Private Tales On The Road

[Thren]

Surprisingly there was no attack this time. Thren had half expected another assault midway through the day, but when nothing came he couldn't help but feel at least a little relieved. He liked fighting as much as the next one, but he preferred for it to be on even odds rather than being vastly outnumbered.

Once or twice a day another of the Mercenaries came up to talk to him, each time trying to broach the subject of what they were going to do.

Thren told them the exact same thing he had told Bernard. He would abandon these people immediately, but if it appeared they were about to be overrun he would grab those who were the weakest and then make a break for the Falwood. Eventually they would reach one of the Elven outposts, and there they would find help.

At least he hoped so.

No attack came though, and eventually they once again made camp. This time they were next to a large river in a small rocky outcropping, a spot that Thren himself had chosen. Mostly because no one would be able to attack them from across the river.

 

[Bernard]

None of the mercenaries came to ask him what he would do. Fancy that.

Bernard had thought that all the walking would give him time to find an answer to the problem, but two days in and he still had no clue what the right thing to do was if they ended up attacked and outnumbered again.

Well. He knew the right thing to do. His problem was more along the lines of finding an answer he could live with. Literally.

By they time they made camp, he was in pain. He had no idea how Thren carried on after a battle like this. Was he just not that injured? Bernard side-glanced the man, but found no answer hidden beneath the thick leather and armor. Regardless, Bernard set down his stuff and allowed the man some time to recoup, waiting patiently for Thren to be ready to train.

He spent the time slowly flexing his fingers, aware that he would have to leave the sword play for a different day. It would be stupid to risk his healing hands, when things like grappling were clearly were he was weak at. He put aside the sword, that intention clear.

"Where did you learn how to fight?" He asked, troubled.

 

[Thren]

"My tribe." Thren stated simply as though that were answer enough.

Not many people knew of the Siruk of course, and that was mostly because the number of his people had dropped dramatically over the last century or so. When you were naught but devoted mercenaries your time on Arethil was limited by the amount of battles you participated in.

Eventually you would feel the bite of a sword or sting of an ax.

"The Siruk learn to fight from the age of ten." Magic, hand to hand combat, all of it. "Everyone helps. Mother, father, uncles, even those who are not related."

Thren said as he rolled his shoulders and stretched slightly. "Each add their own expertise, and eventually you learn what you are good at."

 

[Bernard]

Bernard listened on, fascinated by Thren's recount. As a boy he would often be regaled by the customers of his master's shop. They serviced the upper east side, where men of money were eager to brag and tell the wide-eyed service boy all about their adventures.

He had never heard a recount like Thren's before. He perked, his curious nature rekindling a little as he pressed with more questions.

"What are you good at? Did they teach you to grapple?"

 

[Thren]

Thren thought that the answer was somewhat obvious. "I am good with my dagger and close ranged combat."

Some Siruk of course did not hold to the same. There were many of his tribe who were better with bows or even slings. Some used a warhammer and still others used no weapon at all. Everything entirely depended on the warriors own style and gift. It was an oddity for most soldiers given that cultures tended to stick with one form or art, but among the Siruk combat was the art itself.

Didn't matter how you performed.

"Grappling Isn't something you want to do unless you have to." Thren explained. "Better to keep a knife in your boot."

Wrestling with someone on the ground was not an effective way of winning a fight. "They try to grab you, you stab them in the throat."

He shrugged.

 

[Bernard]

Bernard frowned. "But I don't have knife. If we're gonna keep being outnumbered, I can't get my sword outta one fast enough to keep back the next. All I did back there was grapple. I need to be better at it."

It wasn't his fault these barbarians didn't fight with proper swords. If they did, it would be a different story, he grumbled to himself. But for now, maybe Thren was right. He admitted begrudgingly. Maybe he couldn't just depended on his sword, he needed to have a fall back. And since all those attackers seemed to want to do was punch the living lights out of him, he needed to know how to make them stop next time.

 

[Lia]

Thren chuckled quietly. "We'll need to get you a blade."

Should have taken one from the bandits a few days ago. They'd had plenty of weapons to steal, though none of them had been of great quality. He frowned for a moment, wondering if any of the merchants would carry a dagger or short sword. Eventually he slowly shook his head and motioned towards the clearing.

"My shoulder is still healing." Thren pointed out. "But I'll show you what I can."

He was much larger than Bernard, and that meant when it came to grappling he'd inevitably have an advantage. "We'll get you a knife later though."

It would serve him better in the end.

 

[Bernard]

Bernard clenched up his hands, nodding. "Do your worst," he leveled, standing with a grimace. There was literally way he could end up hurting more than he did now. He was sure of it.

He already had his eyes set on the lake, intending to soak a long time in it afterwards.

He glanced around, then gestured vaguely for them to go deeper into the trees, a red tinge to his ears as he aimed to get out of sight of the others. He shook out his arms them, the soft rustle of camp life dimmed by the foliage around them. "Ok," he breathed, racing his fists and trying to pep himself up.

"Don't hold back."

 

[Thren]

"Lad." Thren said with a smile. "If I didn't you would end up dead."

That wasn't overconfidence speaking, but simple truth.

Generally when Thren fought in hand to hand combat he utilized his peoples magics. Turning his skin to steel and his muscles to rock. Striking someone with tghat was enouh to cause them more than a little bit of permanent damage, something he didn't want to do here.

So instead he simply stepped forward.

He was not as fast as before, using no magic this time, but he still moved quickly. With three long steps he closed the distance between himself and Bernard, his legs kicking out while his fist struck towards his ribs.

 

[Bernard]

Bernard yelped, unable to help the way he flaaaailed back away from the rib punch, running a few steps backwards away from Thren in what was no doubt a very unmanly manner.

"Alright! Not there!" After a desperate moment, the boy remembered he was in a spare and crouched a little, running back forward to grab at Thren's lapels and try to swipe him backwards like he had seen Thren do to others before.

 

[Thren]

"Fight dirty." Thren said simply.

That was always the first lesson.

There wasn't much of a point to fighting with Honor. Honor got you killed. Honor got your friends killed. The Siruk did not fight with honor, they fought with whatever they could.

"Always." The Barbarian said as he bucked back, his hand coming up to snatch at Bernard's fists. "Hit what you can, where you can."

His head jutted forward, trying to headbutt Bernard's face.

 

[Bernard]

Thunk.

You could count that one as a lesson well learned. Bernard seemed to sway a little, his daze distant and grip loosening.

He knee snapped up, going to jam Thren in between the legs. Like that?

 

[Thren]

The knee struck home, and in that exact moment Thren wished that he wore a cod-piece...or something of the sort. A loud sound escaped his throat, but just what that sound was supposed to be no one could actually say.

He made a pained face, his expression contorting. "That...yeah..."

Ouch.

With a slight wave of his hand he turned around and motioned for Bernard to hang on a second.

 

[Bernard]

Oh hell no. Bernard may be naive but he wasn't an idiot. He gave Thren no "reprieve", shoving back and going to sucker punch him in the face.

A smile was spreading across his face, the boy pleased in himself. Fighting did always have a sort of a thrill to him. Especially when he managed to land a few hits.

 

[Thren]

The boy wanted to be harsh?

Thren would be harsh right back. There wasn't really much for him to do while he was writhing in pain of course, he couldn't strike back or lash out with his leg, but he still had an option left open to him.

A pulse rang through his body, the same odd feeling that rushed through him when he'd picked up the dirt. There was an unseen shift, and then an odd sort of blackness spread across the skin of his face. Within half a breath, right before Bernard struck, his skin shifted almost completely in color.

 

[Bernard]

Crunch.

Thren would feel the small bones in his hand break against his face, the boy's smile faulting into shock at the moment of impact. He fell backwards, his mouth wide in the breathless pain his lungs could not yet exhale. He clutch his hand to his chest, whimpering, then simply fell to his knees and made wordless noises of pain.

"N-not. F-Fair." He was beginning to hate this magic tricks, a tear of pain streaking down his face.

 

[Thren]

Thren took a few deep breaths, not even really paying any attention to Bernard writhing on the ground. Getting kneed in the balls was...well was something that no man should ever have to experience. His eyes closed for a moment, the blackness over his skin swept away.

His fingers curled and uncurled for a few seconds, his lungs filled with another deep breath, and then slowly he turned back towards Bernard. "Second lesson."

There was still an ache that seemed to echo throughout his entire body, but he managed to speak well enough anyway. Some of the girls in the caravan were watching now, some amused, others with a slight hint of distaste on their face.

"Learn when to quit." Thren finished squatting down in front of the boy.

 

[Bernard]

There was genuine pain coursing through the boy, his already swollen hand now broken in several places. He clutched it to himself, sensing this. Horror crept into his features as he began to really comprehend what that would mean. It wouldn't just be broken knuckles now, it was the bones in his hand. It wouldn't take days of rest, it would take weeks.

In the middle of a mission.

"I can't ever win," he gasped, shaking his head in dull shock. "Why would you do that? I'm screwed now!"

 

[Thren]

Thren shrugged. "I told you to give me a second."

At least it had been more than obvious that was what he'd intended. That was really the point of sparring after all. You didn't try to kill your opponent or seriously you harm them. You didn't keep fighting when someone called for a stop. Perhaps the boy had never learned that, but Thren had to defend himself.

"You kept going." The Barbarian stated simply. "Besides."

He glanced at the lad. "You're better off without that fool thing anyway."

The sword really was much too large. The boy needed something more reasonable. A blade that suited him. A longsword maybe, or perhaps a rapier. The latter wouldn't do much good against heavily armored opponents, but bandits and the like? It would be perfect.

 

[Bernard]

"I thought it was another trick! Lesson three: Don't underestimate your enemies." For being in the pain he was, he did a solid impression of his voice.

"What the hell, man. You might as well kill me now, I'm done for it if I can lift my sword." He shat himself in rage.

 

[Thren]

Thren perked an eyebrow, his lips thinning as he took a step back. "Don't be a baby."

The Barbarian said as he looked down at the lad for a moment more. His face remained mostly impassive, though there was a slight hint of disgust now.

"You were dead either way." He pulled a dagger from the small of his back. "At least now you can actually learn something worthwhile."

He flipped the blade in his hand. "Go get yourself cleaned up."

Without another word he turned and began to walk away.

 

[Bernard]

Bernard shook, feeling overwhelmed by the moment. It was one thing to face enemies while outnumbered, but it was another to do it without your weapon and a broken hand. For a moment, his situation felt utterly hopeless.

Also, there was the matter of shitting himself, which was more degrading than anything else he had experienced thus far.

He said nothing to the man, a hard look to his eyes as he stood up and waddled away. The smell permeated the air as he left.

 

[Thren]

Thren slowly shook his head, taking a few steps to the edge of the clearing where he met a few of the women who had been watching. The majority of them, he felt, were feeling rather sorry for Bernard. "Someone will need to tend to his hand."

The Barbarian commented.

"He'll need a splint." That was probably about the best that they could hope for on the road. There was no healer within the Caravan, but as long as they set the boys hand right it would heal well enough. Of course it meant he would be useless in a fight, but Thren would help with that.

If the boy could stomach it anyway. "Maybe some new pants."

He almost laughed at that.

 

[Bernard]

Bernard spent a long time in that river, only urged out by one of the woman who approached him with material for a splint and some herbs to dull his pain.

If he was being honest, he was surprised someone went out on a limb to help him at all. The shame he had been carring the last few days had contorted his confidence and left him sure there wasn't anyone there that held much respect for him. The gesture did something to booster his sour mood, and the fresh pair of pants left him red face, yet relieved as well.

Still. When the night came to pass, Bernard chose to go to another mercenary to relieve him of his shift. He slept on a different side of the camp. He walked at the front of the caravan in the morning. It wasn't that he suddenly hated Thren, but he was mad. He was flabbergasted and frustrated and no matter how much walking and thinking he did, his life remained very complicated to him.

He would of punched Thren in the face again for breaking his hand .... but he needed that other hand. So he kept his distance, perhaps being a little childish and short sighted. But it was the best he could do when strained to this degree.

Thren would be granted a granted a quiet day, free of the boy's chipper patter and questions.

 

[Thren]

Thren didn't seem to mind the quiet.

He had never been one to need company in the first place, that was what he had Larik for. Most of the time he simply walked on the outside of the Caravan, keeping his distance from the merchants and everyone else. He did not do this to isolate himself, but rather to watch.

It had been three days since the bandits struck, and that made him weary. If another ambush was going to happen, he figured that it would happen soon.

That was also why he sent Larik on ahead of the Caravan.

The hound had been trained for battle, but he was also an exceptional scout. Better than any man or even elf, Larik could scent a stranger from more than a few miles away. The dog would do most of the scouting for Thren, tell him if anyone was laying in wait for the Caravan to eventually roll by.

It was paranoid, but it would keep them alive.