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Post by VANE SUTHERLAINN on Mar 19, 2013 1:19:13 GMT -5
They were a mob, you could say. A real gang of brown and green and metal. A regalia of pikeman and cavalry, of tired flags, of mud from the wilds, stained and smelly in sweat, born near misty castles. They were a hungry, grumpy, frowning bunch, and there general irritation made them handle the captives like pigs to be roasted over the campfire.
The young squire should not have acted so lordly and demanding with their scouts. It would have been smarter to hide or turn around on the narrow forest path. Instead, he had drawn his sword and laughed in mimickery of his master.
With a cold lump on the back of his and a smack of dried blood on his face, his limp body was hauled into one of the tents. Outside, a few soldiers wrestled with his mule, and another rabble fuddled with his hide armor, trying to stretch the buckle. Elsewhere, his sword was being melted down. He was a lad all right, sixteen or so and broken beyond anything healthy. His body was shoved into a pile beside a girl, and the soldier looked at her with a sneer.
"Y'got company now, lassie. Real prince, heheh. Y'better learn from his stupidity, or id'll be the end of you."
With that, he yanked her chain. The metal device was attached to a heavy iron ball and around her ankle. He fastened the other clasp clasp to the young man's foot, dragging him a little along the ground and closer to the girl. The kid seemed a corpse, his hair and face mashed into the grass and his mouth parted for anything to crawl in.
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Post by MARGARET ROLFE on Mar 19, 2013 20:30:03 GMT -5
the thing about being captured is, the ladies and the men have different things to fear. margaret is no stranger to the kind of rabble who invade their lands with the belief that they posess every bit of land that they occupy. the men are beaten and the horses are carted off to serve new masters, the women are the ones who are saddled with a different kind of bondage. margaret can still remember the putrid stink of onion in the infidel's breath when he whispers "would be a shame to bloody a pretty face like yours - i'm sure that the g'neral would feel the same"
she thinks that she might have showed real fear then.
margaret is plenty skilled with a sickle, but decapitating anything other than a head of wheat is a little different from trying to protect herself from several burly men. peasants are in better physical condition than many might think, but fighting the soldiers was probably a poor gamble.
the girl hadn't even thought about her parents' future difficulties without a daughter. she had only thought about how many pieces of silver their hog is worth at the market, and the devastation that the family would incur if the bastards roasted it over their greedy fires without payment.
the scent of roasted ham wafts around her, as if in mockery. her tears have long since dried, but the appearance of some other idiot who managed to get themselves captured is of little comfort to her.
"there are easier ways to catch flies" she snaps, harsher than she had intended. captivity does not suit margaret, and it shows.
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Post by VANE SUTHERLAINN on Mar 20, 2013 14:47:05 GMT -5
The thug rubbed his beard, grunted, and then left the two alone, shout as soon as he opened the flaps of the tent. The broken squire grumbled lowly to himself, barely stirring from the his beating. He laid on his side, his arms tied behind him and his ankle now chained. His face was bruised like a rotten peach. He was just a boy. His eyes would red as if he were going to cry if he were to open them, but his head was turned away from the girl.
He was a mouse of a boy, really. After a quiet moment, the girl muttered something with a sassy attitude. His mouth squirmed bitterly, and then with a good yank of his foot, he pulled the chain that connected them a measure closer to him. If she were standing, it would have thrown her to the ground, and if she were sitting up, it would have knocked her over.
"Do shut up," he muttered without bothering to look at her.
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Post by Isacutics on Feb 25, 2022 8:40:18 GMT -5
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