Satin's Tale: Dealings Done

Notes: First chapter with some actual adult content, and I should probably tag for Underage and NC, though honestly it's not as bad as that suggests.  As always, feedback is the most desirable thing ever.

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Provocation

The band rested after their botched raid, recuperating while the injured healed.  Satin woke as night was falling again, to the sounds of men playing dice and the gentle murmur of quiet conversation.  After getting a drink of water, he helped Hangnail build up the fire for the evening, the other man grunting and offering him a curt nod in return.  As Satin’s eyes travelled over the camp, they rested for a moment on Whistler, lying back asleep still, then moved to Marley, sitting beside her.  He was sitting propped up against his other things, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of him, casually honing the blade of one of his knives.  Every so often he glanced over to Whistler for a few moments then turned back to his work.  Satin looked away.

He had intended to ask what the plans were, but something that he couldn’t identify told him that it would be better to leave him be.  Instead he sought out James, who was busy writing in a worn, leather-bound journal.  His wrote in the book often, and his hand was much smaller and neater than others he had seen, but he set it down on his far side and looked up as Satin approached.

“Awake then, Satin?  What’s on your mind?”  The older man balanced the rough quill he had been using on the edge of the small bottle that held his ink, then stretched his arms with a casual ease.  Satin looked about at the others for a moment.

“I wanted to ask Marley what the plan was now, since things went a bit wrong, but…”  He spared a glance for Marley and James followed his gaze.

“Aye, good call, lad.  Let him be for now.  He’ll have something in mind to rebalance things, I’m sure, but he’ll tell us when he’s ready, like always.”  James leaned back, lying out to look up at the darkening sky.  “For now though, chance to lick our wounds, get ready for the next time, and enjoy the quiet while it lasts, if you can.  We’ll probably move again tomorrow, daylight, unless Whistler isn’t able enough to ride well by then.”  He lifted his head enough to wink at the boy.  “You’re the one that saw the good though, kid, when do you think she’ll be ready to ride well enough?”  Satin shook his head.

“I don’t know… it seemed bad.  She’ll want to go before she should though, I’d bet that much.”  Here James chuckled.

“Oh, aye, that much is a guarantee.  Probably tomorrow then, though, Satin, like I said...  Night perhaps if she’s worse than it seems.  Relax for a while.”  He put his hands behind his head, apparently resting, though Satin got the impression he was waiting for the boy to move off before starting to write again.

He wandered away, pondering what to do with the night.  They did not often have large stretches of idle time, like this.  More often than not, it was all Satin could do to sleep where he could, train for snatches in between moving, and study in secrecy whenever he was left alone.

As he approached some of the others, variously seated or stretched out in a rough circle, drinking casually while they threw dice, Felaren glanced up over his shoulder at the boy.

“Shake you in, Satin?  Playin’ for cuts is always a good way to raise your mood.”  Across from him another, Harrison, smirked.

“Aye, when you win.  You’ve ‘ad the luck of it so far, but you’re dice’ll change soon, Fel, you watch.”  There was a rough murmur, some chuckling while others grumbled, and Satin let a small smile touch his lips.  He shook his head softly.

“I’ll watch.”

“Pity.  Suit yourself though.  Your cup, Hangnail.”  Felaren winked at Satin with a small smile as he waved the other man on.

Satin crouched by the edge of the circle, watching the play of dice between the men and trying to work out the rules of play.  There was little hesitation as they played and following the flow of the game was difficult, at times.  His brows drew down in concentration as the turn passed around the circle.  There were clearly the rules for playing, but amongst that there was the cheating.  Everyone cheated, however they could, wherever they could, and separating the cheats from the actual progress of play was a far more challenging affair.  Occasionally a shout would go out, and fingers would be pointed.  A player caught in a cheat would forfeit the round, but nothing more came of it than that; everyone knew it was an expected part of play.  It made Satin wonder just how much the cheating could actually be considered “cheating” in truth.

As he watched, Satin began to pick up on the different player’s quirks, and he studied them, trying to pick out exactly how they were attempting to cheat the dice, or the game.  Felaren’s ‘luck’ held as the game continued, though most seemed to be driven to greater competitiveness and enthusiasm, rather than being put out.  They played for shares of the next cut, rather than coin or goods, since the band was far from their next trade stop and few of them, if any had any real currency or items of value they were willing to gamble.  There was a small murmur as the round ended again, some frustrated mutters and exultant laughs.  Felaren was grinning again.

“Your low to me this time, Speedy.  What’s that make it between us then?”  A few spaces around the circle, Speeding was looking at her dice, her face silently accusing them of the most terrible betrayal.  She glanced up at Felaren, seeming to think for a moment.

“Hmmm…  How about, we call it even shares between you and I, however you end up at the end of tonight, and I…”  Her voice trailed off into a leading whisper and she smiled, raising an eyebrow at him.  There was a small smatter of laughter, and a few cries of protest from the circle, but Felaren looked momentarily torn.  He wavered for a moment, though the daredevil grin never left his lips.

“Oh, you’re a cruel woman, dear Speedy, preying on a valiant man’s weakness so.” He made an exaggerated sigh, still grinning.  “Even cuts after counting, and you know what I want.”  He rested his chin in one hand, an assured smile playing across his face while Speedy seemed to demur for a few moments, though Satin could tell it was largely for show.

“Hmmm… alright, deal.”  She winked with a small grin and the play began to resume.  Felaren glanced the other way across the circle.

“Say, Violet?  What say I square your debt the same way, if you match the offer, hmm?”  The other woman bared her teeth in a vaguely savage, predatory grin.

“Don’t push your luck, sweet.  You’ve already got far more than you can handle lined up.  I’ll take my chances with the dice.”  While the others chuckled, Felaren clasped his hands together, doing his best to look put-upon, and sighed theatrically.

“Oh well, can’t blame a man for being hopeful, can you?”

“Sure we can!” The response came laughingly from several different voices.

A few easy hours wore away as Satin watched the others playing and drinking, the young boy fascinated to see the gradual changes in their demeanours over time.  Some grew progressively drunk, and their play suffered, others did not.  Some pretended to drunkenness, only to make false slips and mislead.  Satin’s eyes flicked about the ring, absorbed in the nuances of the play.  He took some time to return to his things and retrieve some food, settling for a few thin strips of smoked meat and some dried fruit, before being drawn back to watching the game.  Gradually, players began to call it quits and move away from the circle, until only three or four determined gamblers remained.  Satin stood to stretch his legs and walked around the camp.

Not everyone here now had been around the band before him, now.  Some of the newest additions to their number were only a handful of years older than him, and yet he found himself seeing something naive and sheltered about several of them all the same.  One of the newest young men, from a few months before, had tried to pressure Violet against her will, without really understanding anything more than his own mind’s image of what this lifestyle was like, and received a swiftly broken neck for his insistence.  He had shown promise with a bow, and quick fingers, but no-one had said anything against Violet at the time, or acted like he’d gotten anything other than exactly what he deserved.

Satin had found, at the time, that he’d felt the same way: you could only expect death trying to take what you couldn’t keep; it was the price of desire without ability and the reward of surety without respect.  They weren’t his words.  James had said them, quietly, as Satin had witnessed Violet spitting on the dead man, and kicking him roughly away from the light of their fire.  Even so, they had struck a chord with Satin, as something he felt was very much true.

He glanced at James again now, no longer writing but talking with two or three of the others instead, and wondered what sort of life the man had led before joining the band.  He was calm, and smart and quiet; he liked to read, and write, when he could, but for all of that, he was no less deadly in combat, what little of it he had seen.  He kept meaning to ask him about words and reading, but a more stubborn part of his mind refused to until he had worked out at least a little bit more of it himself.

His wanders took him outside the light from the fire, into the grassy plains beyond and he breathed in the crisp night air, stretching.  He felt agitated and unsettled.  Despite the free time, he hadn’t trained or drilled yet, since waking, and he flexed his fingers a few times, feeling the urge to run and jump and work his body.  Those of the band who weren’t injured might be interested in a sparring session, but by his guess most seemed to have taken the opportunity to drink, play and do nothing.

Shaking his arms out again, Satin ran a few paces then turned sharply, skidding into a fighting stance, hands raised.  He bounced on his toes, shuffling back and then forward in quick motions, before dropping and sweeping one foot around him quickly in as wide an arc as he could manage without throwing off his balance.  As he came up he kept the momentum, spinning and leaping up off the ground to flick the same leg around in a further high kick then followed through immediately with his other leg.  He landed on his first foot, but the momentum continued, staggering him off to the side, off balance.  As he stumbled for a moment, righting himself, he scrubbed at his face with one hand then resumed his fighting stance, beginning to drill with quick, fierce motions, training against imagined foes.

Satin lost himself amidst the flurry of movement, as much solid trained technique as needlessly acrobatic and impractical, until a voice in the darkness startled him.

“Give the boy time off and he’s out in the darkness, fighting imaginary demons all on his own.  That’s spirit for you.”

Satin stopped, though he didn’t immediately lower his fighting stance.  The light from the fire cast a dark silhouette of the figure, though they were far enough away that it barely did even that.  He couldn’t see properly, but the tall, thick-bodied form and the voice were enough for Satin to identify Stitcher.  The man came closer, stretching his hands to put them behind his head.

“Not often we all get to relax and enjoy ourselves for a while, you know.  Even if it comes from a bad mess up, it’s welcome.  Looking for a sparring partner, were you, kid?”  He stopped less than a few feet from Satin, and the boy could smell alcohol on his breath.  Quite a lot of it, by his guess.

“That’s ok, Stitcher.  Just working off some energy.”  He stood straight again, letting his hands drop to make it clear he didn’t want to go a round.  He’d sparred with Stitcher several times, but something about the man was off-putting.  The way he always seemed to have one eye on him, whenever he practiced, no matter who he trained with, was unsettling.  He was sure the older man didn’t pay such close attention to the others, and though it was probably just concern for him, it was still enough to make Satin uncomfortable at times.  Stitcher nodded in the darkness, stretching his arms afresh.

“Not to worry lad.  Tell you what though, you’re growing up fast.  The others think you might be ready to come out raiding with us soon enough.”  As he dropped his arms, he let one of them rest heavily about the boy’s shoulders, shifting slightly as he did to face the same way as Satin and look up at the stars.  Satin tried to ignore the heavy weight.

“I think I could go any time now.  I can look after myself, even if James doesn’t think I’m ready yet.”  Beside him, he heard the other man sigh heavily, though he couldn’t read its meaning.

“Aye, you’re certainly getting more capable by the day, that’s for sure.  And in more ways than one, I’d wager.  How old are you now anyway?  Eleven?  Twelve?  Old enough I wager.”  In a movement faster than Satin had expected of him, Stitcher was standing behind him, rather than beside, and the arm around his shoulder had slithered down and around to encircle his torso and pin his arms down.  A large hand gripped his forearm hard, holding him tight against the larger man’s body.  Satin tensed immediately, instinctively trying to reach for his knives, but unable to move either arm enough to reach them.

“Hands off, Stitcher.  Let me go, now.”  Satin heard an unusual high note in his voice, and fought back the momentary panic.  Stitcher sighed again, as though chiding a foolish child.

“Come on now, Satin my boy.  It doesn’t do to waste opportunity, you know that.  And what are you but the best opportunity this old man’s seen in a long time.  Watched you grow, and now you’re just ripe, ready for plucking.  Can’t pass that up, no sir.”

His panic redoubled, and Satin began to struggle.  Stitcher held tighter, but didn’t budge.  He was still far stronger than the boy’s young frame could overcome.

“What do you want?  Stop it and let me go you bastard!”  Stitcher only made soft shushing sounds, beginning to softly stroke the boy’s hair with his free hand.  Satin started to shout, but before the sound could get free of his lips the hand darted down to clamp securely over his mouth.

“Easy boy, easy, none of that now.  Shhh…  You’re a beautiful young boy, you know that?”  Fear and uncertainty joined the initial panic as Satin felt the large man’s cheek begin to brush back and forth over his head.  “You’re hair in particular.  I love your hair, it’s so smooth and straight, and the black is unusual you know.”  The man’s voice was soft, almost crooning now, and the smell of alcohol wafted down over him.  Realisation dawned suddenly as Satin felt the man press his body more firmly against him, and felt a very prominent hardness push into the small of his back.

Revulsion and terror rose to the crest of his emotions and he began to thrash and flail wildly, desperately trying to fight free of the drunken man, but Stitcher knew every trick, and drunk though he was, he was still strong and determined enough to easily lock down all of the boy’s vain attempts at escape.  Satin could feel his heart hammering as terrified adrenalin flooded him, but Stitcher continued to hold him still, murmuring softly about all the things he loved about him.

“Mmm, but what I really want to know is all the parts of you I’ve not seen, little one.  Let’s see, eh?”  There was a moment of awkward shifting as Stitcher pulled Satin’s arms behind his back and pinned them painfully with his body, then the hand returned to his front.  Distraught and scared, Satin felt it fumbling roughly at the band of his leggings, under the end of his shirt.  An offended, violated rage began to push out his fear, but it didn’t help his struggles as the hand worked its way into his underthings.  Cold fingers and began to squeeze with uncomfortable strength at his soft, unwilling length and grope clumsily at his testicles, small and immature as they were.  He could feel angry, betrayed tears prickling at his eyes as Stitcher continued to whisper in his ear, softly cooing hollow praises at him.

His body quaked with distressed sobs as Stitcher continued, but the larger man didn’t seem to notice, intent upon his explorations.  After a moment the hand withdrew and Stitcher murmured again, his voice grown heavy and panting.

“Hmmm, enough play.”

Satin was turned around, his body still pinned roughly by too-strong arms, and then an overbearing weight forced him to the ground, crushing uncomfortably on top of him.  Stictcher’s panting wafted over him, filling his nose with the smell of stale ale and bad breath.  His arms were pulled up above his head and pinned to the grass while the other hand continued to cover his mouth.  He flinched away, still struggling vainly as the man pressed a warm, wet kiss against his forehead, the unshaven beginnings of bristles scratching at his skin.  As Satin thrashed and writhed against his captor, the weight forcing him down pressed in, filling up the space between his legs and pushing them wide.  Aware of the man’s intentions now, he could feel the hot, hard pressure in his crotch, still constrained by clothing, but pushing fiercely against him all the same.

Grunting, Stitcher shifted awkwardly, shrugging his leggings down far enough to free his arousal while still maintaining his control over Satin’s resisting form.  As it came loose, bouncing with tension for a moment before resting to pulse and throb against the boy’s groin, Stitcher began working on Satin’s own pants.  Needing a hand for it, he shifted, muttering rough curses under his breath in between telling Satin to stop struggling, moving the boys hands to pin them down under the weight of his forearm.  The free hand now darted to the boy’s leggings, worrying at the band and trying to tug them down with a increased fervour.

The older man’s excitement grew and they slipped down far enough to reveal him and Satin felt the unwelcome sensation of hot flesh against his, but through his furious distress, he felt a shift in the man’s weight as he paused to admire the view.  With renewed desperation, Satin wrenched at the weight holding his arms, and managed to slip on free.  Without pausing to register the older man’s sudden irritation he turned the force from his pull into a full-armed swing that connected knuckle-first with his assailant’s cheek and jaw.

Stitcher flinched back, cursing aloud, and Satin managed to free his other hand and shrug off the first covering his mouth.  As he began to struggle free a heavy fist crashed into the ground where his chest had been moments ago, but Satin didn’t pay it any attention.  He scrambled over, pulling himself out from under the other man and trying to get to his feet.  One hand grabbed again at the lowered band oh his leggings, pulling them further, but he thrust a fierce kick backwards and was rewarded by a howl of pain and another curse.

As Satin got to his feet, yanking his leggings back up properly so he could move again, Stitcher had staggered up as well, snarling angrily.  There was blood on his face and he was drawing his sword, not bothering to right his own pants.

“Little bastard.  I’ll bleeding kill you.”  He rushed at the boy, and unconsciously Satin responded, still burning with rage and violation.  He darted in under the man’s sword, ducking in and around him to his back faster than Stitcher could keep up.  His knives were in his hands and, still crouched low, in fierce, vicious motions Satin sliced the backs of his knees, making the man scream horribly.  The motion brought him back around to Stitcher’s front, but before he could collapse forward, Satin flung himself at the man’s chest, driving him back hard to the ground with a feral shout ripping itself free from his throat.  Both his knives stabbed to the hilt and stuck as they crashed to the grass, and abandoning one, Satin grabbed at the other with both hands, wrenching it free before plunging it down again, and again.  The body jerked and twitched with each stab until, drained, Satin stopped, panting and sobbing as he straddled the corpse, still holding the knife buried deep.

“What the…  Satin, lad, what—”  At the sound of a voice close by Stain leapt up, grabbing both of his knives free and spinning as he vaulted to the other side of the corpse, away from the sound.  He skidded on the ground, facing the voice, one fist supporting his weight on the ground with the other knife held up defensively in front of him.  Adrenalin still flooded him and his breath was ragged.

“James, make sure the curious eyes stay back for a bit.”  Satin blinked, trying to focus himself again in the darkness.  Marley was standing not far away, wary and with his hands raised defensively.  He spoke again, this time meeting the boy’s eyes as he gradually approached.  “Easy Satin, easy.  It’s done with, you’re safe.”  As he approached around the corpse, Satin raised his knife more prominently and Marley stopped.  “It’s ok, Satin.  He ain’t going to hurt you now, you’ve well seen to that yourself.  It’s alright.”  The knife dropped as Satin pressed both hands into the ground, sinking to his knees, his body quaking with half-contained sobs afresh.  A moment later, Marley was kneeling beside him on one knee, hands resting gently on his shoulders.

“Get away from me.”  Satin managed to mutter in a ragged voice, and he felt Marley nod.

“Aye, in a minute I will, but listen, ok?  You did well, and you did right, and if you were scared you didn’t let it master you.  You’re safe, and everyone else will know that you did only what you had to.”  The hands dropped from his shoulders.  “I’ll go now, if you want, kid, but much as I know you don’t care for me, you know there’s others in the camp as well that’ll listen if you need to get it off your chest some, alright?”  There was a moment’s silence, punctuated by Satin sniffing roughly and taking a breath.  Marley stood to leave, but stopped again when Satin spoke.

“He…  He wanted to… He tried to… He…” his voice was broken and uneven.  Marley turned, and once again a gentle arm rested about his shoulders.

“I know, I figured.  Never suspected it of old Stitcher, never even thought of it, I swear to you.”

“I’ve killed him, haven’t I?”

“Aye lad.  Quite soundly.  First time can destroy some people.  Just let the emotion flow and work its course for now, there’s only harm in fighting it.”  Satin looked up to see Marley’s eyes for a moment; even in the darkness he could see the concern in them.  He looked down again.

“I just… I felt so angry.  Angry and hurt.”  The hand on his shoulders rubbed softly at his back, and Marley sighed, a tired, sad sound.

“I know you did, lad, I know you did.”  Satin leaned forward enough to rest his forehead on the other man’s shoulder, muffling his already quiet sobs.

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