eat a sandwich. (appetentia) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-01-06 13:49:00 |
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It had been little more than a week since his marriage, and Mordred was back to work as usual. Patroling the borders of the land was not an easy job, however the time alone gave Mordred ample to think over recent circumstances. Between the marriage, realizing his new wife loved another, and the marriage had put him in the uncomfortable position of learning to protect and care for someone he barely knew, his head was spinning.
Which was why he was filled with an odd sense of excitement when he noticed the signs of an encampment just within the treeline. There was a scent in the air of a recently doused fire, and a haphazard tent was visible from where Mordred was standing. Then there was the horse - far too nice and domesticated looking to be a wild stallion, the sheen of his coat had Mordred transfixed as he approached with a hand outstretched.
Not a soul but the stallion was visible on the campsite, even if it was obvious a person, or several persons, had recently occupied the area. Wary of the approaching man, the black stallion snorted and shifted, ducking his regal head once before straightening his neck. He was antsy, as though unused to humans near him.
But no move was made to kick Mordred away just yet. Eyes as dark as coals focused on him, untrusting and unsure.
Proceeding with caution, Mordred slowly walked up to the horse, not wanting to spook the animal. He was still scanning the area to see if anyone was around, but if he didn't notice someone soon then he might just have a new horse of his very own. A magnificent beast, who would do well with an equally magnificent owner.
Stopping close enough for the horse to sniff at his hand, Mordred had convinced himself that someone left the creature out here to fend for himself.
The creature in question snorted again, taking a couple awkward steps backward, as if he didn't know how to walk straight. His head ducked down again, and just when it seemed like he was going to come closer, something startled him from behind.
He whinnied loudly, whether in pain or surprise, and reared back on his long hind legs, front legs kicking at air.
Continuing to make his way over to the horse, Mordred started to speak in a calm, soft tone. "It's alright, I won't harm you." He hadn't expected the horse to rear up or kick out like he did, and as such he barely dodged the hooves heading for him.
Stopping abruptly, he thought he was out of harm's way, but one flailing leg caught him in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet as he hissed in pain.
There was a crunching of leaves to Mordred's right, and a hooded figure stepped into view. He was dragging a sword along the ground, its tip digging into the soil and path of leaves, and he was quick to point it at the fallen man's neck. Close enough to graze, but not to touch just yet. For a boy of his build, he almost looked as if he shouldn't be strong enough to wield a blade, and yet there he was.
"Speak now or forever hold your peace," Famine ordered after a moment's pause, one hand coming out to grab his horse by the reins to calm him. What Mordred couldn't know was that he'd whipped a stone at the stallion's backside in order to get some violent reaction out of him.
"Thought you could just take my horse?" He seemed more amused than angry.
Holding his shoulder as he turned his head quickly towards the sound, Mordred watched as the hooded figure approached. Despite the seemingly casual way the sword was being held, he had no doubts the man could use it, as was evidenced by the way it was suddenly aimed at his neck. From his prone position he was at a disadvantage, but he kept his wits about him while waiting for an opportunity.
"I'm a soldier, patrolling, we heard rumours of a possible brigand," Mordred answered, seeing no reason to lie to the man with the sword. He'd rather not give Famine any reason to skewer him over something as trivial as a misunderstanding.
"This is your stallion, then?" He nodded at the horse. "Magnificent beast."
"He is," the slighter boy murmured, releasing the black stallion's reins and coming closer. Unaware that he was actually being told the truth -- though, honestly, who wouldn't tell it at the pointy end of a blade -- he shifted closer, moving the blade in such a way that one wrong move would sever Mordred's jugular.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Actually, I did. I could show you my orders, if you like," the bulkier man responded with a short laugh. Had he known that he might end up meeting his end today he would have done things a little differently this morning, but instead here he was attempting to convince a seemingly annoyed Famine that he wasn't lying.
"Do you genuinely think I'd bullshit a man holding a sword at my throat?"
Famine gingerly pushed the hood off of his head to reveal brownish-red locks and a green-hued gaze. "Yes." His answer held no hesitation. "Why wouldn't you? I've been lied to before, at the end of my sword and the end of my arrows. I've had things stolen from me before."
With a quick twist of his wrist, he pressed the cold steel of the blade against Mordred's jaw. "Why are you any different?"
Mordred studied the man's face, memorizing every detail so that if he survived this encounter he'd be sure to recognize the vagrant again if their paths crossed. "Why would I? I don't know you from any other man here, and it wouldn't be at all good for my reputation or that of my liege if word got back I was misrepresenting myself or his orders."
Besides, while he was confident in his abilities to manipulate and politic with the best of them, the sword against his jaw was a powerful arguement against that. "I've got nothing to lose?"
If he was waiting for Famine to look impressed, it wasn't going to happen. Not a flicker of emotion passed over that freckled face as he continued to stare down at the man at the other end of his sword. He adjusted the blade back down against Mordred's neck.
"Nothing to lose?" he echoed disbelievingly. "A soldier who has nothing to lose. I'm believing you already." Sarcasm? What sarcasm? "Now--" The blade was pressed into the other's soft flesh, almost hard enough to break the skin. "--tell me something I can believe before I carve a flute out of your throat."
He was so very far from bluffing.
It wasn't that Mordred wanted Famine to look impressed, more like he wanted him to back off. Instead, for his efforts, he got a better view of the sword. This wasn't going at all how he wanted it to, but all things considered it could have been worse - he could be dead already.
"Fine then, believe this," he started, a hardness coming to his tone that wasn't there before. "I very easily could have attempted to draw my blade on you, I could have yelled, I could have even sat here quietly and let you kill me in cold blood. Have I done any of that? No. Why do you think that is?" That would be due to the fact that death didn't scare Mordred.
"No matter what I say you'll do whatever you like. Go on then."
A pair of eyebrows arched for a moment, and then settled into a light frown. Famine adjusted the blade to press up against the underside of Mordred's chin. "What, a soldier with no sense of pride, who might have sat here and let me kill him? That isn't nothing to lose. But if you're willing to accept your fate--"
No other words were offered as he brought the sword up, glueing his other hand to the hilt, and swung downward.
At first, Mordred kept himself still as though daring the younger-looking man to do his worst. His eyes glittered fiercely as he stared up at Famine's face, not saying anything in response. He knew full well those words were chosen specifically to garner a reaction, but it wasn't one he felt like giving. Actions were preferable to words.
Waiting half a beat once the sword was brought up, Mordred quickly rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet, hand at the ready on his own weapon.
The blade remained in the air, lowering slowly as Famine looked him over. Taller, studier than he was. Probably a soldier like he said, but it didn't matter what he was. But those slender fingers stayed wrapped as tightly as ever around the hilt, refusing to release it just yet. The tip of the blade grazed the leaves below.
"So you've no intention of dying, soldier?" If Mordred listened hard enough, he would've been able to hear a 'Pity' lingering in the air unsaid.
"Sorry, no," Mordred responded, a slight drawl in his voice. The height and size different were noted in the back of his mind as he watched Famine for any sign of what the skinny vagabond might be planning next. Many a battle had been won simply because one combatant couldn't keep his intentions off his face.
"I fear that might please my wife too much if I did." His comment might seem like something to reveal to a stranger, but what did Mordred care about propriety?
But Famine's face was a mask of indifference. Even his eyes didn't flicker away to look for some opening. He was no trained soldier himself, but he at least knew the basics of a fight. The smallest movements could influence a fight if prevented or parried. With no intention of showing off or beginning a swordfight, he released one hand and sheathed his blade, but that wasn't the end.
Two arms reached behind to unhook a bow and an arrow. Unfair, was it, to bring a bow and arrow to a sword fight? Perhaps. But it was him with the upper hand here, and he was going to avoid spilling blood all over his campsite before Theodore returned with the hound.
With the skill of a practiced archer, the smaller man inserted the arrow and tugged the string back to aim the arrowhead at Mordred.
"Then what?"
Really, Mordred should have known that this scuffle wouldn't prove that easy. His opponent was obviously aware-enough of his surroundings and bearing to know how to make Mordred's life and job difficult, and while he was growing frustrated by what should have been a routine task he didn't show it.
The appearance of the bow and arrow didn't help matters either, reminding Mordred that he had no way to defend himself in a ranged battle. Holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he sighed visibly.
"I suppose that's up to you, as you have me pinned dead to rights, stranger?" Would the man want money, or blood.
"I can turn and leave. I have money. What would you like?"
The string wasn't tugged any further, but the bow didn't lower. "Money? Please." Famine resisted a snort, miraculously.
"What reason do you have to trust that I'll let you walk and keep my arrow out of the back of your neck? Do you put such trust in all strangers you meet?" It would be up to Mordred to make his choice. Ideally, it was better to kill him. Better to have the man dead than risk him bringing back other soldiers to strike down a bothersome vagrant. But the man did have a sword. He'd probably do it on his own, from the looks of him.
Off in the distance, there was a bark to signal his companions' return not too far away now.
His gaze didn't waver as he continued to eye that bow. "It's hard for me know what you want when you're not telling me," Mordred pointed out.
"No reason whatsoever, although you haven't killed me yet which I'm still trying to wrap my head around." He didn't comment on the other trust issue Famine brought up, instead running one hand through his hair as his frustration mounted. If this was going to devolve into a fight he'd appreciate if it did before it got too late and someone else arrived upon the scene.
The sound of a dog barking caught his attention, making him raise an eyebrow at Famine.
There was no facial reaction to the sound of Famine's faithful dog, but did tilt his head in the direction of it. Theodore would be there soon, which meant this man needed to leave, and fast. His dog likely wouldn't be able to resist trying to tear a wrist off if he commanded it.
"Then go," he offered, leaving it at that without any exceptions or explanations.
Nothing more needed to be said once the vagrant made his offer, however Mordred did offer a solemn nod in response, his eyes filled with promise. This wasn't the good type of promise either, this was the type borne of a need to finish what had been started.
"We will meet again," he snarled out, turning and heading back up the path out of the woods.
Precise aim led to an arrow whipping through the air despite the distance, sinking into a tree not two feet away from Mordred. It was a warning; it was also a promise.