1440: Muddy Greatness – Part 9 1440: Muddy Greatness – Part 9 “Who do you suppose yourself to be talking to?” Jorah continued.
“Do you know nothing of the deeds of Lord Patrick?” Yorick said.
“There’s not another Captain in the Kingdom that can match him, and you, covered in filth, claim to be able to?” The boy looked at them all, apparently unphased by their aggression.
“Match him?” He said, shaking his head, letting his spittle run down his chin, the very image of a dullard.
“No.
I’m stronger.” “Bold words,” Oliver said.
He wondered if he was the only one there that didn’t feel himself angered by the youth any longer.
“Perhaps you’ll make us recognize their truth one day.
As things stand, though, you will forgive us for not being able to take you seriously.” “I doesn’t feel any strength at all coming from him,” Firyr put in.
“He’s just loud.
All bark and no bite.” “Coming from you…” Kaya said.
“What’s that ant to an!?” “Hmmm,” the youth thought on it, then drew his sword.
“Why don’t we fight now?
Fight now, and it’s done.
I win.
Don’t need tournant.
Waste of ti.” With the blade pointed Oliver’s way, in a flash, the Patrick n all ard themselves in retaliation.
Only Oliver stood with his arms folded, allowing the sword, and his point, and wondering if he could decipher any of the intent behind it.
Ingolsol flashed his indignance, and just for a second, Oliver’s eyes glowed gold.
Against a weaker man, that would have been enough to break his spirit, but the youth didn’t flinch.
His eyes were dead, as if he didn’t see Oliver at all.
Oliver shook his head, finding that he couldn’t at all get the asure of him.
He didn’t even feel him to have the strength of a Second Boundary man.
He wasn’t sure at all what he was.
“I won’t be fighting you,” Oliver said, grabbing the sword with his fingers, and turning it back on the boy.
“Why not?” He asked.
“As far as I can tell, you haven’t earned it,” Oliver replied.
“Win the Captain’s tournant, and I might think on it.” “I’ll find you in it,” the boy declared.
“You won’t,” Oliver said.
“It was not my intention to compete.” “Why?” The boy asked.
Oliver grinned, half malicious, and turned the boy’s words back on him.
“Too strong.
I win.” The stupid look on the boy’s face shattered for just an instant, and he glared a daring smile back.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
Fun.
This is fun.
Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
I win the Captain’s tournant.
Then I beat you.
Because I’m stronger.
And I win.” Listening to him, Oliver found it hard to dislike him quite as much as he once did.
He didn’t mind people ambitious enough that they overestimated their worth.
He found that fire sowhat endearing, and if nothing else, there certainly seed to be a small fire in the mad youth.
He grinned in response to the assertion.
“I’ll be waiting then.
Let’s see what you can do,” Oliver said.
“I Garrrrr,” the youth said, just as Oliver was thinking of turning away.
He clawed at the air with hands, like a bear, as he said that.
“Is that ant to be your na?” Oliver asked.
“Sounds like a threat, more than anything,” Kaya noted.
“.
Garrrrr,” he said, doing the exact sa thing, but this ti pointing to himself.
“Very well.
You’re Gar.
I declined to hear your na before, but in making it through the Captain’s tournant, I suppose you deserve that I rember it,” Oliver said.
“Tell Gar, how old are you ant to be?
At tis I think you to be a man, and at other tis a boy.” He had the smallest bit of scruffy stubble growing on his chin, but that too was caked in mud like the rest of him.
That seed to point to him being older, but the way he acted, so childish in his mannerisms, it seed strange to label him as old as his appearance might suggest.
“Uhhhm,” Gar thought about it, and looked at the people around him as if they might have the answer.
“Eighty seasons…?” He said uncertainly, looking for validation.
“Why are you asking ?” Firyr said.
“And who tells how old they are in seasons?” “So, you’re around twenty?” Oliver guessed.
It seed right enough, based on his appearance, but his behaviour certainly didn’t match the age.
Gar shrugged, apparently bored of the question.
“Where did you travel from, Gar?” Oliver said.
“You said that you’d walked far.” “That way,” Gar said, pointing south.
“A southerner,” Kaya said.
“No wonder I don’t like him.” “You’re not helping, Kaya,” Jorah warned.
“How long were you walking for?” Oliver asked.
“Mm.
A week.
Maybe.
Weak!?
Haha!
You’re weak!” Gar said, jabbing at him with a finger this ti, rather than a sword.
“He’s thoroughly mad,” Verdant comnted, almost sympathetically.
“But the Gods do take with one hand, what they give with another.
If he’s capable of taking down Captains, he at least has so asure of talent.” “Indeed,” Oliver nodded.
“You’re not thinking of making use of him, are ya Captain?” Firyr said.
“I don’t like him.
He’s a little bastard.” “Well, likely not,” Oliver said.
“There’s a limit to the level of unhinged that we can tolerate in our army.
But for now, at least, my curiosity is peaked.
He wandered all the way here, we can assu, from a good distance down to the south, just for the sake of entering the tournant.” “I would correct you there, my Lord.
It seems you were the intention, rather than the tournant,” Verdant said.
“Stronger than you!” Gar echoed, as if confirming Verdant’s words, as he pointed at Oliver.
“Naturally, he is quite mistaken still,” Verdant said.
“We can confidently say that, there can be no irregularity that exceeds my Lord in magnitude.
Whatever this Gar things himself to have, he will fall short.” “But the question is still how short,” Oliver said.
“Well, never mind that.
That’s in Gar’s hands.
I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, Gar?”
Reviews
All reviews (0)