Bayard Sartoris II (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yoknapatawpha) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-03-01 08:40 pm
yoknapatawpha) wrote in thearena2015-03-01 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
There's No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross [Semi-Open]
WHO| Bayard and Maxwell, Bayard and the DAI cast?
WHAT| A kid shivering in the snow.
WHERE| Wandering the woods.
WHEN| First morning of week 5.
WARNINGS| None yet.
The place they put him tells a story, like most places do. He's a little surprised that it doesn't look like a killing field of any sort. He expected the stuff of rumors about the war, of weapons on the ground and dead horses and cannon smoke. Instead, he's in a quiet forest that bears all the signs of thawing. It's still cold, painfully cold to him, but he sees frozen puddles where the snow has melted and then reformed and drips coming from the trees above him. The chirps of birds and hum of crickets tells him that wherever he is, it's spring. Which is strange, because he was certain it was summer when he was abducted into this.
Somehow, though he's afraid, it isn't the blinding, freezing panic that, when he was first told what he was supposed to do, consumed him. He shook when the weight of what they'd told him sunk in, felt his insides turn to egg yolk, felt something go off in his head like dynamite that cleared out all those other thoughts about the bright lights and strange clothes his captors wore. And he doesn't really remember what happened after that, during his demonstration for his scoring or when they picked him up less than an hour afterwards to take him out to the Arena. He knows, factually, that things happened. He doesn't remember them.
Maybe out of nothing but automatism his body is animated. It's certainly not out of any conscious plan, because he doesn't know where he's going or even what he's looking for. He entertains a dim idea that he could look for a rabbit or a deer but then remembers he has no weapon, nothing but his small-but-rough hands and this strange, slick clothing they've put him in.
Water. He'll look for water.
Hands tucked into his armpits for warmth, face flushed with blotches of pink and white, he staggers through the woods, doing his best not to jump too hard at each rustle he hears in the brush. Maybe if the trees looked more like they did at home, it would be easier of him to pretend that the movements in the shrubbery were ordinary squirrels and birds instead of killers. Bayard doesn't want to look afraid, but even now his shaking can't be mistaken for mere shivering.
After several miles of walking in no particular direction except 'downhill', and seeing no one, Bayard takes a moment to rest. He finds a rock in a sunny patch, and for a good long moment considers it, except that someone might see him as a target. And so, shivering still, he finds a less-warm place at the base of a tree, and huddles up there.
WHAT| A kid shivering in the snow.
WHERE| Wandering the woods.
WHEN| First morning of week 5.
WARNINGS| None yet.
The place they put him tells a story, like most places do. He's a little surprised that it doesn't look like a killing field of any sort. He expected the stuff of rumors about the war, of weapons on the ground and dead horses and cannon smoke. Instead, he's in a quiet forest that bears all the signs of thawing. It's still cold, painfully cold to him, but he sees frozen puddles where the snow has melted and then reformed and drips coming from the trees above him. The chirps of birds and hum of crickets tells him that wherever he is, it's spring. Which is strange, because he was certain it was summer when he was abducted into this.
Somehow, though he's afraid, it isn't the blinding, freezing panic that, when he was first told what he was supposed to do, consumed him. He shook when the weight of what they'd told him sunk in, felt his insides turn to egg yolk, felt something go off in his head like dynamite that cleared out all those other thoughts about the bright lights and strange clothes his captors wore. And he doesn't really remember what happened after that, during his demonstration for his scoring or when they picked him up less than an hour afterwards to take him out to the Arena. He knows, factually, that things happened. He doesn't remember them.
Maybe out of nothing but automatism his body is animated. It's certainly not out of any conscious plan, because he doesn't know where he's going or even what he's looking for. He entertains a dim idea that he could look for a rabbit or a deer but then remembers he has no weapon, nothing but his small-but-rough hands and this strange, slick clothing they've put him in.
Water. He'll look for water.
Hands tucked into his armpits for warmth, face flushed with blotches of pink and white, he staggers through the woods, doing his best not to jump too hard at each rustle he hears in the brush. Maybe if the trees looked more like they did at home, it would be easier of him to pretend that the movements in the shrubbery were ordinary squirrels and birds instead of killers. Bayard doesn't want to look afraid, but even now his shaking can't be mistaken for mere shivering.
After several miles of walking in no particular direction except 'downhill', and seeing no one, Bayard takes a moment to rest. He finds a rock in a sunny patch, and for a good long moment considers it, except that someone might see him as a target. And so, shivering still, he finds a less-warm place at the base of a tree, and huddles up there.
no subject
"It happens in patches sometimes. One here, another later, more later still. I suppose it's more interesting for them that way."
He glanced back over his shoulder, measuring the distance he'd traveled in his head as he carefully chose his next words.
"There's room at our camp, why don't you come stay with us?" he offered gently. "We can help you look for your people, and you can help keep us company in the mean time."
no subject
"There you are. Have you managed to find any--" he cut himself short as his eyes fell on the tiny boy with him. "-- Ah."
no subject
The man has a mighty mustache, Bayard will give him that.
"You don't mean to kill me now that I'm outnumbered, do you?"
no subject
"No, no," he promised, turning back to the young man. "This is Dorian, one of the people I was telling you about. He won't hurt you either."
He looked at Dorian and gestured between them.
"Dorian, meet Bayard. A new friend of mine."
no subject
"What is it with Inquisitors and their strange assortment of friends? Has he tried to convince you to kill a dragon yet, Bayard? If he does, you must refuse, right away, or you'll find yourself in quite a pickle."
no subject
"A dragon, sir? I know full well those don't exist. I'm not some little squirt who don't know truth from fairytales. I'm more than twelve years old."
no subject
"Oh, they're real enough where we're from," he said, but he offered Bayard an easy smile. "But don't worry, that was only one time. ...And then that one other time."
Belatedly, it occurred to him that wouldn't have known how many or few dragons they'd encountered, but his good humor refused to dim. It was he'd felt since--
He waved it off as if it were nothing.
"Dorian likes to exaggerate."