Post by Seek on Dec 26, 2021 0:28:15 GMT 10
Title: On The Picket Line
Rating: PG
For: Lisa
Prompt: 2. Soldiers away from home for Midwinter
Summary: A Rider group celebrates Midwinter in an unexpected way.
Notes and Warnings: None I can think of. Takes place a bit before LK but should be LK-compatible.
Adric couldn’t help the brief sigh of relief when he first heard the whistle in the darkness. For a moment, he thought it the conjurings of his imagination. Perhaps he’d just gone mad, stuck up in this tree for gods only knew how long in the cold and the dark, but then the whistle came again, more insistent.
Thank the gods. All of them.
He slid down the tree clumsily, his limbs gone numb from the waiting and the watching.
A firm hand fell on his shoulder. “You haven’t done the challenge,” said Group Commander Evin Larse, and Adric bit back the sigh of exasperation. It was cold, and he wanted to be back among the others, with the warmth of a fire, and his sleeping bag.
“You’re not a Scanran.”
“If I were a Scanran, you’d be dead,” Evin agreed, his voice gone cold. “We don’t cut corners in hostile territory. Passphrase, Adric.”
“Arrows at dawn,” Adric said.
“Shields at noon,” replied Evin, and Adric relaxed. The passphrase challenge was done. “Any sign of the enemy?”
Adric shook his head. Evin had to know that Adric would’ve sent the signal if the warband of Scanrans roaming somewhere between Fort Mastiff and the border villages had made contact. “Quiet as a tomb.”
“Happy Midwinter, Adric, and get some rest. Kenth’s got something cooking back at camp.” Evin gave him a light, encouraging shove in the right direction.
Adric didn’t need it. The thought of food—even if it was tasteless porridge or more rations—got him on the move again, and at least it was warmer now he wasn’t stuck up that tree.
“Happy Midwinter to you too,” he murmured, and began the trek back to camp.
Clack-clack-clack-clack went Orin’s needles.
“What is it this time, Orin?” Miri asked. They all knew what he was making: they would’ve had to be perfectly blind not to notice, but Orin always knitted, and they always asked.
“Socks,” Orin said, not looking away from his work as a pair of somewhat lumpy socks were taking shape. Miri vaguely remembered Orin buying a huge pile of poorly-dyed stripey yarn when they’d stopped by the sheepfarming village of Knightscroft.
“Riders travel light,” Evin had said, and Kenth had said, “But sir, think of the socks!”
In the end, the bulky package was strapped to Orin’s saddlebags and they all sort of pretended it wasn’t there. Everyone liked Orin’s socks. Of course they were garish lumpy things, the sort to terrify grandmothers with, but they were warm and often enough, dry.
Camped out in the woods for Midwinter, Miri thought she’d take any sort of monstrosity that had come out from Orin’s needles just for warm and dry feet.
Back home, it never snowed in the winter, but Midwinter was the time they had the fermented fish, the one that’d been pickling for most of the winter, because their regular catch had migrated to warmer waters.
She’d brought some of it to share once, courtesy of a care package from home, and Evin had turned green and the Rider barracks had summarily banned fermented fish within the premises. Miri sighed. What she wouldn’t give for the waves at her feet, for the Midwinter net-dance in the village square, for the taste of fermented fish and with the best dancers tossing the woven garland into the waves.
“Call,” said Harlan, lazily.
“That’s not fair,” Kenth protested, stirring the soup in the pot. “You got his last pair of socks too, isn’t that right, Orin?”
“Mm,” said Orin, focusing on his knitting. Clack-clack-clack-clack, went all four needles.
“Why do you use four needles?” Miri asked, to take her mind off Midwinter.
Orin looked over at her. “Can’t make socks without four,” he said, simply. “Or well, I guess you can but then you have to sew it together.”
“You’re using four needles to avoid using a sewing kit?”
“Yes?”
Clack-clack-clack-clack went the needles.
“Besides, maybe I wanted to give them to someone special,” said Orin, weaving himself back into the conversations. “It’s Midwinter. I can give socks to whomever I want to.”
“You give away your socks all the time,” Tandri muttered. “Even if it isn’t Midwinter.”
“Just for that,” Orin said, “You are not getting socks. You can wait until I am done with everyone else.” He waggled the striped monstrosity dangling from his needles for emphasis.
“Save them for me!” chorused a few of the Rider Group at the same time.
“Merry Midwinter, everyone,” said Kenth, ironically. He kept on stirring at the soup in the pot.
“Merel,” said Stephen, cautious. “What are you doing?”
Merel glanced over at him. “Practicing. What else does it look like I’m doing?”
She was juggling balls of Gift light, one after another. She would pull a ball of light from unexpected places, or another ball of light would wink out. It was almost hypnotic. “I’m trying a cascade. Evin showed me how to do one last week.”
“Watch the lightshow,” Tandri cautioned. “If someone sees—”
“Lighten up, it’s Midwinter,” Merel said. “Besides, none of us have seen any sign of the Scanrans in days.”
“They’re a conspiracy,” drawled Erin, from her sleeping bag. “A conspiracy meant to keep us from the joy of Midwinter and the comforts of civilisation and the wonders of decent porridge.”
“Stop insulting my porridge,” Kenth growled.
“Your porridge isn’t half bad,” Stephen said.
“Thanks, Stephen.”
“Stephen grew up eating boiled sheep’s organs,” Erin said. “I don’t think he counts.”
“Thanks, Erin.”
“Another vote for Stephen’s porridge,” said Miri. “I could kill for some porridge now.”
“Miri definitely does not count,” Harlan said. “We’ve all heard about the fermented fish.”
“And fermented fish. I could kill for some fermented fish now, too.”
“And if you’ve been spending your Gift—”
“I’ll have enough for emergencies,” Merel said. “Trust me.”
“Well, you’re in luck, Erin,“ Kenth said. He consulted the soup post and tasted it and frowned, and then added more spices out of one of the small tins he carried in his saddlebags. That was Kenth’s attitude towards cooking: if it tasted bad, add more spices until it stopped tasting bad. “We’re out of porridge!”
Sometimes, thought Erin, it was a wonder the group didn’t get poisoned when Kenth was cooking.
“Let me guess,” Miri said, sounding too cheerful for one of a group of Riders stranded out here on the picket line during Midwinter. “It’s noodles!”
“It was noodles yesterday.” Clack-clack-clack-clack went Orin’s needles. He didn’t bother looking up.
“And noodles the day before that,” Tandri chimed in.
“And noodles the day before the day before that…”
“And noodles for lunch.”
“And noodles for dinner.”
“Silence, ungrateful ones!” Kenth cried out, waving his ladle admonishingly. “Anyone who doesn’t want more noodles, courtesy of the esteemed quartermasters, can make their own porridge!”
“Is it better than your porridge?”
“I cannot believe,” Kenth said, “I’m having to defend the quality of my own cooking in a group where Riders are capable of burning bean soup.”
“You’re only saying this because Evin isn’t around,” Miri muttered. But her eyes sparkled with mischief and suppressed laughter.
There was that legendary sergeant in the King’s Own—easy on the eye and a bit of a flirt—who was supposed to make field porridge that the gods themselves would’ve worshipped, but despite rising to command a Rider group, cooking was not among Evin Larse’s talents.
Decidedly so.
“Of course I am,” Kenth said, pragmatically. “I don’t want to be working extra watches for the next couple of days.”
Kenth was ladling out noodles and hot soup into eating tins when he started and almost dropped the ladle as the next Rider in line grinned at him.
“Seen a ghost?” said Commander Buriram Tourakom, grinning wickedly as Kenth thanked the gods there had been no soup in the ladle, as it would’ve surely spilled.
“C—Buri,” he stammered, for the commander had made it clear the Riders seldom stood on ceremony. “I didn’t expect—”
“We’re not the King’s Own,” Buri had said, then. “You are all Rider groups, we don’t need any of that bowing or saluting or fancy titles, we just get the job done.”
The rest of the group, at least, had been caught off-guard just as much as Kenth had.
“Poor children,” said Buri, with a flash of teeth. “I’ll tell you this, it wasn’t your sentries. Evin’s keeping his eyes out front, as is proper, and I’m good at not being seen when I don’t want to.”
Kenth had recovered, and ladled a portion of the noodles and the soup into Buri’s tin.
Buri took pity on them. “I’m not expecting to be here long,” she said. “I’ve been looking in on each of the Rider pickets out on the front, making sure everything is fine. How are things, then?”
“No sign of Scanran activity,” Miri said. “It’s been quiet.”
“They’re scared of Kenth’s cooking!”
“Oi!”
“Or Orin’s socks!”
“Or Merel’s juggling!”
“I have to wake up to Adric’s ugly face each time I go on watch, I’m telling you, that’s what keeps the Scanrans off us!”
“Well then,” Buri said, grinning, “What if I told you you might be due a rotation off this front?”
Immediately, an exaggerated chorus of disappointed groans greeted her words. “What, and leave all this luxury behind?” Harlan wanted to know.
“Scanrans would miss us,” Stephen mused. “Might even go back to Scanra crying.”
“Wouldn’t want that, that would be terrible.”
Buri waited for the comments to die down before she continued. “I’m not going to give a long, fancy speech,” she said. “It’s Midwinter, and you’re in the field because it’s your job to be. Hopefully, this group will rotate back to Corus in another month, when Soft Lightning comes off training rotation, but we all know things often never go as planned.”
She looked at them, taking in grim, tired faces, Riders huddled over warm tins of cooked ration noodles.
“Merry Midwinter, Riders,” Buri said. “Keep up the good work.” A few moments later, she added, “You might be glad to know that Fort Mastiff is sending some fresh supplies for Midwinter to the groups deployed in this area, with Lord Wyldon’s compliments.”
Stationed in his tree, Evin Larse swore he could hear the raucous cheering of his Rider group, and smiled to himself.
It wasn’t the Midwinter that the group had planned to celebrate, but it wasn’t half bad, either.
Rating: PG
For: Lisa
Prompt: 2. Soldiers away from home for Midwinter
Summary: A Rider group celebrates Midwinter in an unexpected way.
Notes and Warnings: None I can think of. Takes place a bit before LK but should be LK-compatible.
Adric couldn’t help the brief sigh of relief when he first heard the whistle in the darkness. For a moment, he thought it the conjurings of his imagination. Perhaps he’d just gone mad, stuck up in this tree for gods only knew how long in the cold and the dark, but then the whistle came again, more insistent.
Thank the gods. All of them.
He slid down the tree clumsily, his limbs gone numb from the waiting and the watching.
A firm hand fell on his shoulder. “You haven’t done the challenge,” said Group Commander Evin Larse, and Adric bit back the sigh of exasperation. It was cold, and he wanted to be back among the others, with the warmth of a fire, and his sleeping bag.
“You’re not a Scanran.”
“If I were a Scanran, you’d be dead,” Evin agreed, his voice gone cold. “We don’t cut corners in hostile territory. Passphrase, Adric.”
“Arrows at dawn,” Adric said.
“Shields at noon,” replied Evin, and Adric relaxed. The passphrase challenge was done. “Any sign of the enemy?”
Adric shook his head. Evin had to know that Adric would’ve sent the signal if the warband of Scanrans roaming somewhere between Fort Mastiff and the border villages had made contact. “Quiet as a tomb.”
“Happy Midwinter, Adric, and get some rest. Kenth’s got something cooking back at camp.” Evin gave him a light, encouraging shove in the right direction.
Adric didn’t need it. The thought of food—even if it was tasteless porridge or more rations—got him on the move again, and at least it was warmer now he wasn’t stuck up that tree.
“Happy Midwinter to you too,” he murmured, and began the trek back to camp.
Clack-clack-clack-clack went Orin’s needles.
“What is it this time, Orin?” Miri asked. They all knew what he was making: they would’ve had to be perfectly blind not to notice, but Orin always knitted, and they always asked.
“Socks,” Orin said, not looking away from his work as a pair of somewhat lumpy socks were taking shape. Miri vaguely remembered Orin buying a huge pile of poorly-dyed stripey yarn when they’d stopped by the sheepfarming village of Knightscroft.
“Riders travel light,” Evin had said, and Kenth had said, “But sir, think of the socks!”
In the end, the bulky package was strapped to Orin’s saddlebags and they all sort of pretended it wasn’t there. Everyone liked Orin’s socks. Of course they were garish lumpy things, the sort to terrify grandmothers with, but they were warm and often enough, dry.
Camped out in the woods for Midwinter, Miri thought she’d take any sort of monstrosity that had come out from Orin’s needles just for warm and dry feet.
Back home, it never snowed in the winter, but Midwinter was the time they had the fermented fish, the one that’d been pickling for most of the winter, because their regular catch had migrated to warmer waters.
She’d brought some of it to share once, courtesy of a care package from home, and Evin had turned green and the Rider barracks had summarily banned fermented fish within the premises. Miri sighed. What she wouldn’t give for the waves at her feet, for the Midwinter net-dance in the village square, for the taste of fermented fish and with the best dancers tossing the woven garland into the waves.
“Call,” said Harlan, lazily.
“That’s not fair,” Kenth protested, stirring the soup in the pot. “You got his last pair of socks too, isn’t that right, Orin?”
“Mm,” said Orin, focusing on his knitting. Clack-clack-clack-clack, went all four needles.
“Why do you use four needles?” Miri asked, to take her mind off Midwinter.
Orin looked over at her. “Can’t make socks without four,” he said, simply. “Or well, I guess you can but then you have to sew it together.”
“You’re using four needles to avoid using a sewing kit?”
“Yes?”
Clack-clack-clack-clack went the needles.
“Besides, maybe I wanted to give them to someone special,” said Orin, weaving himself back into the conversations. “It’s Midwinter. I can give socks to whomever I want to.”
“You give away your socks all the time,” Tandri muttered. “Even if it isn’t Midwinter.”
“Just for that,” Orin said, “You are not getting socks. You can wait until I am done with everyone else.” He waggled the striped monstrosity dangling from his needles for emphasis.
“Save them for me!” chorused a few of the Rider Group at the same time.
“Merry Midwinter, everyone,” said Kenth, ironically. He kept on stirring at the soup in the pot.
“Merel,” said Stephen, cautious. “What are you doing?”
Merel glanced over at him. “Practicing. What else does it look like I’m doing?”
She was juggling balls of Gift light, one after another. She would pull a ball of light from unexpected places, or another ball of light would wink out. It was almost hypnotic. “I’m trying a cascade. Evin showed me how to do one last week.”
“Watch the lightshow,” Tandri cautioned. “If someone sees—”
“Lighten up, it’s Midwinter,” Merel said. “Besides, none of us have seen any sign of the Scanrans in days.”
“They’re a conspiracy,” drawled Erin, from her sleeping bag. “A conspiracy meant to keep us from the joy of Midwinter and the comforts of civilisation and the wonders of decent porridge.”
“Stop insulting my porridge,” Kenth growled.
“Your porridge isn’t half bad,” Stephen said.
“Thanks, Stephen.”
“Stephen grew up eating boiled sheep’s organs,” Erin said. “I don’t think he counts.”
“Thanks, Erin.”
“Another vote for Stephen’s porridge,” said Miri. “I could kill for some porridge now.”
“Miri definitely does not count,” Harlan said. “We’ve all heard about the fermented fish.”
“And fermented fish. I could kill for some fermented fish now, too.”
“And if you’ve been spending your Gift—”
“I’ll have enough for emergencies,” Merel said. “Trust me.”
“Well, you’re in luck, Erin,“ Kenth said. He consulted the soup post and tasted it and frowned, and then added more spices out of one of the small tins he carried in his saddlebags. That was Kenth’s attitude towards cooking: if it tasted bad, add more spices until it stopped tasting bad. “We’re out of porridge!”
Sometimes, thought Erin, it was a wonder the group didn’t get poisoned when Kenth was cooking.
“Let me guess,” Miri said, sounding too cheerful for one of a group of Riders stranded out here on the picket line during Midwinter. “It’s noodles!”
“It was noodles yesterday.” Clack-clack-clack-clack went Orin’s needles. He didn’t bother looking up.
“And noodles the day before that,” Tandri chimed in.
“And noodles the day before the day before that…”
“And noodles for lunch.”
“And noodles for dinner.”
“Silence, ungrateful ones!” Kenth cried out, waving his ladle admonishingly. “Anyone who doesn’t want more noodles, courtesy of the esteemed quartermasters, can make their own porridge!”
“Is it better than your porridge?”
“I cannot believe,” Kenth said, “I’m having to defend the quality of my own cooking in a group where Riders are capable of burning bean soup.”
“You’re only saying this because Evin isn’t around,” Miri muttered. But her eyes sparkled with mischief and suppressed laughter.
There was that legendary sergeant in the King’s Own—easy on the eye and a bit of a flirt—who was supposed to make field porridge that the gods themselves would’ve worshipped, but despite rising to command a Rider group, cooking was not among Evin Larse’s talents.
Decidedly so.
“Of course I am,” Kenth said, pragmatically. “I don’t want to be working extra watches for the next couple of days.”
Kenth was ladling out noodles and hot soup into eating tins when he started and almost dropped the ladle as the next Rider in line grinned at him.
“Seen a ghost?” said Commander Buriram Tourakom, grinning wickedly as Kenth thanked the gods there had been no soup in the ladle, as it would’ve surely spilled.
“C—Buri,” he stammered, for the commander had made it clear the Riders seldom stood on ceremony. “I didn’t expect—”
“We’re not the King’s Own,” Buri had said, then. “You are all Rider groups, we don’t need any of that bowing or saluting or fancy titles, we just get the job done.”
The rest of the group, at least, had been caught off-guard just as much as Kenth had.
“Poor children,” said Buri, with a flash of teeth. “I’ll tell you this, it wasn’t your sentries. Evin’s keeping his eyes out front, as is proper, and I’m good at not being seen when I don’t want to.”
Kenth had recovered, and ladled a portion of the noodles and the soup into Buri’s tin.
Buri took pity on them. “I’m not expecting to be here long,” she said. “I’ve been looking in on each of the Rider pickets out on the front, making sure everything is fine. How are things, then?”
“No sign of Scanran activity,” Miri said. “It’s been quiet.”
“They’re scared of Kenth’s cooking!”
“Oi!”
“Or Orin’s socks!”
“Or Merel’s juggling!”
“I have to wake up to Adric’s ugly face each time I go on watch, I’m telling you, that’s what keeps the Scanrans off us!”
“Well then,” Buri said, grinning, “What if I told you you might be due a rotation off this front?”
Immediately, an exaggerated chorus of disappointed groans greeted her words. “What, and leave all this luxury behind?” Harlan wanted to know.
“Scanrans would miss us,” Stephen mused. “Might even go back to Scanra crying.”
“Wouldn’t want that, that would be terrible.”
Buri waited for the comments to die down before she continued. “I’m not going to give a long, fancy speech,” she said. “It’s Midwinter, and you’re in the field because it’s your job to be. Hopefully, this group will rotate back to Corus in another month, when Soft Lightning comes off training rotation, but we all know things often never go as planned.”
She looked at them, taking in grim, tired faces, Riders huddled over warm tins of cooked ration noodles.
“Merry Midwinter, Riders,” Buri said. “Keep up the good work.” A few moments later, she added, “You might be glad to know that Fort Mastiff is sending some fresh supplies for Midwinter to the groups deployed in this area, with Lord Wyldon’s compliments.”
Stationed in his tree, Evin Larse swore he could hear the raucous cheering of his Rider group, and smiled to himself.
It wasn’t the Midwinter that the group had planned to celebrate, but it wasn’t half bad, either.