Post by Tam on Nov 8, 2010 3:43:53 GMT -5
*glees at replies and awesometasticalness and love for Sam and Scarecrow* ^____^ <3
'Nother excerpt. Because you knew that it couldn't all be fun and games when you're the Kingdom's most wanted criminal.
(As a warning? Gets much darker than any of the other excerpts, up to about T-level graphicness. Don't read it if you're scared of either blood or Sam.)
'Nother excerpt. Because you knew that it couldn't all be fun and games when you're the Kingdom's most wanted criminal.
(As a warning? Gets much darker than any of the other excerpts, up to about T-level graphicness. Don't read it if you're scared of either blood or Sam.)
"Sometimes I think that not even you know what it is you want from life, Sam."
He reflected on Scarecrow's words for a while as they continued to walk. The trees grew much closer together here than they did near the road, and it took up a good deal of Sam's attention just to recognise the landmarks — this fallen tree, or that eagle's nest — as they moved deeper into the forest. The forest seemed quiet and peaceful today, for which Sam's still-faintly-ringing head was grateful.
After a while, he remembered something and asked suddenly, "What do you think of the word 'holdup'?"
"What?"
"'Holdup'. You know, like when someone of the dashing rogue variety steals a noble's money on some abandoned forest road somewhere."
"I'm familiar with the phrase."
"Don't you think it sounds a little strange? I mean, there must be a better word for it. 'Highwaymannery' or something. I feel a mite ridiculous informing everyone that they're experiencing a holdup when the word just sounds so... whimsical."
"I honestly had no idea this mattered so much to you, Sam."
"Precision, Scarecrow, precision. In this career you don't get very far without a healthy attention to detail. So what do you think? I'm sure you can do better than 'highwaymannery' at least, for God's sake."
The younger man looked thoughtful. "'Robbery' would be the default choice, but it seems a little bland for the kind of word you'd want to use to announce your entrance. 'Heist' suggests large-scale burglary, which I don't think we've quite moved onto yet, thank God... 'raid'?"
"Too violent," said Sam.
"You have a bow."
"Which I have only once actually had a reason to use during a holdup, I will remind you."
"Alright. What about 'ambuscade'?"
"What does that even mean?
"I'm not entirely sure, it's rather archaic. I'm pretty sure it's the same as an ambush, though. A bit pretentious?"
"It's perfect," said Sam. "Ambuscade. Lord is that ever flowery. I'm quite in love with it."
"I'm glad you've found something you like."
"Indeed. Much obliged, my old friend," said Sam. He shifted his rucksack on his shoulder and sniffed the air. "Almost there. I do believe we caught our friend the Knife Man cooking up some dinner. Just as well, I'm..." he trailed off, realising his mistake at the same time as Scarecrow spoke up.
"That's not food, Sam."
Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, Sam had broken into a run, bag beating his back like a drum, Scarecrow running closely behind.
The acrid smell grew stronger with every yard he closed, and by the time he reached the camp, he didn't even need to see the thick clouds of black smoke rising through the barren tree branches to know what had happened.
The rucksack fell from his shoulders as Scarecrow joined him where he stood in stunned silence at the edge of the ruined camp.
The tents were gone — the massive, smouldering black heap in the centre of the clearing was probably what remained of them. Boxes and crates had been shattered, clothes burned, food ground into the dirt. Even some of the smaller trees around camp had been trampled. The ground up to and around the trees was scorched by what must have, at one point, been a bonfire made specifically for consuming almost all of the entire group's belongings. The clearing now resembled nothing so much as a blackened crater in the middle of the forest.
For a few moments, neither of them said anything. Then, in a somewhat strained voice, Scarecrow tried:
"Sam?"
He waited a few more seconds, but Sam gave no reply, his face impassive.
"Sam, are you—"
There was a small sound of motion from somewhere in the trees opposite them, and instantly Sam was bounding across camp with an arrow already in his bow. Another faint clanging noise, and then he was close enough to see a head appear between the trees. There were three of them, all muscular men wearing light armour covered by the distinctive blue and white tunic of the Royal Guard. They were dragging a large sack between them.
One of them turned around upon sensing Sam's approach and began to shout out something in alarm, but it was too late for him. At this close range, the first arrow easily pierced his chainmail and brought him down, choking, in an instant. His companions whirled, and before either could react, another arrow went straight through the heart of the second guard.
The third one ran. But Sam was close behind, and he was more at home in the woods than the guard was — with an almighty leap, he caught an overhanging tree branch and swung himself through the air to knock the fleeing man to the ground. The guard scrabbled onto his back and tried to pull himself away, but Sam pinned him down with one boot, drawing back his bowstring slowly so that the tip of the arrow was looking the terrified guard straight in the face.
"Tell me something that will convince me not to let go," Sam said, without the faintest hint of emotion in his voice.
"It wasn't our fault!" the guard stammered, his face white with fear. "I swear to God, we were just following orders!"
"Orders from whom?"
"The palace! Orders from the palace!"
"All orders come from the palace," said Sam calmly. "Tell me specifically who sent you to sack our camp."
"The prince!" yelped the guard, unable to draw his eyes away from the arrow tip. "Prince Vincent, eldest son of King Bartholomew. The King's put him in charge of the effort to bring you and your band down. We were supposed to find you here, but you weren't around so the rest of the Guards already left! The three of us were just taking care of the..." He glanced at the sack lying on the path behind them. "...Cleanup...." The guard flinched as Sam's muscles tightened on the bow. "You can have it back! I don't want it!"
"Well-said." Sam removed his foot from the man's chest, but kept his bow drawn and trained on him. The baffled guard didn't move. "Get out of here," Sam said, "before I kill you. And tell His Royal Highness to visit a peasant tavern and ask around there if he's wondering what I'll do to him if he ever tries this again." He paused. "And when you go, leave that belt."
Too scared for his life to argue, the guard scrambled to his feet and threw his belt to the ground before bolting off into the trees.
Still blank-faced, Sam picked up the golden belt and inspected it. He then walked back to the sack lying on the forest floor and opened it to see most of their old cookware and several large bags of coins, perfectly intact.
"Sam."
He hurried over to where Scarecrow's voice was calling from. Behind a pile of smashed crates, he found his friend kneeling in the rubble next to a large, dark shape lying on the ground.
"Oswald," said Sam, and Scarecrow didn't even notice that Sam had remembered the old man's name. Sam gazed at Oswald's coppery face, which was nearly unrecognisable beneath ugly bruises and tiny gashes that had been leaking blood into his hair. It was very still. "He's dead?"
"No." Scarecrow was opening up the man's tattered shirt. The skin underneath was covered in angry blotches like his face, but the blood here was even more prominent, crusting against his clothes and still oozing out of deep wounds that might have been caused by a knife. "But he will be very soon."
"Can you help him?"
"I'm not a doctor, Sam."
"Then I'll take him to one."
He went back to the other side of camp and emptied the guards' booty sack, then brought it back to Oswald, who he and Scarecrow carefully rolled onto the makeshift stretcher.
They were just preparing to lift the old man between the two of them when a gentle voice said, "Maybe I can be of some help."
He reflected on Scarecrow's words for a while as they continued to walk. The trees grew much closer together here than they did near the road, and it took up a good deal of Sam's attention just to recognise the landmarks — this fallen tree, or that eagle's nest — as they moved deeper into the forest. The forest seemed quiet and peaceful today, for which Sam's still-faintly-ringing head was grateful.
After a while, he remembered something and asked suddenly, "What do you think of the word 'holdup'?"
"What?"
"'Holdup'. You know, like when someone of the dashing rogue variety steals a noble's money on some abandoned forest road somewhere."
"I'm familiar with the phrase."
"Don't you think it sounds a little strange? I mean, there must be a better word for it. 'Highwaymannery' or something. I feel a mite ridiculous informing everyone that they're experiencing a holdup when the word just sounds so... whimsical."
"I honestly had no idea this mattered so much to you, Sam."
"Precision, Scarecrow, precision. In this career you don't get very far without a healthy attention to detail. So what do you think? I'm sure you can do better than 'highwaymannery' at least, for God's sake."
The younger man looked thoughtful. "'Robbery' would be the default choice, but it seems a little bland for the kind of word you'd want to use to announce your entrance. 'Heist' suggests large-scale burglary, which I don't think we've quite moved onto yet, thank God... 'raid'?"
"Too violent," said Sam.
"You have a bow."
"Which I have only once actually had a reason to use during a holdup, I will remind you."
"Alright. What about 'ambuscade'?"
"What does that even mean?
"I'm not entirely sure, it's rather archaic. I'm pretty sure it's the same as an ambush, though. A bit pretentious?"
"It's perfect," said Sam. "Ambuscade. Lord is that ever flowery. I'm quite in love with it."
"I'm glad you've found something you like."
"Indeed. Much obliged, my old friend," said Sam. He shifted his rucksack on his shoulder and sniffed the air. "Almost there. I do believe we caught our friend the Knife Man cooking up some dinner. Just as well, I'm..." he trailed off, realising his mistake at the same time as Scarecrow spoke up.
"That's not food, Sam."
Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, Sam had broken into a run, bag beating his back like a drum, Scarecrow running closely behind.
The acrid smell grew stronger with every yard he closed, and by the time he reached the camp, he didn't even need to see the thick clouds of black smoke rising through the barren tree branches to know what had happened.
The rucksack fell from his shoulders as Scarecrow joined him where he stood in stunned silence at the edge of the ruined camp.
The tents were gone — the massive, smouldering black heap in the centre of the clearing was probably what remained of them. Boxes and crates had been shattered, clothes burned, food ground into the dirt. Even some of the smaller trees around camp had been trampled. The ground up to and around the trees was scorched by what must have, at one point, been a bonfire made specifically for consuming almost all of the entire group's belongings. The clearing now resembled nothing so much as a blackened crater in the middle of the forest.
For a few moments, neither of them said anything. Then, in a somewhat strained voice, Scarecrow tried:
"Sam?"
He waited a few more seconds, but Sam gave no reply, his face impassive.
"Sam, are you—"
There was a small sound of motion from somewhere in the trees opposite them, and instantly Sam was bounding across camp with an arrow already in his bow. Another faint clanging noise, and then he was close enough to see a head appear between the trees. There were three of them, all muscular men wearing light armour covered by the distinctive blue and white tunic of the Royal Guard. They were dragging a large sack between them.
One of them turned around upon sensing Sam's approach and began to shout out something in alarm, but it was too late for him. At this close range, the first arrow easily pierced his chainmail and brought him down, choking, in an instant. His companions whirled, and before either could react, another arrow went straight through the heart of the second guard.
The third one ran. But Sam was close behind, and he was more at home in the woods than the guard was — with an almighty leap, he caught an overhanging tree branch and swung himself through the air to knock the fleeing man to the ground. The guard scrabbled onto his back and tried to pull himself away, but Sam pinned him down with one boot, drawing back his bowstring slowly so that the tip of the arrow was looking the terrified guard straight in the face.
"Tell me something that will convince me not to let go," Sam said, without the faintest hint of emotion in his voice.
"It wasn't our fault!" the guard stammered, his face white with fear. "I swear to God, we were just following orders!"
"Orders from whom?"
"The palace! Orders from the palace!"
"All orders come from the palace," said Sam calmly. "Tell me specifically who sent you to sack our camp."
"The prince!" yelped the guard, unable to draw his eyes away from the arrow tip. "Prince Vincent, eldest son of King Bartholomew. The King's put him in charge of the effort to bring you and your band down. We were supposed to find you here, but you weren't around so the rest of the Guards already left! The three of us were just taking care of the..." He glanced at the sack lying on the path behind them. "...Cleanup...." The guard flinched as Sam's muscles tightened on the bow. "You can have it back! I don't want it!"
"Well-said." Sam removed his foot from the man's chest, but kept his bow drawn and trained on him. The baffled guard didn't move. "Get out of here," Sam said, "before I kill you. And tell His Royal Highness to visit a peasant tavern and ask around there if he's wondering what I'll do to him if he ever tries this again." He paused. "And when you go, leave that belt."
Too scared for his life to argue, the guard scrambled to his feet and threw his belt to the ground before bolting off into the trees.
Still blank-faced, Sam picked up the golden belt and inspected it. He then walked back to the sack lying on the forest floor and opened it to see most of their old cookware and several large bags of coins, perfectly intact.
"Sam."
He hurried over to where Scarecrow's voice was calling from. Behind a pile of smashed crates, he found his friend kneeling in the rubble next to a large, dark shape lying on the ground.
"Oswald," said Sam, and Scarecrow didn't even notice that Sam had remembered the old man's name. Sam gazed at Oswald's coppery face, which was nearly unrecognisable beneath ugly bruises and tiny gashes that had been leaking blood into his hair. It was very still. "He's dead?"
"No." Scarecrow was opening up the man's tattered shirt. The skin underneath was covered in angry blotches like his face, but the blood here was even more prominent, crusting against his clothes and still oozing out of deep wounds that might have been caused by a knife. "But he will be very soon."
"Can you help him?"
"I'm not a doctor, Sam."
"Then I'll take him to one."
He went back to the other side of camp and emptied the guards' booty sack, then brought it back to Oswald, who he and Scarecrow carefully rolled onto the makeshift stretcher.
They were just preparing to lift the old man between the two of them when a gentle voice said, "Maybe I can be of some help."
" and yes. *is kind of spoiled with all this character love and is thus somewhat guilty*