Valuable, all the same

Just over a year ago, late in the gloomy Bettramon autumn, merely a week's walk to the final port to freedom.

Osthryn curses under her breath.

She expected some more safety, a little less reactivity in this southernmost village of Bettramon. Scarcely had she arrived among its streets in her usual mode of simple folk-witch, when the hounds converged on her.

Now she kneels on the hard-packed sand of the village square, head bowed. The silver-braided rope burns her as it cuts into her wrists. The relative discomfort of the rope pales in comparison to the searing corrosion of the silver powder covering her face and neck. The damned powder creeps further under her neckline at every shift and breath.

The din of the village square rises around her. Osthryn’s heart sinks with resignation when she briefly meets the eyes of a child. Armed with eyes full of whole-hearted intent to kill this devil kneeling before him. A child turned so young is not a strange sight to her. Thousands of years of belief is not something she can blame the child for carrying. It is a pity that those thousands of years of belief are actioned through seeking her death.

Osthryn racks her brain for an escape route. Her usual method of feigning death after being thrown off a cliff will not work so close to the coast. This village is inconveniently settled in the plains. She wonders how they will try killing her. Will they burn her at the stake? Hang her? Drown her? She eyes the many silver blades surrounding her. Running her through will be a guaranteed death.

She does not know what she did to trigger this encounter. There was nothing here to precipitate this. No untowardly quick healings. No open displays of magic. Not even any enchantment of potions. It was two hundred years at least since she was last accused. Perhaps the long years have caused her to grow negligent; to miss the signs that led to her trek to the first sea-port south being interrupted by a spray of silver powder in her face.

"Talons be nails, claws be hands..."

The rhyme repeats itself uselessly in her mind. The silver exposes what it touches, and unlike fire, it burns.

A staff plants itself in the ground before her, aggressively displacing the dirt. A swish of linen robes obscures the blades from her view.

"If you insist on disposing of this one, sell it to me. Our people have good use for these beasts, and losing one so young and healthy will be a terrible shame."

Spots of derisive laughter emerge from the stunned crowd. Osthryn’s chest tightens, her fear taking on a desperate note. To be killed is one thing. But to be sold? To a buyer that clearly believes Dragons are "good and useful" beasts to be traded like ponies?

The thought of what such a man could do to someone like her makes her blood run cold. 

 “Scribe Oswald,” the chief states regally, “while you are an honoured guest, and you and your people’s ways are unknown to us, this beast is neither good nor useful. This devil will turn you inside out before you set foot out of this village."

 ‘Scribe Oswald’ shifts his staff, planting it in the ground directly in front of him. "Good chief, you need not fear for my safety. You are right to say you have no knowledge of our people or our ways, for if you did, you would not fear for my sake."

The chief chuckles heartily. "I am not as foolish as you. You may have it. It shall remain bound, and your payment for it shall be your swift departure."

Osthryn closes her eyes in resignation. Perhaps this foreigner would be kind to her, a small part of her hopes. The other part of her begins resolving an escape plan as soon as ‘Scribe Oswald’ is sufficiently distracted.

"Then let it be done," the scribe agrees.

Two men grip Osthryn’s arms, dragging her to her feet roughly. She stands still, her eyes fixed on her bound wrists. Oswald takes a firm hold of her, the men relinquishing their grip reluctantly. A cold numbness spreads from where he touches her. She looks at him from the periphery of her vision.

An old man, wrinkled, small, and bent, is what she sees. He leans heavily on his staff, and his intense brown eyes under bushy grey brows twinkle up at her with an unnerving quality.

"My thanks to you, good chief. May Giles smile upon your harvest, and may Cointha reward you for your hospitality," Oswald greets cheerfully, placing his staff ahead of him as a walking stick. 
The chief crosses his arms, nodding at Oswald to leave. "May the South Wind speed your travels, and might the whims of the Wings favour your madness."

Oswald needed little further invitation. Shrugging under the travel-pack on his back, he sets forth at a brisk pace. His hand remains in its vice-like grip of Osthryn’s arm, practically dragging her along. "Keep in step, girl!" Oswald instructs. "We have a long journey south to Grosberg yet, and I do not plan to dally."

Osthryn tries as well as she can to keep up with this striding curmudgeon, deceptively quick and forceful for his stature and age. Villagers part before them, staring in awe at the procession they make. Osthryn’s heartbeat steadies, but her stomach sinks.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire, it seems. At least, this foreigner is headed South. Is this what freedom for the Dragons look like there? Free to exist, yet bound to a master?

They trudge for miles beyond the village walls. The suns travel their course. When they reach the highest point in the sky, Oswald barely acknowledges the need for a midday meal. Osthryn wonders if whatever power this man is in possession of to so confidently purchase himself a Dragon makes him immune to hunger.

By the time the suns hang low, Osthryn’s head follows suit. The exhaustion of the morning and the sting of the silver powder clinging to her skin erodes at her initial dread of this purchase. She resigns herself, at least whatever uncertain future this situation has thrust upon her has removed her from immediate danger.

They near a copse of trees, and Oswald, who had slowed his pace but a modicum, practically runs at it. He pulls her deep into the thicket, sitting her on a log. Osthryn watches with bewilderment as the old man rummages through his pack, emerging triumphant with a flask of oil in his hands. Oswald pours the oil on her hands and wrists. The burn of the silver rope subsides where the oil touches, soothing the ache. "Rub it on your face and neck," he instructs, rummaging deeper in his pack. "It will help remove the powder."

Osthryn hesitates.

"Don’t fear the stains it might make!" Oswald calls out, noting her hesitation. "My good lady wife Martina could be the goddess of stain removal if such a thing existed. The oil shall do your clothes no harm."

Something in the disjointed comment immediately lets the nature of Osthryn’s rescue click into place. She hardly flinches when Oswald lunges to cut the silver-braided cords with a steel cook knife. Her hands freed, she immediately rubs the oil on her face.

"What will you do with me?" Osthryn asks warily, the silver’s corrosion stopped. 

Oswald looks up, buried to his elbows in his pack. "Whatever do you mean, child?" Oswald stands numbly, a cloth rag in his hands, as if he only now realises what he had said to free her.

Osthryn frowns. "So, you have not purchased me for your own use?"

"Purchased you?" Oswald laughs, holding the rag out to her. Osthryn gratefully accepts it and dabs her face clean. 

Oswald continues. "I’ve heard rumours of Bettramon’s barbarism, but it was perfectly gutting to see it up close. It is sheer luck that the ruse worked."

The fullness of Osthryn’s relief crashes into her. Her shoulders begin to shake with maddened laughter, and she buries her face in her hands. Oswald stands and watches her silently as her breathing slows.

"I do not know how to thank you," she breathes.

"Help me make camp, and then travel back South with me as my apprentice. Life in Bettramon as a folk-witch seems dangerous business, and having a Dragon as my apprentice will be the largest boon any scribe could hope to find," Oswald comments drily, digging through his pack once more.

Osthryn smiles with a peace she never thought she would feel around a human being. "Thank you for your kindness, scribe Oswald. Apprenticing as a scribe seems a welcome change."

"That settles it!" Oswald declares, "Now, child, what name should I call my apprentice?"

"Osthryn," she supplies with a bow of her head. "Though, with a life of four hundred years, I am no child."

Oswald waves his hand, "It matters not how old you are, child. You are my apprentice! Now, act swift and help me gather wood. We shall require a fire forthwith, as you have made me miss my lunch!" Oswald stalks into the trees. Osthryn smiles, rolling her eyes fondly at the back of his head.

She was safe.