# The Price of Freedom (Based on R.E.H/Conan)



## Daranavo (Feb 7, 2007)

Part 1

The rough, hemp rope bit into her skin as the dark, tattooed Pict yanked upon it cruelly and cast her off balance. Her legs kicked out from under her and snow flew backward as her boots tried to dig in and hold her up but to no avail. Meadhbh fell forward and slid several feet upon her stomach. She groaned as the hard snow scraped across her skin however she staved off the urge to weep and denied them the satisfaction. The icy cold of the freshly fallen snow seeped into her leather jerkin and she rolled as the horse that led her took a sharp turn. The activity roused several chuckles out of the gloomy men that watched as she struggled to get to her feet once more however the severe cold and lack of coverings had began to take their toll upon her. Her long, brown locks were drenched and her arms were bare against the harsh weather which even a Cimmerian such as she would eventually succumb. 

The miles had been many that she was forced to trudge behind the small brown pack mule that the mongrel-like Picts, her captures, considered to be a horse. Her thoughts dwelt upon the Priests that were killed and left to rot upon the snow. In truth, she was the only one who fought them and she surmised that it was because she fought back that she alone was spared, but to what end she dared not to think on. A small, short-haired man spoke to the largest of them who stood no taller then she. His tattoos were of blue snakes that coiled down his arms. She thought that they were skillfully painted and she silently wondered how such a cruel people could create something with such color and skill.

“Broichan…how much for the woman?” He asked in an almost snarl. The taller, curly haired man had tattoos all over his legs however she could not quite make out what they were of save for that they were darker and more ominous then the blue snakes of his comrade. He wore very little clothing but a pair of boots, some kind of thick cloth that covered his midsection and a long, dark brown bear skin cloak. Upon his back he had a large, curved sword. The smaller man became angered at being ignored and asked again. “A fair price was offered…she will not fetch half that in barter.” He continued. Broichan stopped on a dime and quickly spun around. Anger seethed in his eyes. His well-muscled arm quickly shot out as if a snake to strike its victim and caught the small man upon the throat. He moved closer to him in an instant and hunched over to look him in the eye. “One more word out of you Mollack and I will let her lead you into the village! Gonal will have our heads if his son dies. She is my charge until the boy is healed and she will be my gift to him when he returns! And she will remain...unspoiled! Now stifle your squawking worm!” He growled and pushed him back violently. Mollack loudly coughed and placed his hands around his neck. He was angry and embarrassed but did not speak. Several other men also similarly dressed stepped past him and somberly continued to step through the wet, cold snow. Mollack looked over at Meadhbh once more. Her well tanned skin had patches of red from the wetness and the biting cold of the wind. She was very fit as most Cimmerian women were and he wanted her for his own. Her full breasts heaved as she tried to keep up with the horse that half dragged her along. The muscles of her arms were well defined but it was her blue eyes that captivated him since he first laid eyes upon her. Without warning Mollack drew his blade and started toward Broichan in a run. He closed the distance quickly and leveled his blade to skewer his leader in the back. When Mollack came right on him, Broichan twisted his body with the speed and grace of a panther. In one fluid motion his curved sword came loose from its perch upon his shoulder and slashed out at Mollack right near to Meadhbh. Broichan’s blade caught him in the neck and though his feet and body continued to move past him, his head flew up into the air and spun around. His dark hair tossed with it and blood squirted out in all directions. Two small streams came from the tumbling head and splashed blood in long streams upon her face and chest. Several steps ahead, Mollack’s body finally fell forward in a heap. A steamy red pool began to form around its neck and chest. Broichan stooped over him and cleaned his blade upon his back without as much as a word. Cleanly, he set his blade back into its scabbard and he continued to pad forward as did the others who witnessed Mollack’s demise.


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## Daranavo (Feb 7, 2007)

Part 1 Con't

The cloudy day began to darken as the unseen sun gave way to the coming of the cold and unforgiving night. The Pict hunting party approached their encampment that surprisingly had been left undiscovered considering how far south it stood out of their own lands. The Picts appeared to be getting bolder at the onset of the cold, winter season. However for this clan it was boldness intermixed with desperation. For their lords own son had been stricken with illness and they were fraught with what to do. Fearful of their lord’s wrath lest he return to find his son in such a state, Broichan set out his scouts in the hopes of capturing a healer. Stygian, Cimmerian, it did not matter, only that the boy would be healed before their master’s return. He had known of a Temple of Mitra that lay nearby, however he was not exactly sure of its location. It was pure luck that a hunting party came across several priests as they journeyed south to bring the words of Mitra to the Cimerians who lived there. Broichan himself led the party and ordered all of the priests killed but one, a female.

In the distance, several lights could be seen by all and many of the weary Picts sighed in relief and exhaustion. Small tufts of light smoke drifted up and settled like a white halo just above the camp. The Picts were skilled as to how to produce such thin smoke from their fires which made it difficult to see in the hazy backdrop of a cloudy evening. Several dark forms moved about and a small group appeared to stop and take notice to their arrival. 

The rough hide boots that clung tightly to their swollen feet and legs were sopped and terribly uncomfortable. The men that carried deer carcasses upon their shoulders groaned at the prospect of a warm meal and a dry place to sleep for the night as they drew every closer to their camp. The words between them were few and what little of that, which was said, Meadhbh could not understand. Meadhbh’s back had grown very stiff to the constant pull of the horse she trailed behind. The uneven and slippery ground she trodded through made it difficult to keep her balance but she could not bear to be dragged or carried like a wounded dog. She gathered no solace from the prospect of warmth and food for she quietly feared for what was to become of her. Would she ever see her clan again? Will she be raped and tortured over and over and forced to bear them heathen children? She was sure she would kill herself before it came to that as the party approached the large encampment.

Mangy dogs that more closely resembled Hyenas, and several armed men ran up to the group with weapons drawn when the party stopped and waited. For a moment she was thankful that the horse was idle. She panted hard and tried to catch her breath while she could and she felt the bloodied rope burns upon her wrists but she made no complaint of it openly. She listened intently as words were exchanged between Briochan and another large, tattooed man that ran out to greet them. By their expressions light words were exchanged and the two men eventually locked arms in what she assumed was a gesture or greeting of a sort. With that the horse moved again and with it she stumbled behind it once more. Some of the men that ran up helped with the stiffened carcasses and spoke gleefully to one another as they all moved back into the camp.

Children and women clothed in skins and furs moved about the inner confines of the Pict encampment. Just like the men, the women also were tattooed in similar colors and designs upon their faces and bodies. The women looked at her with scorn upon their faces and the children eyed her curiously. Several of them whispered to one another as she moved by them. 

Large, round, crude looking tents of different sizes and smaller willowy shelters appeared to be what the Picts lived in. The tents were made of various animal skins, bones and wood as far as she could tell and stood in almost a circle around a large fire that burned brightly at their center. Many Picts sat around the fire upon cleaved stumps as they talked, ate and drank. Many looked over in her direction as she was pulled past them.

Again the horse halted and she just stood in place and tried not to look at anyone. Her arms and legs were numb to the cold and she felt as if she would fall soon if she was not allowed to sit. As her thoughts lingered once again to the murdered priests that she had come to know a man she did not recognize came up and cut the rope that tethered her to the horse. Roughly, he coiled it around his fist and tugged upon it. Meadhbh did not move and did not look up at him. Rough hands gripped her chin tightly and tilted her face up. He looked at her closely and turned her head from side to side. With his other hand, he lifted her upper lip and surveyed her teeth rudely. She allowed her vision to cloud as he looked her over and her eyes did not focus upon his face. He turned her around as if surveying a pony and slapped her arm and squeezed the muscle just above the elbow. He repeated the process with her thigh and then her left buttock. When he grabbed it, he shook it vigorously. He grinned in approval as he turned his gaze behind her. With a grunt he stepped out in front of her and spoke to a man that she had not noticed was behind her. As soon as the exchange was over she was led by him into one of the larger tents that stood close by.


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