Surrender

You may not like it, but you cannot deny that both of you are overmatched. While in a previous, more savage age, your fate would be certain ****, times change and your people had learned not to needlessly waste lives that can still serve the whole.

Defeat does still have consequences, however, and you crouch atop your fallen father's sprawled frame, uncertain whether it is to shelter him or take comfort from him as your doom is pronounced.

"So," the out-clan Chief boasts, towering over you both, one hand scratching absently at the swell of his fur loincloth. "You think you can just raid us when you feel like it, and take our women, hunh? And now you teach this whelp of yours to do the same? Not this time. Brogar!" He belts out a call to a subordinate, who is just returning from running off the rest of your raiding party. "Bring me two collars."

Beneath you, where you sprawl between his legs, you feel your father tense. "What is it, Dad?"

"Be silent, boy. And be strong."

"Hah! I was right! Your own spawn. Bet he was after his first mate, hunh? Well, he wanted your guidance? He'll have it. For years you have taken our women - and even our prettier livestock! So now, you will take their place!"

Rough hands grapple you and, struggle as you may, soon a heavy leather collar is locked around your throat, and your father suffers the same treatment. Brogar, the Chief's second, attaches a short length of iron chain to yours, and hands you the loose end.

You start to turn to your father for guidance, but rough hands turn you to face the Chief.

"Breeding stock, hunh? Brought here to learn the ways of the flesh. Well, learn you shall. I will be merciful, whelp, and leave the choice to you. In your hand is your chain. Choose who you will take as your breeding coach: your worthless father, or myself. Now, decide."