Private Tales One Foot In The Grave

[Agatha]

The North
Three days after the flight...

The prisoner convoy was a slowly-moving blur in the distance. Black on grey, it grew closer with every whispered word and hushed reply. 'How many?' Agatha asked, gazing through the canopy of leaves limiting her view and hiding her from sight. 'Fifty? Sixty?' Redbad clambered up beside her, took a second to make the count. 'Ninety-six, give or take.' He turned to her, gave her the look she knew so well. 'More than we need. More than we can afford to take.'

Agatha took a moment to weigh up his words. She agreed with him, of course. But she had to be seen thinking for herself or else the bastards under her command would start spinning tales about how the scout master was the real one in charge of the outfit. Funnily enough, Agatha knew that not to be the case. Command of the Second Cohort was the last thing Redbad wanted. He had been telling everyone as much for the last five decades. 'But do you they ever listen?' he asked, reading his captain's mind as if they shared it.

'No,' he smiled, shuffled his way over to the next bough along. 'No, all they care about is getting paid so they can spend it on booze or whores. Or booze and whores, now that I come to think about it.' Snatching off his felt hat, the venerable elf scratched at his scalp. Long, lank hair adhered to his fingers as he made to examine them. A grimace. 'I'm getting old, Agatha,' he told her, 'Old and grouchy.'

Nodding along, the captain couldn't help but smile. She had heard this all before. "I'm too old, Agatha," and "I've gotten slow, Agatha." Redbad didn't seem to notice that even old he was the best damned scout in the company. He had the keenest eyes, the sharpest hearing. As for slow, well, Agatha had seen for herself just what he could do in a fight.

Agatha's eyes lowered to the twin daggers at his hips. Her smile brightened.

'You've a few years left in you yet, 'Bad.' She looked over at him, smiled. 'If you've grown tired of my company, you need only ask for me to transfer you across to Cato's lot. I know just how much you adore working with his merry band of misfits.' Grinning, Agatha pushed off from her hiding place to descend through the branches. Like it or not, Agatha reckoned hanging that particular threat over his head might help bring the old elf back to his senses. And if not...

Absorbing the drop with all the grace of a falling boulder, Agatha straightened to her full height. 'Right, you horrible lot! The time has come for you all to stop lazing about on your arses and to stand to!' Walking into the midst of her waiting warriors, the captain began encouraging her people to their feet. 'Up! I said get up!' A swift kick to accompany the bark of command. 'Sergeant Dahlia, could you please make yourself useful for a change and get these sheepfuckers on their feet! Thank you!'

Dahlia Blackthistle Wulfere Rori

 

[Rori]

Only three days had passed since she'd found herself in yet another desperate struggle. Her little sanctuary, thrust into a maelstrom of chaos. The memory of the merciless blows that had rained upon her lingered, but she'd once been told that bruises brought out the pretty colour of her eyes, and she wore them with an air of defiance.

The 'Blackshields', her saviours, had plucked her from the precipice of despair, offering her safety in the face of unspeakable horrors. In the three days the had passed, the redhead clung to her silence, allowing her newfound companions to believe her either mute or too wounded to speak. Avoiding eye contact, she maintained a delicate balance between timidity and determination. Her reserve was not born out of weakness but rather a quiet strength, a resilience that had carried her through the darkest of moments. From the shadows, the Blackshields became her study. She observed, her keen eyes absorbing the intricacies of the their dynamics. She listened intently, trying to discern the essence of who they were through their words and actions.

When she'd finally felt safe enough to rest within their company, her eyes closed, and sleep pulled her deep on that third night. Her body lay nestled amidst the gnarled roots of a towering oak, her face etched with remnants of violence and as she slept, the throbbing ache of her battered body whispered of her frailty, reminding her that the journey towards healing had only just begun. Pain, she could deal with, but the wounds inflicted upon her soul remained raw, crushed by the harsh reality of real life. That there was no running from her own helplessness and lack of self-reliance. As long as she clung to the identity of a helpless woman, she would forever remain a target for violence and subjugation.

The captain's voice, sharp and commanding, pierced the air and jolted her from sleep, calling forth the remnants of her shattered strength. Rori rolled herself onto her feet too quickly and staggered back into the rough bark of the tree behind her, her eyes quickly scanning her surroundings before settling on the one calling them 'sheep fuckers.' Her frown of indignation was brief, but she quickly dropped her gaze and bent to pick up the heavy blade that'd been thrust into her hand, though what they expected her to do with it, she had no idea..

 

[Dahlia Blackthistle]

Dahlia had been casually standing watch from her perch in a different tree. She had kept herself separate from the others, not out of a place of being ostracized or lack of trying from the others, but she preferred to keep herself at arm's length from most anyone.

Her gaze shifted towards Agatha as the Second captain's sharp words pierced the air. The authority in the she-orc's voice couldn't be ignored and Dahlia gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement after sliding down from her watch and landing with a sneer amongst their languid band of mercenaries.

The sight of her comrades lazily snoring and lounging about irked her, their lack of discipline grating on her nerves. It was time to shake them out of their stupor and remind them of what the fuck they were even doing here.

With a flick of her wrist, shadows swirled around her, a tangible manifestation of her magic. She focused her energy, channeling it into subtle whispers that brushed against the mercenaries' ears, stirring them from their slumber with insidious intent.

Some yelped in surprise, while others cursed and rubbed their eyes, startled by the sudden disturbance. She knew how the cold touch of her shadows rendered an instinctual dread down the spines of many among them.

There was Durmont, a burly brute with a snoring problem that could rattle the branches of nearby trees. A swift kick to his boot brought him to an abrupt halt, his eyes widening in alarm.

Then there was Sarella, a quick-witted rogue known for her knack for relieving her fellow mercs at any game of cards.

Dahlia strode intentionally through Sarella's card game with Burleigh, scattering coins and dice in her wake. Rolling her eyes at Burleigh's pitiful attempt at cheating to try and get his lost coin back.

"Up, you lazy lot!" Dahlia's voice cut through the air like a whip, her tone commanding. "This isn't a tavern, and you're not here for leisure. We have a mission to fulfill, and the Captain won't tolerate any more slacking off! So grab your fucking gear, gather your wits, and please, try not to embarrass us."

She ignored the incessant grumbling and the curses thrown upon the name of her grave as the last of the mercenaries gathered their gear and shook off the remnants of drowsiness.

Satisfied, Dahlia took up her position just beyond Agatha's shoulder, shadows shrinking back into her dark embrace.

 

[Wulfere]

“You gotta be a better man.”

“I know, I know.” The old woman spat at his boots. Her red rimmed eyes glaring at him with such ferocity that Wulfere wondered if he were about to drop dead.

“Don’t act like you know when you haven’t been around for the past eight years! You wanted a quick lay, well you got it. Now start taking care of your daughter!”​

---

He hated that dream. Hated even more that he had yet to see his daughter this year. At least he could appease the old woman taking care of her by sending off a good chunk of coin that he earned. He really should take up learning how to read and write. Every now and then he’d have a letter waiting for him from his daughter, but he could never read them.

He kept them close to his heart, at least.

Wulfere rolled over onto his other side, using his fur-lined cloak as a pillow and trying to get comfortable once more. Somehow still dreaming yet a part of him faintly aware that he was dreaming, Wulfere began arguing with the hag.

“And an… another thing….” he mumbled, not even getting a chance to finish his final blow— which wasn’t as clever as he thought it to be— as those nasty, creepy-as-fuck whispers smoothed over his ears. He instantly opened his eyes, slapping a gloved hand over his ear as he sat up. He looked around, searching for the culprit. Yeah, there she was!

“Can’t you just be like all the other captains and sergeants and bang a pan with a wooden spoon?” He shouted, being the only one brave, or stupid, enough to voice the others thoughts. Regardless, he got up and ready like the others, pulling his long dark hair with the discolored strand back into a bun behind his head. Plenty of his dark tresses still flowed past his shoulders as he pulled on his cloak, rubbing his bearded chin as he followed the others to crowd around Agatha and Dahlia.

Well, time to make that coin, at least.

Agatha Rori Dahlia Blackthistle

 

[Agatha]

And which other Captains would those be, hmm? thought Agatha, shaking her head. Every day was the same. From dawn till dusk, she had to put up with this... shit. 'Brick!' She bellowed. 'Be a good lad and give Wulfere there a slap, would you?' Perking up, the big brute of an orc nodded, smiled. 'With pleasure!' He called back.

Turning to smile at the rest of her soldiers, and a few of Captain Cato's, Agatha raised her voice as Brick cuffed Wulfere upside the head. A number of her people laughed. A good sign. 'Right, lads! Now that you're all done dressing each other, we've business to attend to.' Hopping up onto a fallen log, Agatha swept the scene with her eyes.

'There's a prisoner column bearing down on us,' she told them. 'Something like thirty or forty guards by Redbad's estimate. You all know what that means.' Aye, they thought, an easy fight. Little plunder. 'Brick! You'll be takin' the western woods. Sergeant Dahlia, the East with Callous and Sallow.'

Scout and Centurion. And a Sergeant from the wrong cohort with the right company. What could possibly go wrong?

'We'll wait until they're in the woods. Make it quick, and keep it clean. Spare the prisoners if you can, but by all means kill the rest of 'em. Clear?' The men nodded in agreement. 'Very good! Now, to your squads! Get moving.'

Stepping down from her makeshift stage, the Captain gestured to Dahlia. 'You're with me,' she said. 'You too, new-blood,' she pointed at Rori, crooked her finger, like she was making a solicitation and not about to head into battle.

'Let's go knock some heads.'

Rori Dahlia Blackthistle Wulfere