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 Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 5:01 am
As specific as the modern one : D
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 5:12 am
It was a beautiful day. Cato was out of the capital for the week and the weather was obliging him. The country rolled, the sun shone and Cato reigned his horse at the side of the small town he was visiting today. Six towns in seven days, with the last in the port town of Sylvias. Nothing overly drastic was happening to call him out here: with Cato's two elder brothers managing the army and holding up the boarders, it was up to him to manage the home front. He enjoyed it; he was no fighter, weapons were simply a danger to himself when in his hands, so managing money, people and land were far more to his liking. He'd never be King and it didn't worry him. He was happy to be free.
That and the people loved him. He was known as the most benevolent of the three bothers, the sort to donate to the Church and Charity, to look after the poor, and when any other peasant populace might revolt, his stuck true to him, his brothers and their kingdom. Yes, he was quite happy working behind the scenes.
The waving from the village children just boosted his moral.
"Prince Cato!" The mayor of this village, the name of which escaped Cato at the moment, came out to meet him personally, arms spread wide. "Welcome to our village, welcome! Come in, come in, you must be tired from your journey!"
He wasn't really, just a little thirsty, yet Cato dismounted and returned the mayor's hearty handclasp. "A pleasure to meet you, Mayor Dynas. My company and I will be glad to rest a little before the inspection."
To the Mayor's credit, his smile never faulted. This was a good sign; he wasn't hiding anything, Cato could expect to find everything in good condition. His men dismounted, some painfully. Attack within the country was very rare and the Prince's mount was mostly made up of elder soldiers, those too old or wounded to really be of use in the front lines, yet still not young enough to want to retire. It was a cushy job, yet they still felt as if they were serving their country. It worked for all.
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 5:37 am
On the contrary, the day was anything but beautiful. Flies buzzed around the man's ears, incessant, remaining no matter how much he swatted them away. All around the town, his sentries were posted, hiding in bogs and bushes, and the forested area on the western side of the port. They hid in broad daylight, ducking down, covered in mud and leaves. It was a dirty job, but an efficient one.
They had the place staked out for the entire morning, waiting for the signal from their captain to attack. Obviously, he was waiting to see if anything in this town was actually worth raiding. An incorrectly planned raid usually resulted in casualties, and running that risk without knowing their food and gold stores and where to find them would be a bad choice.
One of the men, ducking down in a bush, his face smeared with dirt, raised a hand and glanced back at the others. The signal was ready, now they just had to wait for the right moment.
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 5:45 am
The villagers in the square were completely unaware of the impending attack yet a lone sheapard boy wasn't. Eyes wide as he spotted the men from behind, he crept around from behind and began running, full pelt, towards the town.
Meanwhile, Cato was sitting outside the mayor's house with a mug of watered down wine, listening to the children chatter and show him just how many skips they could make, or marbles they could hit. Peaceful, quite aside from laughter, Cato was being made feel right at home.
The Mayor knew it too. He'd begun the yearly summary of the town's profits and growth, knowing the Prince was in a good mood. Cato nodded after each little section, listening with one ear. He wasn't concerned.
Not, at least, until the boy from the feilds ran in. "Raiders! From the north!"
What happened to his calming afternoon?
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 5:55 am
Oh, hell no. Their raid wasn't about to be ruined because of some little shepherd boy. With his hand raised, the chief of the clan closed his fist, urging his men forward with a loud, piercing yell. They charged in from every direction, a group of thirty or so barbarians, wielding makeshift axes and spears.
The man were large, dark skinned, with hair in various styles--but always dark. Their skin was covered in dirt, matted down everywhere, and they wore next to nothing. It seemed a fur loincloth and homemade boots were commonplace in their society for, other than a few shell and animal bone accessories, they were largely unornamented.
Fire was thrown onto the buildings as they ran in. Almost immediately, the town turned from peaceful to running, screaming, and chaos. No one knew what to expect, and amidst the confusion one raider in particular his way past Cato, running past and towards the port treasury.
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 6:06 am
Oh gods, oh gods, what did he do? Cato wasn't used to these situations - the last battle he'd been in he'd been protected by two armies, two! - yet this time all he had was the small, rag-tag band of soldiers who were doing their damn best against the invaders but having very little luck. A bunch of old-timers verses young, very masculine, seasoned invaders. You could tell how this was going to do.
They wern't after the children, at least not to kill, and Cato kept them behind him until this was obvious. They were probably safest here behind the house. They'd be found, oh yes, but not until the slaughter was over...he hoped.
He hadn't drawn his sword, he was hopeless with the thing, yet when a man rang past him on his way to the treasurey, Cato felt it right to intervene. It was like he'd woken up properly and without a thought, he ran after the invader. Stupid thing to do, but battle apparently did that to you.
He entered the building after the larger, manlier, burlier man and, with some trepidation, he drew his sword. It seemed so stupid, him waving this thing piece of metal around when the man was armed with a giant spear. Hoooo boy. Cato's sword arm wobbled a little, unusued to holding his weapon. Oh, he was so going to die...at least with weapon in hand?
"Hey! Get away from there!" At least his voice wasn't wavering.
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 6:25 am
To say that Cato was in over his head was a terrible understatement. After all, what good could some tiny, pampered prince do against seasoned veterans. Charging into the treasury, Val set his spear aside, leaning it against the wall, and untied a small, leather bag hanging about his hips. Spreading it out on the the ground, he was going to begin to fill it when the boy decided to make his way into the room.
Turning, Val couldn't help but smile at the sight. The plucky, young man was an amusing sight. Not a threatening one, but amusing nonetheless. He reached for his spear, standing to his full height and looking down at the Prince from across the room. The invader was nearly a foot taller than the city dweller, a pillar of taut muscle and testosterone. He had a healthy spattering of hair across his chest, arms, and armpits, but it was evenly distributed so that, you know, it wasn't a carpet. His face was clean shaven, with a hint of five o'clock shadow left over.
That look, though, was probably the last Cato may have had. As the man opened his mouth to make some reply, his eyes shot open as the head of his tribesman's spearhead pushed through the boy's chest. As quickly as it was thrust in, it was pulled back out, and the tall raider automatically began yelling in an unknown dialect, obviously upset at the ongoings. When Cato faded out, he would only here the indistinct anger of a Northern tongue.
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 6:36 am
Cato hadn't pased out immidiately, unfortunately. It had taken a sharp blow to the back of the neck to finally send the boy off into slumber. It was hard to breathe....
Whenever, wherever he woke up, the difficulty breathing was still in play. He was aware of his body before anything else. It ached, badly. Even though his only wound was the rather horrific one to the chest it felt like even his toes and fingers had been trampled on. Perhaps they had been. Cato couldn't tell; for him, it was as if his entire body was on fire.
A quiet groan escaped his badly chapped lips. His breathing must have been ragged for them to become so dry and it remained so. His eyes slowly, painfully opened. They wern't able to focus very well when they finally stayed open. Where was he? A tent, maybe? He couldn't tell, didn't care. The ground was below him, he could feel it under his fingernails, under his clenched fists and most of all, under his bare back. His wound was seeping yet he couldn't move. It was far too painful. Another, quiet groan escaped him and his head thrashed a little. There was no way to be comfortable like this.
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 6:51 am
It was a temporary encampment, the tribe resting in the woods some twenty miles from the town they'd attacked. It wouldn't be long until they moved on again, but they were already far enough away to make their progress untraceable. Tents made of rolled animal hide were held up with branches and vine rope found in the general area. They'd camped next to a heavy stream, so the sound was audible above the general din of men moving back and forth, laughter, celebration, and general merry making. No casualties had occurred during the raid, deaths were kept to a minimum, and they had managed to make off with enough goods and slaves to make for a well-to-do month.
Here, once everyone was rested, the group would split into two; half of the men marching the captured men and women to the nearest slave trade. Val, however, was not part of that party; he was heading back to their settlement, but with a bit of extra luggage.
Sitting on the ground cross-legged, he had obviously not cleaned up yet--from the smell of sweat permeating throughout the inside of the tent. In one hand was a small bowl filled with a stew-like substance, thick, brown, and gamy. In the other was a flattened, thick branch that he used to mash the deer in the broth into a more fine base.
Glancing over to Cato as he awoke, Val got to his knees and approached, offering the bowl over to the boy with a motion of his head.
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 7:04 am
Whever they were, Cato really couldn't bring himself to care right now. It didn't seem as though he was going to be hurt anymore right now and that was all that mattered. He was undercover. Alright, it was a good start. Of course, these thoughts were coming far more slowly to him than I'm relating to you. He'd hardly even registered that Val was in the room - his senses were very dull, his sense of smell hardly working right now - yet he did hear the other man move closer. He couldn't get a good look at him though he did, vaguely, recognise him from earlier. Wait...what had happened earlier?
There was a spoon placed near his mouth. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to eat or not until the smell finally hit him. It wasn't a refined smell but it smelt warm, and Cato realised that while he wasn't particularly hungry, any moisture in his mouth would be welcome right now. He obediantly opened his mouth as much as cracked lips would allow him, letting his captor place the food inside and, with quite an effort, managed to swallow.
It was a bad idea. He felt sick, horribly sick, and another quiet groan escaped him as he shook his head at the second offered spoon. A tiny amount of the stew hadn't quite made his mouth yet right now he couldn't bring himself to care.
"W...water?" He had no idea if this man could understand him. Gods.
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 7:27 am
At the words that came out of the boy's mouth, the raider obviously knew common tongue or had some inkling of understanding. Taking the bowl back, he placed it down on the ground, reaching for a canteen that sat close by. The water was lukewarm, but fresh. If anything, it was better for Cato's throat than cold water would have been.
Bringing it to the injured man's mouth, he let the tip of the canteen push against his lips, only giving him a small amount before pulling the container back and capping it.
There wasn't much more to do for the boy. Val had used what he knew about herbs to make a poultice and bandage out of some old leather, but now it was up to the Prince's own natural healing abilities. It would likely take a bit of time to heal completely, no matter the circumstance.
Reaching out a heavy, calloused hand he brushed his finger's against the injured man's forehead, checking for any signs of fever and pleased to find his temperature was dropping.
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 8:45 am
It didn't matter that the water was warm, or tasted ever so vaguely of the canteen it was held in. Cato gulped down what he was offered greedily and almost whined when the flask was taken away. It was probably a good thing it was; didn't want too much water in the boy, after all.
As his carer's fingers brushed his forehead, Cato found himself slowly drifting off again, feeling somewhat better than he had earlier. He still burned, oh how he burned, yet the initial hit was over and his chest had simmered to a deep ache that would stay with him for quite some time.
This pattern would be repeated for almost a week. Cato would come to either in a tent like this one and the man would feed him a little and change his bandages. Occasionally Cato would find some semblance of conciousness while they were on the move; his captor seemed to be giving him a piggy back yet still keeping speed with the others, a fact that left Cato feeling more than a little intimidated. He'd pointed a sword at this man? He was lucky he was even partially alive, let alone living at all.
Somewhere along the line he'd come to the realisation that yes, indeed, he was a prisoner. There were no shackles of physical reminders of this - his wound left him almost unable to move by himself for the moment - yet it was obviously the case. These wern't his people, he wasn't a Prince here...slavery? It was likely. Still, Cato mused during a particularly livid moment of awareness, they hadn't killed him yet for being useless. Perhaps he wouldn't be sold?
It was the sixth day when Cato awoke to find linen under his back, rather than dirt. It was uncomfortably warm, even without his shirt on (where had that shirt gone?), as the boy was used to much cooler weather down south. The roof above him was still made of canvas yet it was a different colour to the one he remembered; Darker, thicker...higher too. The atmosphere from outside, what he could hear anyway, also differed; before all he'd been able to hear was men singing and joking. Now he heard different sounds: The clang of the anvil, the screeching of children. No, something had deffinately changed.
What hadn't was that he was still filthy from the travel. Unable to really move, Cato could still feel the sweat and grime that coated his body and it was really starting to get irritating. Still...what could you do? He let his eyes slide shut again, exhausted from all that thinking. Perhaps they wouldn't move again...perhaps he could have a decent sleep.
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 7:28 pm
Considering the large tracks of land they traveled, Val made excellent time--even with his newfound baggage. They had traveled roughly twenty miles a day at a steady pace between walking and running, stopping only to make camp and eat a daily meal of dried meat stew that had kept them fit and ready to press on. Hunting took up too much time, especially when all the men were eager to get back to their homes.
Taking care of the injured prisoner had been an extra strain on the raider, but to a certain measure he enjoyed it. It was almost the same feeling you got from taking home a puppy and nursing it back to health. Cato was small enough to count for one, anyway, compared to the man who had backpacked him over harsh terrain, desolate woodlands, and marshy swamps.
Whenever the party of travelers stopped, he would take time to clean up the boy. Now, Cato would have argued otherwise, but if Val had ignored certain routine, there'd be more than sweat and dirt covering his body.
Upon the group's return to their permanent encampment, Val left Cato in his residence--a small, if cozy place--and went immediately down towards the beach. Their town was built half way between the ocean and the western plains, prime for both hunting and fishing, and water was never a problem. He cleaned off, and returned to the injured boy's side some time later in the day.
Opening the flap of the tent let in a cool sea breeze, and the man--now sporting nothing more than a pair of tight-fitting hide briefs (for lack of a better word)--moved automatically to Cato's side, kneeling next to the cot and checking his head for fever again.
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Posted: Tue Sep 23, 2008 7:44 pm
The temperature change had taken its effect on Cato. He wasn't used to the heat, as I said before, and his already weakened body was protesting the change. Now I'll take a moment to emphasise that Cato wasn't an unhealthy lad most of the time. He spent a lot of time riding, a lot of time outside and was generally fit, if somewhat weak. His health was almost always perfect aside from the winter sniffles.
Still, taking a spear through the chest then being lugged around one-hundred miles didn't do wonders for one's health. He was recovering, oh yes, and his wounds had begun scabbing over despite the constant jerk and strain of the road leaving it oozing half the time. He'd live, that much was certain now, provided the wound didn't fester and he didn't succumb to fever. Speaking of fever, Val's hand would reveal that Cato was indeed running one. Nothing dangerously high yet still, if left unattended, could possibly kill the boy. Lucky Val.
The older man's hand was cool against Cato's forehead and, in responce, the boy's eyes fluttered open. They were bleary, much like they had been the first day they'd done this, and blinked up at Val in confusion. Where? Oh, right. Here. Somewhat hazy, Cato took a good, long (if fuzzy) look at the man who was caring for him. Tall, muscle-bound and with hair smattered all over his chest, this man was the sort girls swooned over at local jousts and the more common wrestling matches. Deffinately a looker...for a girl, of course. Oh no, Cato didn't swing that way...oh who was he kidding. He did, and he took the oppertunity to give Val a good once over while his eyes and mind were clouded and he couldn't think better. Hey, always blame things on being ill, right?
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-CAL- 89 percent vanity Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Oct 28, 2008 8:06 pm
Cato stirring didn't cause much of a change in the man's reactions. He went on as he usually would, deciding to tidy up the place a bit before tending to his "captive's" needs. The room was round, with a dome ceiling of animal hide stretched taut over long, curved beams of flexible wood, which had actually been braided together and tied at many intervals with a thick, sinewy rope. A few flaps were cut in the material with knobs and bits of string dangling from them, but all were closed. Various tools were strewn around the dwelling; a stone work bench, bone and bronze tools, half-finished spear heads, an old bow lying in the corner. Yeah, Val was definitely a warrior. And definitely needed more hobbies.
Aside from the tools of his craft, a variety of lucky charms dangled inches from the roof; old pieces of amber, fish bones on strings, crystals. It was almost like a giant mobile inside the place, though it didn't look like much in the dim light. The entire floor was covered in animal pelts, making a fur carpet from wall to wall, and to make sure they didn't get wet and smell the place up, thick, porous material had been flushed between the carpets and wall to soak up any moisture that came in through the ground.
He was still tending to his duties when another man of similar stature entered, the flap of the tent being open and as such free for visitors would walk in.
They began to argue, and as Cato began drifting off again from his fever, the last thing he would hear to haunt his dreams were the racous yells in a foreign tongue far from home.
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