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tamingthemuseTitle: From Afar
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Thirst
Warnings: Part of a greater story. Part of a NaNo. story.
Rating: PG
Summary: Neft watches his first battle from the sidelines.
Surprisingly enough, Neft was told to wait with the backup warriors, out of the battle, during the first wave of the attack.
The battle was quite something to watch, he thought, standing on higher ground as the two masses of warriors collided and turned the field red with blood. Shouts and battle cries rose and fell with the wind and it must have been confusing to be down there with the hordes merging, separating, and clashing repeatedly.
He hadn’t been a salary warrior for long. He’d only seen a few battles, fights between ill trained folk and the army, really. He rubbed a hand over the goose pimples that rose on his arms as he watched, trying to keep his face still so that the others didn’t look to him and realize his fear.
The sun was bright and hot this early and the armor he wore was becoming stifling, but he had to bear with it, just as the men around him had to do. He sighed and wished for a water bottle if nothing else.
The land was dry. They had left the lowlands a few days back, leaving behind the fresh water from the springs and had yet to reach the rivers coming from the mountains. Their supplies had lasted, but water was a rare pleasure, a delicacy until they reached the nearest river, another two days away. Unless they took this town which housed an oasis in this dry savanna.
He wetted his lips and wondered how the men on the field were doing. Did they thirst as much as him, or was his nothing compared to theirs?
His horse had drooped its head, tugging against his reins, trying to reach for the dry grass under foot, but he held firm and kept his eye on the banner that singled Gardau’s position in the field of battle.
He had to be prepared to lead these men into the fray if his leader commanded thus.
How could he stand it? The cries, even from this far away, were horrendous and chilled him. His hands shook and he clenched them to still them. His throat burned, but he could no longer tell if it was from the want of fresh cool water, or from fear.
Gardau moved quickly through the lines of warriors, felling each opponent he came up against. Briefly, Neft took his eyes away from his general and looked for the Warlord of Fire. His banner was waving in the light breeze, but it was still on the field. The Warlord’s squire had staked it into the ground and taken up his own sword, hacking and slicing at the enemy.
But where was the Warlord?
He scowered the field and realized that in the browns and reds, he was never going to distinguish between one of his own and the enemy from this distance. The Warlord was missing.
Turning his attention back to Gardau, he mindlessly reached for his water bag and fiddled with the lid. There was only a few sips within, only enough to wet his lips. Dare he take a sip now, or wait for when he was really going to need it, down on that bloody ground?
He cast a look at the men waiting behind him and decided that the water could wait. He could bear the thirst a bit longer. He retied the bag to his saddle and looked for his general once again.
They were winning this one, of which he’d never had a doubt. The Warlord had yet to lose a fight he’d picked. This was just another notch on his belt on his journey to state his own unique thirst for conquest.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Thirst
Warnings: Part of a greater story. Part of a NaNo. story.
Rating: PG
Summary: Neft watches his first battle from the sidelines.
Surprisingly enough, Neft was told to wait with the backup warriors, out of the battle, during the first wave of the attack.
The battle was quite something to watch, he thought, standing on higher ground as the two masses of warriors collided and turned the field red with blood. Shouts and battle cries rose and fell with the wind and it must have been confusing to be down there with the hordes merging, separating, and clashing repeatedly.
He hadn’t been a salary warrior for long. He’d only seen a few battles, fights between ill trained folk and the army, really. He rubbed a hand over the goose pimples that rose on his arms as he watched, trying to keep his face still so that the others didn’t look to him and realize his fear.
The sun was bright and hot this early and the armor he wore was becoming stifling, but he had to bear with it, just as the men around him had to do. He sighed and wished for a water bottle if nothing else.
The land was dry. They had left the lowlands a few days back, leaving behind the fresh water from the springs and had yet to reach the rivers coming from the mountains. Their supplies had lasted, but water was a rare pleasure, a delicacy until they reached the nearest river, another two days away. Unless they took this town which housed an oasis in this dry savanna.
He wetted his lips and wondered how the men on the field were doing. Did they thirst as much as him, or was his nothing compared to theirs?
His horse had drooped its head, tugging against his reins, trying to reach for the dry grass under foot, but he held firm and kept his eye on the banner that singled Gardau’s position in the field of battle.
He had to be prepared to lead these men into the fray if his leader commanded thus.
How could he stand it? The cries, even from this far away, were horrendous and chilled him. His hands shook and he clenched them to still them. His throat burned, but he could no longer tell if it was from the want of fresh cool water, or from fear.
Gardau moved quickly through the lines of warriors, felling each opponent he came up against. Briefly, Neft took his eyes away from his general and looked for the Warlord of Fire. His banner was waving in the light breeze, but it was still on the field. The Warlord’s squire had staked it into the ground and taken up his own sword, hacking and slicing at the enemy.
But where was the Warlord?
He scowered the field and realized that in the browns and reds, he was never going to distinguish between one of his own and the enemy from this distance. The Warlord was missing.
Turning his attention back to Gardau, he mindlessly reached for his water bag and fiddled with the lid. There was only a few sips within, only enough to wet his lips. Dare he take a sip now, or wait for when he was really going to need it, down on that bloody ground?
He cast a look at the men waiting behind him and decided that the water could wait. He could bear the thirst a bit longer. He retied the bag to his saddle and looked for his general once again.
They were winning this one, of which he’d never had a doubt. The Warlord had yet to lose a fight he’d picked. This was just another notch on his belt on his journey to state his own unique thirst for conquest.
