Rovaalian. Chapter 2: Master's Wrath

Rovaalian woke groggily to the sound of Stu, abusing the pot he had just fixed last night, a loud clang that seemed to get slightly higher pitched after each sounding. He was tempted to pretend he couldn't hear it, but he knew that would cause more harm than an extra two minutes of sleep worth. So, reluctantly, he rose from his small cot and drowsily pulled his dark green cloak around his shoulders, a ward against the crisp morning chill. It coulndn't have been later than half past six. He forgot when he had finally fallen asleep, but it was late when he did. He looked about the tent for his swords. It was only clean since he didn't have any real belongings, only a few sets of clothes which he kept in a heap in the corner, many knives in a chest, and his swords. With his swords at his belt, dangling past his knees, he left the tent for breakfast. "Breakfast", if you could call it that, consisted of a heaping mound of venison more fit for a dinner feast, courtesy of Red Garret. Red Garret was a professional at what he did, and what he did was kill things from far away. He was, by far, the best shot that anyone in their company had ever seen. He could put an arrow threw a squirrels eye from fifty yards, in a dense forest, and was once reported as taking down a pheasant in flight in the middle of a rainstorm. It was he that killed half a herd of white tail deer just this morning, bringing three of them with him two his hut, which he called "the Slaughterhouse". This was only a misnomer since most of the slaughtering and butchering occured at a crude chopping block outside, about five meters away. He earned himself the name "Red Garret" because his jerkin was always stained with blood from his kills. Not all were animals. He was a ruthless killer when it came to raids. He would kill half the guards in a village before the troop even got there. This made things very easy. Reg Garret, on top of being an expert archer, was a terrible teacher. This morning, to Rovaalians misfortune, was shootin' day, as he had come to call it. Basically, Rovaalian would shoot at something, hit it eight or nine out of ten times, and then get lashings for the times he missed it. Rovaalian took his time with his large breakfast, seated on a stump by the central fire where several fellow bandits chatted about, as though there were no twelve year old present.

"Hello! And good morning, boy!" said Stu, putting down the battered remains of the pot that Rovaalian had fixed not ten hours ago. Rovaalian looked up into his face, which grinned back mischiviously.

"Good morning, Stu." sighed Rovaalian, after a glance at the deformed pot. Stu laughed.

"Don't worry. I'll fix it this time." he said.

"Fix it?" Rovaalian said, picking up the pot. It was totally destroyed. There was no way anyone could fix it without melting it down and recasting it. "Fix it? You've managed to obliterate it! Look at the poor thing!" he said, and Stu began laughing. Another man looked at the pot. Guss Mosley was his name. He wiped his greasy black hair out of his eyes, revealing two beady green spheres that glistened with attentiveness. He put his hand over his eyes in mock examination.

"Is that a new club, little man? It suits you!" he said. Many men around him laughed.

"Looks more like a spade to me!" said another man. The laughter was uncontrolled now, as in their merriment they continued to make fun of the destroyed pot.

"Stop laughing!" said Rovaalian, barely controlling his own laughter. "This isn't funny! This is tragic, it is! Just look at it! What dit you do to it, Stu?" he said. Stu was wiping tears from his eyes, and clutching his chest as he laughed loudly, a deep belly laugy that washed over everyone else.

"Keep in mind, boy," he said, "That that's what you'll look like next time you don't wake up when I try to wake you up!"

"We need this pot!" said Rovaalian.

"Nonesense!" said Guss. "Just let him make it into some other object, whose sole purpose is getting you up in the morning."

"What?" said Rovaalian. "Your going to let him get creative are you?" and the whole group laughed. Suddenly, Guss asked Rovaalian.

"How old are you boy?"

"Twelve."

"You talk like a grown man! When's the last time you met a boy your age?" he said. Rovaalian didn't answer. His expression changed from glad to grim, as the recolection of the previous days happenings flooded his mind again. I killed the last boy I met, he thought, but he felt little remorse. He was more disappointed, and sad, that he had never socialized with boys his age. The men around him kept hinting that boys his age should be acting differently then he. But why, then? Why should he be any different then his fellows? He had been a bandit in this troupe longer then some of they, like Farkley. Farkley, a very short, skinny man in his middle years, was mostly deadweight, and was extremely timid. He was only still alive due to his knowledgeability. He was a very bright man. Pitty he became a common bandit.

Before Rovaalian could answer Guss's question, Red Garret, his dark brown hair falling in a neat ponytail accross his back, and his beard tied off in a leather cord, called over. "Oi! Where you been, laddie?" he asked, his shrill voice making it hard for him to sound intimidating, instead giving him a more snobbish apearance. "I've been waitin for ye for the better of fifteen minutes! String up your crossbow! And extra lashin's for the end of today, for lateness!" he said. As Rovaalian made his way to his tent for his crossbow and back, Red Garret crooned sadistically. "We'll do your chest today, methinks... not that that'll teach ye, ye blasted worm!"

Todays targets included three sticks, stuck in the ground. They were reasonably thick, at about three centimeters in diameter. He hit them easily at ten yards, and twenty. At thirty yards, he almost missed the third shot. He missed two shots at forty yards. "No, no, no! Foolish git, you are! You missed!" he barked, his voice cracking with each emphasis.

"Thank you, sir. You're right, as always. I seem to have missed the stick." Sighed Rovaalian, loading his crossbow.

"You bein smart, boy? You making jokes?" said Red Garret, pointing a finger at Rovaalian.

"Yes I am."

"Yes I am sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Now shoot the stick, ye damn..." he flustered, searching for the correct word. He seemed satisfied with a wild gesture with both hands, and a disgusted look.

After Rovaalian failed to hit the sticks, the lash came down hard on his stomach several times, adding new drops of blood to the front of Red Garret's shirt. The pain was bearable, but still made him suffer a bit during swords practice with Rovaalian Senior later that day.

"Focus, idiot!" said Rovaalian Senior, as he opened another cut under Rovaalian Juniors eye with a sweep of his sword, a hand and a half broadsword typically used by heavily armored guards. Blood still soaked through his shirt in the front from earlier that day, and Rovaalian Senior noticed with approval Red Garret's doings. "You must focus! You don't want to die do you? Well? Do you?" he said, swiping again, as Rovaalian Junior ducked out of the way. Today's excercise was evasion, for which Rovaalian Junior was left unarmed. Normally they gave him two clubs to hold while he did this, but that changed since he threw one at Rovaalian Senior during practice, hitting him in the stomach. "Why don't you focus, idiot?! You would soon die, in a real life situation!"

"I very much doubt that there would ever be a situation where..." but he was cut off when Rovaalian senior clocked him on the top of his head with the flat of hiis sword. He blinked the spots out of his vision to find his master standing over him, now brandishing a very light flail.

"I said Focus." he said calmly, and cruely, before bringing the flail down on Rovaalian's head. A sharp pain followed by what seemed like an eternity of numb blackness washed over Rovaalian Junior, as he fell suddenly into unconciousness.