Iron Blooded Hound

Chapter 55: Warriors and Slaves

The Balak are an exceptionally warlike individuals commonly.

Obviously, assuming that you removed war and hunting from their lives, there presumably wouldn't be tremendously left.

As Vikir followed Aiyen to the entry of the tribe, he explored what he had some awareness of the Balak.

"Their language has around 300 words, and a large portion of them are things. Action words are gestural, and there is no qualification among them and us with regards to ownership. Men are ambo, ladies are akouati, love is aauki, passing is utika..."

Individuals of Balak saw the realms as impolite, wicked, and self-absorbed.

On the other hand, the Imperials saw the Balak as savages who shouted and punched at the smallest touch of outrage.

Individuals of Baskerville appeared to be some place in the center, Vikir thought, between the cultivated individuals of the Realm and the brutes of the wilderness.

"I keep thinking about whether they're ambiguously looking like the two sides of the boundary, never completely having a place with by the same token."

As Vikir considered this to himself, the trackers of Balak gathered all around.

Trackers, youthful and old, gathered in gatherings of three and four.

Some mounted on the backs of wolves, withdraws from hanging.

Only Aiyen had no friends, simply a wolf to ride and his slave, Vikir.

"Gather round, trackers, it's the ideal opportunity for the function."

A warped looking elderly person approached with a bowl of dark charcoal, which he spread on the essences of the tracker champions.

A progression of tattoos looked out from underneath his dark robes, suggesting he may be a shaman.

"Go, every one of you, with my approval, or I will strike you down."

The old shaman dipped a bowl of tan into the bowl and spread it over the essences of the relative multitude of trackers.

The trackers of Balak feel remorseful about killing their prey.

So they covered their countenances with tar prior to killing, so as not to show their appearances to the Divine force of Death.

However, the more youthful trackers, including Aiyen, don't appear to see the value in the custom.

"Same story, different day, that irritating b*tch."

"Don't bother him. The shaman needs to do something significant."

"Incidentally, wouldn't you say your fortune-telling is somewhat off?"

"That is the reason all they do these days are studs for ears and nose rings for noses."

Every single youngster, paying little heed to overall setting, hate and scorn old traditions and odd notions.

With a look of irritation, Aiyen stood out her face and acknowledged the old shaman's charcoal-black makeup.

The old shaman rubbed the black paint all over a couple of times prior to continuing on, which was very messy contrasted with how he helped different fighters, and obviously he could have done without her.

Then, Aiyen slipped the spiked collar around his neck and gave it to Vikir.

"Wear this to hold them back from gnawing your neck."

Vikir nodded.

One by one, the trackers began to leave the town.

Blades sheathed, lances drawn, bows drawn, wolves crowded, the clan's trackers withdrew.

Vikir, the slave, made his own arrangements.

"While I'm here, I'll need to mix in with them.

He expected to renew his mentality.

Vikir at long last wanted to and pulled down his pants to pee.

He planned to begin with something as essential as this and blend into the way of life.

...

When individuals of Balak saw Vikir peeing, they began to go crazy.

The ladies covered their eyes and watched through their spread fingers, while the men gave him straightforwardly aggressive looks.

Vikir was confused and inquired.

"What's with every one of the gazes? Isn't everybody doing this?"

Answers came from everywhere the spot.

"...What are you referring to, who pees in no place like that?"

"Is that the way in which they do it in the Realm? That is savage."

"We utilize separate bathrooms."

"Men around there, ladies here."

"You're so uninformed, you ought to conceal."

"How boorish!"

"What occurred?"

...

Vikir turned his head to check Aiyen out.

Aiyen sneered, then, at that point, quickly deflected her look.

Aiyen moved onto the wolf's back.

"Hang on close."

On her back, obviously, was Vikir.

Vikir paused for a moment, uncertain of where to hang tight, then, at that point, pressed the wolf's fur.

Then Aiyen reached back and pulled Vikir's arm around her midriff.

"You need to hang on here. Tight. In the event that you don't, you'll fall and break your neck."

Vikir grasped Aiyen's thighs with his hands. It was certainly sufficiently wide to be agreeable to hold.

But.

...Boom!

The wolf took a solitary jump, and Vikir was sent tumbling to the ground.

In distress, Vikir practically shouted.

His bones, barely kept intact by Murcielago's regenerative powers, twisted once more.

Riding a wolf was very not quite the same as riding a pony.

For a certain something, there was no seat and no mount.

Besides, wolves had a much smaller midsection than ponies, and they moved all the more gradually.

Aiyen halted the wolf and brought himself down to the ground.

"Tsk, tsk, you ought to have folded your arms over my midriff like that and hung on with two hands. It'll tumble off assuming you hold it that delicately."

She sneered and tapped her own midsection, as though to say, "How could I should vent without you holding it?

Vikir was going to ascend from his seat.

...thud!

A figure in the middle among Vikir and Aiyen.

Ahun. He was riding a wolf, peering down at Vikir.

The air promptly turned cold.

Aiyen folded her arms in a look of dismay.

Balak's trackers vied for each second.

Ahun is a champion who has forever been enamored with Aiyen, and he will challenge her in this chase.

"This time," he says, "I'll bring back the greater prey. I will be the commander of the following joint chase, in my granddad's honor."

"How could you gamble with your granddad's distinction on a chase when all you know how to do is black magic? It's your privilege to do anything you desire."

Aiyen didn't face Ahun.

He only snapped his jawline toward Vikir across the way, asking him to immediately come.

Vikir had quite recently gotten to his feet and was going to advance to Aiyen.

...Puck!

Vikir's head snapped back.

Ahun, riding on top of the wolf, had kicked him in the face with his foot.

Vikir was as yet injured, so he had no real option except to take the blow despite the fact that he realized it was coming.

Thank heavens it was anything but an assault of extraordinary power.

The following second, Aiyen was angry.

"You knave, what the... ... !?"

Aiyen ventured forward, yet she froze completely still.

She

looked to and fro between Vikir, who had tumbled to the ground with an odd search in his eyes, and Ahun, who had picked up speed.

Ahun jumped briefly at Aiyen's reaction, then, at that point, inhaled a moan of help.

Then he took a gander at the fallen Vikir and jeered.

"You're involving this sissy as a hunting help. Get it together, Chief. You'll just cause yourself problems."

"You ought to take a gander at your own posterior before you say that ... ... ."

At Aiyen's wry comment, Ahun peered down at his abdomen.

There was nothing there. Where there ought to have been a quiver brimming with bolts.

"...!?"

Ahun whipped his head around, angry.

Vikir had some way or another gotten up with his quiver and bolts.

He had recently swiped it from Ahun before he imploded.

"'I owe the Time of Obliteration once more.'

Before his relapse, Vikir hadn't actually had some work he hadn't done.

The specialty of pickpocketing proves to be useful, as well.

"Weapons are like darlings. You use them when they're removed."

Vikir's grave remark made Aiyen burst out snickering and Ahun become flushed.

"... ... you, you rude slave!"

Ahun drew his bowstring and struck Vikir in the shoulder.

Boom!

With a boisterous break, Vikir tumbled to the ground.

As though that wasn't sufficient, Ahun moved away from the wolf.

Boom!

Yet again the bowstring swung out.

...Boom!

Ahun's bow needed to stop in midair.

Aiyen had drawn a bolt and obstructed Ahun's bowstring.

"Stop. Whose slave do you believe you're rebuffing?"

Aiyen's words were essentially as cold and hard as ice.

Ahun stammered out a counter.

"He's a slave, how might he venture to affront a Balak fighter!"

"You showed your pitiful self first."

"All things considered, he's a slave, and a slave can never affront a champion!"

Ahun dissented, refering to the principles of the clan.

Aiyen thought briefly, then gestured.

"Great, a slave is a slave, and on the off chance that he accomplishes something wrong, he should be rebuffed."

"Indeed, Skipper. That is what I'm talking about."

"However, you reserve no privilege to rebuff him, he's my slave."

The idea of private property is intriguing on Balak, however with regards to slaves, the lines of possession are really severe.

At the point when Ahun shook his head, Aiyen drove a wedge.

"On the off chance that there is to be a discipline, it will be mine."

With that, Aiyen slid away from the wolf and remained before Vikir.

And afterward.

...snap!

Aiyen's hand slapped Vikir across the cheek.

As Vikir tumbled to the ground, Aiyen kept on beating him.

His clench hands curved like snakes, focusing on his mid-region, abdomen, and legs.

Vikir twisted into a circle and persevered through Aiyen's clench hands quietly.

Following a couple of moments of this, Aiyen pulled back, breathing intensely.

Then she scowled at Ahun with a virus gaze.

"Might it be said that we are finished?"

"...."

Ahun paused his breathing, as though he was humiliated by Aiyen's hitting, and afterward gestured in dismay.

Aiyen looked at Ahun straight without flinching.

"I realize you have a ton of individual complaints with my slave, tumbling away from the wolf, not having the option to get Saxi... ... ."

"...Yes."

"After this time, in the event that you do anything to my slave in private, you will be beaten this way. Do you get it?"

Aiyen's clench hand trickled with blood.

His eyes were dull and tissue shaded.

Ahun gestured his head a couple of times in disarray, then turned his exhausted look to Vikir on the floor.

Vikir, who hadn't shouted up until that point, was just squirming unobtrusively set up.

With that, Ahun moved onto the wolf's back and quickly vanished.

Only Aiyen and Vikir were left here once more.

Murmur...

Aiyen creeped over and crouched before Vikir.

Vikir drove himself to his feet.

She stroked Vikir's blushed cheeks with a unimaginable, muddled look.

"... ... Would you say you were harmed?"

His tone had changed somewhat, yet perhaps it was only his temperament.

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