Post by Seek on Dec 25, 2021 1:28:13 GMT 10
Title: The Right Tool
Rating: PG-13
For: Idleness
Prompt: 1. Something with Buri and Raoul, at any point in the timeline.
Summary: Buri is extremely furious. Everyone gets out of her way.
Notes and Warnings: Quite a bit of cursing from Buri. This is set around the time of the inception of the Queen's Riders, when the Riders and their conops are very new to Tortall, as is the sudden influx of women fighters.
Trouble stormed up to Raoul’s tent, in the guise of a young K’miri woman half his size. It just so happened that her name was Buriram Tourakom and the expression she wore sent the men of the King’s Own scurrying out of her way.
The splatters of drying blood and mud on her leathers didn’t help matters, either.
“You,” she said, jabbing a finger at one of the squad leaders in the command tent. Young Aiden was as green as grass, and Raoul had his eye on how the man would fare as squad leader. “Out. Now.”
“Buri, is this—”
“This can’t wait,” Buri said, cutting over him. “You, get out.” She glared daggers at Doric who seemed torn between deciding if he needed to run her through or obey. “Your commander doesn’t need defending from me, only from his own—” she broke into a series of sharp words he didn’t recognise, suspected was probably a K’miri dialect and unflattering, “—stupidity.”
Doric was about to draw his sword and indignantly defend Raoul’s honour, which was rank stupidity in its own right. Raoul felt the beginnings of a headache pound in his temples.
“Do as she says,” Raoul said, tersely, and to his credit, Doric obeyed the order, though his scowl made it clear he didn’t like it.
“What’s so important it can’t wait?” he wanted to know, turning to her. “We don’t treat each other like this, Buri.”
Buri glared at him. “This,” she hissed, slamming a piece of parchment down on his field desk.
Raoul read and blanched. A casualty list that made it clear the Black God had reaped a good harvest this day. It should have been an easy engagement—bandits in the swamp—but they’d lost men they shouldn’t have, good men, and part of Raoul was imagining the letters he would have to send home. More were recovering in the casualty tents, and wouldn’t be ready for active service.
The list included both Queen’s Riders and men of the King’s Own.
“How…?”
Buri sighed, and commandeered a stool.
“Raoul,” she said, severely. “You are a good man.”
He blinked. “I know that, but—”
“You are also,” said Buri, “An utterly—” she added more likely uncomplimentary K’miri words and Raoul resolved to learn that dialect at some point, “—godscursed idiot.”
Raoul blinked again. The old Raoul might have drawn on her for that. He supposed that two years of staying dry was beginning to have a good effect on him and his temper, though he kept the latter on a tighter leash these days.
A good commander could not afford to lose his temper.
“If you can’t treat the Riders as a tool to be used and cling to some chivalrous—” she said the word as though it was one of her K’miri curses, “—notion of sparing us the rigours of combat, s***storms like this are going to keep happening.”
“The Riders are not a proper military unit, and cannot be expected to handle engagement with hostile forces,” Raoul began.
“The Riders are built off the concept of a K’miri warband!” Buri snapped. “The point is that we are irregulars! Yes, we can’t handle direct combat, but we have our purpose! You sending good men directly into the swamp instead of sending the Riders to flush them out got more of them killed. My Riders are trained for this, Raoul. We can’t do this if you don’t work with us. And last op, you tried to provide covering fire and got my Riders killed because your men were firing on a mobile group.”
Raoul opened his mouth to argue. He looked down at the parchment again. The numbers told the story. Heavy casualties to several squads of Third Company because the Own had gotten bogged down in the swamp and were cut down by bandit archers.
“The Riders are a new concept,” Buri said, more calmly, now that she’d sensed she’d gotten through to him. “I get that. We understand that. People are wary of what’s new. But we’re using tactics and methods refined in the K’miri highlands. Trying to spare us instead of letting us do our job makes things worse, causes unnecessary casualties, and then makes both of us look bad. It’s worse when the Riders are willing to take anyone—people blame Thayet throwing open the door to recruiting commoners, or the fact we take women, or that the Riders are commanded by women.”
Raoul flushed and did not meet her eyes.
Buri swore even harder. “Horse Lords save us,” she muttered, “You’d think you’ve worked that out of your system by now, what with Alanna training with you. I don’t need to be protected or shielded, you great buffoon!” Her eyes hardened. “Work that out of your system, Goldenlake, and get your men to do the same. Thayet’s worked out that there’s a need for us, and Jon agrees. I’ll be damned if the Riders sink before they get a chance to prove themselves because you men can’t stop having hysterical fits about letting us play our part.”
Raoul sighed. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point.”
“Stop cutting me out of ops,” Buri said. “And I’ll return the favour. We’re equals, Raoul, leading different tools meant for different tasks. That’s all there is to it.”
“Deal,” he said, and meant it. “Anything else?”
“No,” Buri said, sweetly. “My groups have clean-up to do. It seems a number of the bandits dispersed after that mess. They’re in pockets throughout the swamps, according to my scouts.” Her smile had too much teeth in it. “We’re going to round them up. Your boys can watch.”
He did deserve that, Raoul admitted as Buri sauntered out of the command tent, in an apparently better mood than when she’d entered.
He stared down at the parchment again.
It wasn’t a mistake he was intending to make a second time.
Rating: PG-13
For: Idleness
Prompt: 1. Something with Buri and Raoul, at any point in the timeline.
Summary: Buri is extremely furious. Everyone gets out of her way.
Notes and Warnings: Quite a bit of cursing from Buri. This is set around the time of the inception of the Queen's Riders, when the Riders and their conops are very new to Tortall, as is the sudden influx of women fighters.
Trouble stormed up to Raoul’s tent, in the guise of a young K’miri woman half his size. It just so happened that her name was Buriram Tourakom and the expression she wore sent the men of the King’s Own scurrying out of her way.
The splatters of drying blood and mud on her leathers didn’t help matters, either.
“You,” she said, jabbing a finger at one of the squad leaders in the command tent. Young Aiden was as green as grass, and Raoul had his eye on how the man would fare as squad leader. “Out. Now.”
“Buri, is this—”
“This can’t wait,” Buri said, cutting over him. “You, get out.” She glared daggers at Doric who seemed torn between deciding if he needed to run her through or obey. “Your commander doesn’t need defending from me, only from his own—” she broke into a series of sharp words he didn’t recognise, suspected was probably a K’miri dialect and unflattering, “—stupidity.”
Doric was about to draw his sword and indignantly defend Raoul’s honour, which was rank stupidity in its own right. Raoul felt the beginnings of a headache pound in his temples.
“Do as she says,” Raoul said, tersely, and to his credit, Doric obeyed the order, though his scowl made it clear he didn’t like it.
“What’s so important it can’t wait?” he wanted to know, turning to her. “We don’t treat each other like this, Buri.”
Buri glared at him. “This,” she hissed, slamming a piece of parchment down on his field desk.
Raoul read and blanched. A casualty list that made it clear the Black God had reaped a good harvest this day. It should have been an easy engagement—bandits in the swamp—but they’d lost men they shouldn’t have, good men, and part of Raoul was imagining the letters he would have to send home. More were recovering in the casualty tents, and wouldn’t be ready for active service.
The list included both Queen’s Riders and men of the King’s Own.
“How…?”
Buri sighed, and commandeered a stool.
“Raoul,” she said, severely. “You are a good man.”
He blinked. “I know that, but—”
“You are also,” said Buri, “An utterly—” she added more likely uncomplimentary K’miri words and Raoul resolved to learn that dialect at some point, “—godscursed idiot.”
Raoul blinked again. The old Raoul might have drawn on her for that. He supposed that two years of staying dry was beginning to have a good effect on him and his temper, though he kept the latter on a tighter leash these days.
A good commander could not afford to lose his temper.
“If you can’t treat the Riders as a tool to be used and cling to some chivalrous—” she said the word as though it was one of her K’miri curses, “—notion of sparing us the rigours of combat, s***storms like this are going to keep happening.”
“The Riders are not a proper military unit, and cannot be expected to handle engagement with hostile forces,” Raoul began.
“The Riders are built off the concept of a K’miri warband!” Buri snapped. “The point is that we are irregulars! Yes, we can’t handle direct combat, but we have our purpose! You sending good men directly into the swamp instead of sending the Riders to flush them out got more of them killed. My Riders are trained for this, Raoul. We can’t do this if you don’t work with us. And last op, you tried to provide covering fire and got my Riders killed because your men were firing on a mobile group.”
Raoul opened his mouth to argue. He looked down at the parchment again. The numbers told the story. Heavy casualties to several squads of Third Company because the Own had gotten bogged down in the swamp and were cut down by bandit archers.
“The Riders are a new concept,” Buri said, more calmly, now that she’d sensed she’d gotten through to him. “I get that. We understand that. People are wary of what’s new. But we’re using tactics and methods refined in the K’miri highlands. Trying to spare us instead of letting us do our job makes things worse, causes unnecessary casualties, and then makes both of us look bad. It’s worse when the Riders are willing to take anyone—people blame Thayet throwing open the door to recruiting commoners, or the fact we take women, or that the Riders are commanded by women.”
Raoul flushed and did not meet her eyes.
Buri swore even harder. “Horse Lords save us,” she muttered, “You’d think you’ve worked that out of your system by now, what with Alanna training with you. I don’t need to be protected or shielded, you great buffoon!” Her eyes hardened. “Work that out of your system, Goldenlake, and get your men to do the same. Thayet’s worked out that there’s a need for us, and Jon agrees. I’ll be damned if the Riders sink before they get a chance to prove themselves because you men can’t stop having hysterical fits about letting us play our part.”
Raoul sighed. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point.”
“Stop cutting me out of ops,” Buri said. “And I’ll return the favour. We’re equals, Raoul, leading different tools meant for different tasks. That’s all there is to it.”
“Deal,” he said, and meant it. “Anything else?”
“No,” Buri said, sweetly. “My groups have clean-up to do. It seems a number of the bandits dispersed after that mess. They’re in pockets throughout the swamps, according to my scouts.” Her smile had too much teeth in it. “We’re going to round them up. Your boys can watch.”
He did deserve that, Raoul admitted as Buri sauntered out of the command tent, in an apparently better mood than when she’d entered.
He stared down at the parchment again.
It wasn’t a mistake he was intending to make a second time.