>>5940727At first, many of your cousins wish to scatter the foreigners, break their bones and hang their maskless corpses from the waelstangs, let the gods see them bleed. Cooler heads prevail, though - gradually the older folk of the hall, and the mothers and widows, convince the hotblooded youth it would be better to take tribute in treasure than blood.
To slaughter them would risk what few kinsmen you have, not to mention many Gohren men soon to be needed for the ploughing and planting, and in any case the foreigners are cunning - to slay one in winter is to meet five in spring. Instead, perhaps, you may turn their regular passage to your advantage.
Mustering what Gohren militia are quickest to respond, and all but the most hot-blooded of your kinsmen, you travel out to meet the caravan, the gleaming horn of Anaraut slung across your shoulders to show the dignity of your house. As the merchants spot you, their caravan draws to a halt. Their guards watch you with wary eyes, bearing the strange half-beards of foreign soldiers, the hair at one cheek burnt off.
The masked merchants, three in number, make no hurry to meet you, but do come forth bowing and scraping with elaborate, almost melodramatic submission. The foremost and tallest steps forth to address you.
"Oh Brehn-lord, oh master upon the hills, lord of Wyshawr and Brenmawr both, mighty aghar of Lleoric's golden blood - how may your humble and worshipful servant, Astart-Ubal of Bad-Tibir, serve you? It is a dark year that sees your lordly sire passed to the sky, we of Bad-Tibir do weep for you"
As he bows, he delicately raises a hand to hold his mask to his face. His bright red eyes watch past the polished metal - they convey no hint of intent.
"Servant you name yourself, loyal man - Astart-Ubal, of Bad-Tibir, I bid you welcome in my land, but would have you and your folk know this. In my father's time my land of Wyshawr was left to the mercy of brigandage - this wrong I in my lordship shall right. Let it be known that once that land is peaceful, as this, passage through my domain will require a tribute - a toll, for the keeping of peace on the road."
The two other merchants chatter in their foreign tongue but Astart-Ubal silences them with a motion of his gloved hand. He looks across the militia you've gathered and nods, slowly.
"Of course, oh lord of mighty arms, oh aghar of sun and sky - we would pay you fine homage now, had it not been so cruelly taken from us by the lowblooded bandits, the foul rebels and enemies of the south. In future you shall have your tribute of us - as befits so fine a king."
You can see the man's mind race with schemes already - it disgusts you, and you turn away, returning to your hall and having your men disperse. You will need to clear Wyshawr, then, else have the foreigners mock your words.
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