it was possible Jorani killed someone they knew. Asmani was right; Jorani was foolish to let his guard down around them, but in his defence, he didn’t know he’d killed members of their tribe. “Good fer him and good fer you,” Jorani said, flashing a grin at the Defiled in stupid defiance. “But I didn’t kill yer Vithar, and even if I did, I ain’t interested in offering anything to his soul, suffering or otherwise. What I can tell ye is this: if ye rode away with him from that battle, then I didn’t kill him, and ye can take that as fact or leave it.”
Asmani nodded, all cool and collecteds now that she’d gotten herself back under control. “You are stronger than suspected,” she said, indicating his weapon wrapped around her arms. “The Ancestors tell me you could kill me with a thought, that I would have died if you meant me harm. Is this true?”
“What? Ye don’t trust yer Ancestors?” His grin still locked in place, he shrugged and said, “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. Guess you’ll hafta find out the hard way.”
“What is the hard way?” Tilting her head again, she asked, “Do you mean to make me suffer then?”
Again, that matter of fact tone threw Jorani off, because even though she thought he meant to torture her, there was nothing about her that even suggested she was worried or afraid. “Nah, nor do I mean to kill ye either. Just a misunderstanding is all, so if ye tell me you mean me no harm, then I’ll let ye go, clean and easy.”
“I mean you no harm, unless harm is done to me or mine,” she replied, and Jorani freed her without question. Rubbing her arms where his weapon bit deep, she nodded at something behind Jorani and asked, “Then what of him?”
Worried it was some sort of trick to make him look away, Jorani sidestepped to see what was behind him without turning his back to Asmani, only to stop when he saw the bossman standing there, bold as could be with sword and shield at the ready. For three weeks, the man did almost nothing, spending his days with the monks and his nights with his pets, but now he was here and ready to kill at the drop of a hat. No wonder the Defiled didn’t move; the Bossman was a Peak Expert or something, far stronger than any of them could ever hope to match, and while they did not fear death, they most certainly respected strength.
“Err... thanks bossman,” Jorani said, giving Asmani the benefit of a doubt as he moved into the bossman’s field of view to hopefully deescalate the situation. Waving his arms to catch the man’s attention, Jorani said, “Everything’s fine. Just a little spat is all. We’re all good.” To emphasize this, he shifted closer to Asmani and gingerly patted her arm, since the bossman seemed to have trouble understanding words and did better with actions. “See? No killin’ goin’ on here.”
Though the Defiled Chieftain flinched at his touch, she didn’t skirt away, probably because she was afraid of what the bossman might do. Not that he looked particularly fierce with his slender frame and neutral expression, but about two weeks back, the entire tribe stopped work and gathered together to stare at the monastery walls. Jorani didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary, but according to Asmani, the Ancestors were throwing a tizzy about some unnatural occurrence, a disturbance that had most of them shaken and screaming to flee. However, as far as he could tell, the Ancestors were more like advisors than commanders, and not particularly trusted ones at that, so the Defiled tribe went back to work after the disturbance died down and the monks told them all was well.
Apparently, the bossman was responsible for causing that disturbance, when he reformed his second Spiritual Weapon, the shield he now sported on his left wrist. How this was possible, Jorani hadn’t the faintest clue, and the monks were keeping mum about the whole thing. If he hadn’t seen the bossman’s destroyed weapons with his own eyes, Jorani might even suspect that the whole shattered Core fiasco was merely a ruse, but there was no denying it, not for him. The bossman was the real deal, and Jorani would follow him to the ends of the world and beyond if need be.
Regarding Jorani with empty eyes, the bossman took long minutes pondering Jorani’s message, minutes the entire tribe stood idly about. Then, out of nowhere, the bossman lowered his weapons and emanated an Aura of caution and concern, one that was touching in how heartfelt it was. The bossman wasn’t putting on a show, because he truly cared, and Jorani felt blessed to have a friend so true. Awkwardly knuckling his friend’s shoulder, he simply nodded in silent thanks as men were supposed to do, which the bossman took as a farewell. Instead of leaving however, he shuffled about in a small circle and studied his surroundings, seemingly content to stand there and stare for as long as he pleased until Monk Happy arrived to fetch him. Only after both men were gone did the Defiled resume their work, though oddly enough, most offered him a respectful nod before shuffling off. Those who didn’t gave him a challenging stare, to which he responded with his customary grin while resting one hand on the coiled weapon hanging from his belt.
“Perhaps you will do better than expected,” Asmani declared, but Jorani couldn’t make heads or tails of the statement.
“Do better at what?”
“At being Chieftain.”
This time it was Jorani’s time to ponder the message, and when he finally figured it out, he could scarcely believe it. “Wait what? What do you mean, Chieftain?”
“The strong lead, and the weak follow. Such is our way.” Scowling as she rubbed her arms again, she nodded off in the bossman’s direction and continued, “You have defeated me in fair challenge and you hold the Devourer’s confidence. This alone is enough for the tribe to accept you as Chieftain, though many will seek to challenge you in the coming days.” While he was still floundering in the troubled waters of that ominous statement, Asmani threw him another anchor and asked, “What will you do with me now? Am I to be offered to the Ancestors or do you intend to use me for pleasure first?” Narrowing her eyes, she added, “If it is the first, then I will fight you to the death. The second, I will have to consider it. I have never lain with a man so much smaller than myself, though I am not entirely against it. I have seen your hungry stares, and while I thought to put you in your place, you have proven yourself as a man worthy enough to pleasure.”
Squashing down his urges, Jorani stared at the Heavens and seriously considered taking Old Bones up on his offer. How bad could it really be? Certainly not worse than marrying a Defiled Chieftain, one pregnant with another man’s child no less.
“Mother in Heaven,” Jorani mumbled, not caring if anyone overheard him, “Sometimes, ye can be a real sick, twisted bitch.
Chapter Meme