Re: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 1: Godsworn Valley]
05-12-2012, 08:38 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by XX.
“Hear that?”
“What?”
“The rain. Hear it?”
He sighed. “It isn’t raining. It isn’t going to rain for the next three days.”
“No,” she said, “It’s raining now. Outside. I can hear it.”
“It isn’t-“
“It’s raining.”
Subcleric Oliver James fell silent, staring broodingly into the flimsy paper cup of coffee they’d given him. It was almost certainly a mistake to have come here. All of his predictions had been wrong, hesitant as they had been. They hadn’t needed the well-wishings of his order, nor his input, nor his corrections to their dreadfully inaccurate method of hierarchal organization. The Hyleoroi conducted themselves like a pack of dogs. The corner of his mouth twitched. Savages.
“Why’s it raining, though?” his guard insisted. Oliver didn’t know her name- Glory or Victory or Virtue or something ridiculous- and he didn’t much care to. In his head she was just one of the faceless mercenary brutes. She towered a full head above him and had muscles like overripe cantaloupes, bulging underneath her fatigues. They hadn’t shared more than three words before now; she had the personality of a plank of wood and had a face to match. Oliver detested her.
“I don’t know,” he said dismissively. He checked his watch: 10 past the hour. His superiors should have responded to his summons by now. What they had been thinking in sending him on a diplomatic mission to the Hyleoroi of all factions was entirely beyond him. They’d grunted and scratched their heads like wild apes for a full fifteen minutes before deciding to stow him in some stinking tent on the border of their encampment. He’d never even seen their leader, this pseudolegendary Cirrha. Or perhaps he had, somewhere in the turmoil of the camp. These barbarians all looked the same to him.
The guard shifted her weight uneasily. Oliver glanced at her, irritated by this sudden burst of what must count among the Hyleoroi as conversation. It was bad enough that he had to endure her pervading horselike reek, but now she was to burden him with her foolish fantasies? There hadn’t been a solid rain on the battlefield in the seven weeks since he’d been stationed in this godsforsaken place. Perhaps the foreign glands the mercenary clans were so fond of implanting in themselves were turning on her, dissolving her higher tissues. Oliver relished the thought. Such augmentations went against every sensibility of his order.
A loud animalistic snort interrupted the subcleric’s revue and he jumped, spilling tepid coffee onto the lap of his tailored robes. The guard had turned away from the tent flap and was looming over the seated Oliver, her dull yellow eyes regarding him distrustfully from her beastly height. With a sharp, sudden motion she swung her gun up and jabbed it at the tent’s entrance, poking its muzzle out through the fabric.
“M’going out there. It’s raining. I can hear it.”
“Fine,” Oliver snapped, appalled by the mercenary’s sudden proximity. Her stench was even worse than he’d expected up close, like catching a lungful from an overcrowded stable. Trying to subtly cover his nose and mouth with the hem of sleeve, he added out of sheer reflex, “Desolo go with you.”
She had already turned to leave. Despite her bulk she slunk through the tent flaps with unnatural grace, barely disturbing them; in the spanse of seconds there was nothing to indicate that she had ever been there except for her fading reek.
The sudden silence in her absence came as a complete surprise. Oliver hadn’t had time to realize just how quiet the camp had been with the guard there; now it shocked him to note that it was completely silent. He’d have thought that with the hooting and howling he’d heard on his way in that the Hyleoroi would be deafening. Not even the omnipresent barking of the mercenaries’ wretched war-dogs was evident. It was as if the camp had fallen into a sudden and all-encompassing sleep.
Such nonsense, Oliver chided himself. There was an explanation. Perhaps the brutes were simply better trained that he had anticipated. Another glorious victory for the Order of Desolo, this knowledge. The High Clerics would be pleased to learn of his discoveries even though he had failed to secure the alliance they were hoping. Desolo’s mercy was indeed great.
From outside, he heard the gentle pattering of rain.
“Hear that?”
“What?”
“The rain. Hear it?”
He sighed. “It isn’t raining. It isn’t going to rain for the next three days.”
“No,” she said, “It’s raining now. Outside. I can hear it.”
“It isn’t-“
“It’s raining.”
Subcleric Oliver James fell silent, staring broodingly into the flimsy paper cup of coffee they’d given him. It was almost certainly a mistake to have come here. All of his predictions had been wrong, hesitant as they had been. They hadn’t needed the well-wishings of his order, nor his input, nor his corrections to their dreadfully inaccurate method of hierarchal organization. The Hyleoroi conducted themselves like a pack of dogs. The corner of his mouth twitched. Savages.
“Why’s it raining, though?” his guard insisted. Oliver didn’t know her name- Glory or Victory or Virtue or something ridiculous- and he didn’t much care to. In his head she was just one of the faceless mercenary brutes. She towered a full head above him and had muscles like overripe cantaloupes, bulging underneath her fatigues. They hadn’t shared more than three words before now; she had the personality of a plank of wood and had a face to match. Oliver detested her.
“I don’t know,” he said dismissively. He checked his watch: 10 past the hour. His superiors should have responded to his summons by now. What they had been thinking in sending him on a diplomatic mission to the Hyleoroi of all factions was entirely beyond him. They’d grunted and scratched their heads like wild apes for a full fifteen minutes before deciding to stow him in some stinking tent on the border of their encampment. He’d never even seen their leader, this pseudolegendary Cirrha. Or perhaps he had, somewhere in the turmoil of the camp. These barbarians all looked the same to him.
The guard shifted her weight uneasily. Oliver glanced at her, irritated by this sudden burst of what must count among the Hyleoroi as conversation. It was bad enough that he had to endure her pervading horselike reek, but now she was to burden him with her foolish fantasies? There hadn’t been a solid rain on the battlefield in the seven weeks since he’d been stationed in this godsforsaken place. Perhaps the foreign glands the mercenary clans were so fond of implanting in themselves were turning on her, dissolving her higher tissues. Oliver relished the thought. Such augmentations went against every sensibility of his order.
A loud animalistic snort interrupted the subcleric’s revue and he jumped, spilling tepid coffee onto the lap of his tailored robes. The guard had turned away from the tent flap and was looming over the seated Oliver, her dull yellow eyes regarding him distrustfully from her beastly height. With a sharp, sudden motion she swung her gun up and jabbed it at the tent’s entrance, poking its muzzle out through the fabric.
“M’going out there. It’s raining. I can hear it.”
“Fine,” Oliver snapped, appalled by the mercenary’s sudden proximity. Her stench was even worse than he’d expected up close, like catching a lungful from an overcrowded stable. Trying to subtly cover his nose and mouth with the hem of sleeve, he added out of sheer reflex, “Desolo go with you.”
She had already turned to leave. Despite her bulk she slunk through the tent flaps with unnatural grace, barely disturbing them; in the spanse of seconds there was nothing to indicate that she had ever been there except for her fading reek.
The sudden silence in her absence came as a complete surprise. Oliver hadn’t had time to realize just how quiet the camp had been with the guard there; now it shocked him to note that it was completely silent. He’d have thought that with the hooting and howling he’d heard on his way in that the Hyleoroi would be deafening. Not even the omnipresent barking of the mercenaries’ wretched war-dogs was evident. It was as if the camp had fallen into a sudden and all-encompassing sleep.
Such nonsense, Oliver chided himself. There was an explanation. Perhaps the brutes were simply better trained that he had anticipated. Another glorious victory for the Order of Desolo, this knowledge. The High Clerics would be pleased to learn of his discoveries even though he had failed to secure the alliance they were hoping. Desolo’s mercy was indeed great.
From outside, he heard the gentle pattering of rain.