Fable - Ask What Comes With The Storm

[Kassandra]

Leiara - Cortosi Border

Kassandra stood quietly at her perch on the guard post, her gaze gently sweeping over the edge of the wall and into the lands beyond. Her lips pressed to a thin line as she spotted the approaching storm clouds, the great black tumult moving forward and darkening the other side of the river. The sun was already disappearing beneath its wake, and it would not be long before the storm pushed through and swallowed up Leiara and the Guardsmen garrison with it.

A strange sort of unease settled in Kizzie's stomach as she watched the coming squall.

"Never seen a sandstorm before?" The Princess of Vel Anir nearly jumped out of her skin as the sergeant stepped up behind her, hands almost flittering to the dagger on the small of her back. Fingers furling into fists as she cursed herself, and then once again promptly reminded herself that her magic would have been ten times faster than any dagger.

That was the trouble with not having been sent to the Academy. Her life might have been ten times more comfortable than any Dreadlord, but she had none of the instincts of the famed warrior sorcerers. Even with her boot camp in the guard and the few experiences of battle she now had, reaching for her magic wasn't as natural as it should have been. Her teeth ground together in a moment of frustration, but she shook her head and snapped off a salute as she remembered she wasn't alone. "Ah, no Sir. I've only recently been stationed with the Forty Forth."

The Princess explained with a smile, having been transferred only have she'd practically screamed at her father to cease with his meddling. Lynus' word apparently having gone farther than hers.

"You don't have to salute me lass, I'm a sergeant, not an officer." The man said with a chuckle.

"Oh, right, sorry Sir." She said, smiling slightly as she put down her hand. The Sergeant shaking his head but deciding it was fruitless to correct her again. Though the Princess had only been here a short time, it was clear that she was a stickler for regulations and rules. Probably due to her up bringing. "How long do they last?"

She asked as they both turned to regard the coming storm. The sweeping sands beneath the dark clouds becoming ever more visible, miles upon miles of land slowly being swallowed. "Few hours usually. Just make sure to be indoors when it does hit and you'll be fine. Few of the vets keep watch, but nothin' ever pokes through in these damn things."

He said with a chuckle, never expecting what was to come.

 

[Tariq]

"I hate sand," Ani muttered, squinting at the oncoming storm. "Gets bloody everywhere. We'll be digging for days after this storm, mark my words," of course, most of the Guards gathered did not mark any of Ani's words. He was a little odd and had grown bitter in his old age. He'd downright soured after the last battle with the Cortosi had given him a nasty injury to his knee which had left him with a permanent limp. Only a few glanced up to peer at the darkening horizon the older man was scowling at but most continued on with their dicing.

"Isn't he from the deserts?" muttered one guard but the others merely shrugged. Ani didn't cause no harm if he were muttering. It was when he stopped that there was usually going to be some kind of problem. Tariq much preferred to let the old man rant; he had a feeling it somehow relieved the pain in the mans leg. Absentmindedly he passed the whisky being shared about on to the grumpy soldier who accepted it with a grunt.

Everyone shook the dice in their cups then cast them over. The rounds went quick as those playing made their bets and placed their coins. There was good natured jeering from those watching as they called out bets they believed too safe, and called out those they thought were outright lies. The players bantered back and the sandstorm was forgotten.

Finally, Tariq lifted his cup to reveal his winning hand with a grin.

"Pay up lads!" There was a smattering of groans but it was hard to stay mad at Tariq when his winnings usually went on a group bottle of wine, rum, or whisky. He tidied it away into his pouch then reset the table. "Another round?" Some of those gathered left with half-hearted gripes of being too poor now, and others filled the empty spaces.

"Dice or cards?" he chuckled, unbothered by the playful banter.

 

[Inngal Niklus]

Inngal scoffed at the older guard's words from a distance away, not really upset but just kind of surprised anyone, especially someone with as many years alive as Ani, could still gripe after so long in the West. A sandstorm was coming, yes, but what else was new? A few days of digging never did anyone harm, or at least those that really put their backs into it came out stronger mentally if not a tad physically. Still, he couldn't blame em all that much for being grumpy. A limp was never fun to deal with, so the younger guard was sympathetic.

Nearby a bunch of his comrades were gambling and yet more commentating, so Inngal decided to counteract the boredom drilling a hole in his skull by waiting for and joining the next game. The players cast their dice, all bets having been made, which reminded him to look for anything he had on himself to wager. Concern alighted briefly over his eyes as he realized he had about four or five silver in his pouch total, but he nevertheless picked out two of the shiny grey pieces to play with. Due to this distraction, he missed who won but managed to figure it out by the voice that followed: Bannerman Tariq.

Well, that was good. Inngal grinned at the idea of yet another communal keg of drink around camp. As the disappointed left their seats, the bear-man quickly filled one of them and promptly heard a crack, standing as his weight combined with the weight of his well fitting armor spelled the end for a chair. "A...Apologies." he said, looking a little embarrassed. "I'll stand, for the welfare of the other seats." he decided, crouching down so that about half of his over six foot frame was over the flat part of the table.

"Don't got much, so with luck I'll be getting a loan from ye at Dice, Bannerman." he said with a smirk, placing down both his pieces of silver in front of him. "Hope this is enough to join, needed to scrimp a bit." Inngal said with a shrug, taking out his own set of dice and the paired cup. With that, he waited in case anyone else was up to join the game, stirring around his dice and just listening to the crackly sounds. Hopefully, he would not become another of those left a little poorer this day.

"Ah, I forgot, nice to meet you. I am Sergeant Inngal." he offered suddenly, as though remembering proper manners.

Tariq Kassandra

 

[Wetherby]

Wetherby Plunkett was on his last chance. His father, who had once held lofty hopes for him, now harbored dwindling expectations. He'd been shuffled from one odd job to another since he was ten, failing spectacularly at each. As a baker’s apprentice, he had incinerated a kitchen. As a blacksmith’s helper, he had caused an unfortunate accident with a hot iron poker.. That poor blacksmith. Even the knights, who had attempted to discipline him into a competent squire, had given up, finding him more of a hindrance than a help.

Now, in a final bid to make something of his son, his father had sent him to join the guard. Wetherby was determined to succeed, but his first day was already shaping up to be a disaster. A loud clatter of steel hit the ground as Wetherby tripped over an unnoticed step, his unruly russet hair flopped over his eyes. The freshly sharpened swords he had been carrying scattered across the floor.

"For fuck's sake, Wetherby!! Switch your fuckin' brain on!" bellowed a burly and perpetually scowling man, his patience already worn thin with the lad.

"Y-yes sir. I'll turn it on. Sorry, sorry sir," Wetherby stammered, his cheeks flushing a bright red with embarrassment. He frantically scrambled to pick up the swords, trying to be as careful as possible to avoid cutting himself, again.

The other guards watched with a mixture of amusement and pity. They had heard tales of Wetherby’s misadventures, but seeing him in action was another matter entirely.

He carefully lifted the swords again, huffing his hair from his face and focusing intently on each step as he made his way to the armoury. Behind him, he could hear the murmurs and chuckles of the other guards, but he ignored them, determined to prove that he could do at least one thing right.

"S'cuse me sir, sorry.. s'cuse me miss, thank you, sorry.." he chirped shyly as he passed by.

 

[Kassandra]

The Sergeant and Kizzie both stepped back as Wetherby went slinking between them. One of the blades in his arms sticking out precariously close to the non-commissioned officers face. Kassandra watched it with no small anxiety as the blade wiggled in his arms, and then proceeded to fall out from his grasp.

It clattered to the ground at the top of the wall, then proceeded to slip and slide down the stairs. Making enough of a racket to wake the mice sleeping in the granary down below.

"Kress sake, kid." The words were said more with disappointment then anger, The Sergeant shaking his head as he wasn't entirely sure what to even do with the boy. "Kizz, help him out will you? Make sure he doesn't cut someone's arm off, or dent a few more of our swords."

The Princess turned Guardsmen offered a quick nod. "Yes, Sir."

She said automatically, earning another sigh, but not a correction as the sergeant stalked off down the wall.

Kassandra waited for just a few seconds, then quickly rushed down the steps to retrieve the fallen sword. Sprinting back up and quickly catching up to Wetherby. Her arms extended so that she could take some of the blades from his grasp.

"Hey...let me just...help you with that." The Princess offered, being extremely careful not to get hand accidentally lopped off. "You know these Officers, stress about everything."

She said, giving him a reassuring smile.