[Current Balance: £419,516,560 4s. 2d.]
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The meeting had ended, the first of many for the newly formed council of their fledgling nation. A sense of purpose… it was heavy but resolute, settled over the group as they departed from Pennsbury Manor.
The journey to their new home, the grand Baroque mansion Alaric had raised from the earth, was a short one by carriage, a convoy of dark, sturdy vehicles rumbling along the packed-earth road that wound through the Pennsylvania countryside.
The carriages rolled on for a time, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and wheels a steady backdrop to the quiet conversations within.
They passed through open fields, where the last of the autumn harvest was being gathered, and dense forests, the leaves a brilliant tapestry of red, gold, and orange. It was a peaceful, beautiful land.
"Stop the carriage!" Came the sound of Eleanor.
Suddenly, the lead carriage, carrying Alaric and Kassandra, slowed to a halt. The rest of the convoy followed suit, pulling up behind them in an orderly line.
"Eleanor, my dear, what is it?" Leonard Kenway asked, peering out the window of his own carriage.
His wife was already opening the door, a determined look on her face. "Look, Leonard! Wildflowers!" she exclaimed, pointing towards a vast, sun-dappled meadow just off the road, a riot of late-blooming asters, goldenrod, and Queen Anne's lace. "They would be a perfect gift to brighten Caroline's room. A little piece of this new world to welcome her back."
Linette was right behind her, nodding in enthusiastic agreement. "An excellent idea, Eleanor! Come, Kassandra, Flavia, you must help us pick the very best ones!"
A collective, almost inaudible groan went through the male occupants of the carriages. Bernard poked his head out. "Flowers? Now? Can't we just buy some in Philadelphia later?"
"Nope!" Linette retorted, giving her husband a look that instantly silenced him. "This is the freshest I've seen around here!"
With that, the women descended from the carriages, their laughter carrying on the crisp autumn air as they ventured into the meadow, their skirts rustling through the tall grass. The men, resigned to their fate, climbed out as well, stretching their legs and seeking solace in a shared ritual.
Alaric, Reuben, Thulani, Leonard, and Bernard gathered in a loose circle by the roadside, each pulling out a Celestial Cigar. The rich, fragrant smoke soon curled around them as they talked of practical matters… crop rotations, the price of lumber, the best way to train a militia… while keeping a watchful eye on the women in the field.
Their presence did not go unnoticed. A few local farmers, working in a nearby field, stopped to stare at the strange, opulent procession. They saw the fine carriages, the well-dressed men smoking expensive-smelling cigars, and the beautiful women gathering flowers as if they hadn't a care in the world.
They saw their height, their confident bearing, the almost otherworldly quality of their features. They whispered amongst themselves, their voices a mixture of awe and suspicion. These were not ordinary settlers. They were something else entirely.
After half an hour, the women returned, their arms filled with vibrant bouquets. With the flowers carefully stowed in a basket, the convoy prepared to set off again. They had traveled for another hour, the city of Philadelphia now a distant memory behind them, when the lead carriage slowed to a stop once more.
This time, it was not for flowers.
Up ahead, a small crowd had gathered outside a modest wooden building with a swinging sign that read "Apothecary & Physician." A loud, angry voice cut through the afternoon quiet.
"No! Out!" a man in a stained apron, clearly the doctor, yelled, pointing a trembling finger towards the street. "If you have nothing to pay me, then out with ye!"
Standing before him was a tall, powerfully built man, his dark hair braided, his skin the rich, warm color of copper. He was clearly Iroquois, his simple deerskin clothing marking him as a man of the forest, not the city. Strapped to his back, wrapped in a deerskin sling, was a small, still form.
"Tsi ní:io... iónkeni'tarónnion' ne ken'niiohontésha'!" the Iroquois man pleaded, his voice thick with desperation. (Please… I need help for my brother!)
Kassandra, seated opposite Alaric, saw the scene unfold, her expression hardening, a flicker of anger in her amber eyes. She looked at Alaric, and he met her gaze. He saw the compassion there, the fierce, protective instinct that had guided her for millennia. He saw her silent plea.
He smiled softly, reaching out to cup her cheek. "Yeah-yeah," he murmured, his thumb gently stroking her skin. "No need for those eyes."
He leaned forward, tapping on the partition. "Stop the carriage," he commanded. The coachman immediately pulled on the reins.
"Ho!"
"'Laric?" Reuben called out from the carriage behind them as it, too, came to a halt.
"Ah, you can go ahead first," Alaric replied, his voice calm as he opened the carriage door and stepped out.
"...Okay?" Reuben raised an eyebrow, but as he saw where Alaric was heading, his expression shifted to one of quiet understanding. "Oh..."
He gave a signal to the other drivers, and the rest of the convoy slowly began to move past, giving the unfolding scene a wide berth.
Alaric walked towards the confrontation, his tall frame and crimson coat a stark contrast to the drab surroundings.
"Tsi ní:io... kén:tho nón:we tsi ní:ioht ne onkwa'nón:we tsi ionté:ren," the Iroquois warrior continued to plead, his pride clearly warring with his desperation. (Please… we have been cast out by our people.)
"I said, out!" The doctor, his face red with frustration, was about to grab a heavy wooden stick leaning against the doorframe, but he froze as he saw Alaric approaching. "Uh... g-good afternoon..."
He recognized this man. Everyone in Philadelphia was beginning to recognize this man. A friend of William Penn, a man of immense, unspoken influence. To anger him was to risk the wrath of the province's founder.
"S-Sire, I was about to-"
The doctor's stammering was cut off as Alaric held up a hand. "It's okay," Alaric said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I understand. You can't always treat if one can't pay."
The doctor nodded numbly, relieved. Alaric then turned his gaze to the Iroquois man. He saw the strength there, the warrior's pride, but beneath it, a deep, gnawing fear for the small life on his back.
"Tsi ní:io ià:ia'tate'nikonhrèn:ton ne ken'niiohontésha'," Alaric said, his Mohawk flawless. (Your brother's body is not well.)
The effect was instantaneous. The doctor's jaw dropped. The Iroquois warrior's eyes widened in stunned disbelief, then filled with a sudden, desperate hope.
"Kahnhóha' ne' ne'ká:ien," Alaric continued, pointing back towards his waiting carriage. "Warihwá:ton ne' ó:ni tsi' niió'ten ne onkwaterihwáke'." (He is very sick. I can heal him if you come with us to our home.)
The warrior, Shakoka, looked from Alaric's sincere face to the fine carriage, where he could see the beautiful, dark-haired woman watching him with compassionate eyes. With nothing left to lose, he gave a single, decisive nod and followed Alaric.
Inside the carriage, Shakoka sat stiffly, his body tense, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. The plush velvet seats, the smooth, rocking motion… it was all alien to him. He was a man of the forest, and this gilded cage felt deeply unnatural. Alaric and Kassandra watched him, their hearts going out to the young warrior and the silent, precious cargo he carried.
"My name is Alaric," Alaric said gently in Mohawk. "And this is my wife, Kassandra."
"I am also a friend," Kassandra added, her own Mohawk perfect, learned in a time when these lands were still untouched by European feet.
Shakoka's eyes widened again. A woman who spoke the language of his people? It was another impossibility in a day full of them. He finally relaxed, just a fraction.
"I am Shakoka," he replied, his voice filled with a quiet dignity. "Hunter of the Wolf Clan." He gestured to the small bundle on his back. "And this is my younger brother, Deganawida."
"What sickness ails him?" Alaric asked, his expression serious.
Shakoka's face clouded with grief. "It is the coughing sickness that turns the skin to fire," he explained, his voice low. "It came to our village with the white traders. Many have died. The elders… they said Deganawida was cursed. They cast us out, afraid the sickness would spread."
Diphtheria, Alaric recognized the description. A common and deadly killer in this era, especially for children. He reached out a hand. "May I?"
Shakoka hesitated for only a second before carefully unwrapping the sling, revealing the small, still form of his two-year-old brother. The child's face was flushed with fever, his breathing shallow and ragged, a thick, greyish membrane visible at the back of his throat.
'Healing Palm Jutsu…' Alaric placed his hand gently on the boy's forehead. He closed his eyes, focusing his chakra, channeling a steady, gentle stream of healing energy into the child's small body. A faint green glow enveloped his hand.
For a moment, it seemed to work. The feverish flush on Deganawida's skin receded, his breathing eased, and a touch of healthy color returned to his cheeks. Shakoka gasped, his eyes wide with hope.
But then, just as quickly, the effect faded. The fever returned, the ragged breathing resumed, the greyish pallor creeping back into the child's skin. The disease was too aggressive, too deeply rooted. The simple Healing Palm Jutsu wasn't enough to fight the powerful bacterial toxin that was ravaging the boy's body.
Alaric raised an eyebrow, a thoughtful, almost calculating look entering his eyes. He withdrew his hand, a familiar, determined smirk touching his lips.
'Hmm...' he thought, the System interface already flickering at the edge of his vision. 'I guess I have to buy that...'
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