Kaelen knelt. He took out his own water flask and a small pouch of dried meat—his own rations—and set them down. “What’s your story?”
“Give me the crossbow. And the axe.” passive pillager
And so, in the hills and villages beyond, scouts began to ask a new question before reporting: “Are they raiding, or are they running?” Kaelen knelt
The crossbowman—his name was Piers—helped rebuild the south fence. The axe-bearer, Finn, turned out to have a gift for carving wooden toys. Within a month, the village council voted to grant them residency. Within a year, Piers married the baker’s widow. Finn became the town’s first toymaker. And Marrow opened a small infirmary. And the axe
Marrow told him. Their band had been forced conscripts of a warlord to the east. When he fell, they fled. They had never wanted to pillage. They had never hurt a villager. They only wanted to cross the pass to the unclaimed marshes, where they could live as trappers and herb-gatherers in peace. But every village saw the crossbows, the axe, the tattoos—and closed its gates.
Kaelen had his orders. “Passive or not, a pillager is a pillager. Report their location. The captain will send a squad.”