Thread: Godless (RaidenTheRipper & Chariot)

He can feel the weariness in her. Not just the fatigue of her voice, but the ache of her bones, muscles, scars. The tiredness that seeps through every inch of her. The despair and apathy that has grown for years within her. He's just as tired, just as weary. But it's best if she doesn't know. Better if she doesn't see just how exhausted he is and how weary he is. Better if she thinks it's just the wound making him tired. He tries to keep himself upright as she pulls herself from the barrel, still in the process of stripping off his armor... and almost starting out of his skin as she begins aiding him, the process going far faster with an extra set of hands. Thank you. he says, bowing his head to her, and finally rising to his feet completely. Leave the wound. It will heal. It's only a scratch, really. Not worth the time. he demurs, giving a wry chuckle... and then finally registering the words she had spoken. He's done? No. He cannot be done. This must be some trick. he says wearily, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Our best option would be to delay, and weather the winter here. Our provisions will likely hold, if we ration. We can rest out the winter here in relative comfort, and then ford the marshes and the Forks once the rains have ceased. They will be less flooded, and the loose soil will be washed away, making it safer footing. he says, voice just as tired as hers. But he might have our heads for treason, if we delay. he admits, sighing. Brettach is likely the better option, quite frankly. We will lose men to the insects and disease and floods, and be longer in getting back, if we take the land route. The port city is still half-ruined, from what I hear, but there will be enough ships to transport us back, or at the least, we can stay in the city until the ships come. Their grain stores were mostly untouched by the war, given our orders, and we've enough gold to purchase it, if someone has laid claim once more. he muses, leaning back into the chair once more and looking at his mistress, eyes half-lidded. He takes the summons from her, and reads it tiredly, letting out a sigh. And he does not want the troops. Or, at least, he wants us, specifically. We could take another tack, as well. Set Captain Randolph to command the legion, and return on our own, or with an honor guard. He is competent, and would keep them safe in Brettach until they can return. Once we have returned, as well, we can likely convince ships to head to Brettach and retrieve them, as well. he points out, scrubbing his jaw with a hand. But. That assumes the King would not kill us for not bringing home every man, as well. Even though they will return home eventually... He sighs. The man truly is mad, and he'll have our heads if he wants them. he mutters. Brettach, and its grain stores, I say. he repeats himself, before falling silent for a time. When was the last time you had any sort of maidservant, mistress? he asks, looking up at her. I recall that small woman who took an arrow in the throat, but not anyone after her. You could likely train one of the less... disreputable camp followers, if need be. he admits, sitting slowly upright, and grimacing as his muscles protest.