A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

As Karstly had said, what would happen if their position was attacked again, in the hours before dawn? It wasn't an impossible thing, even if it was unlikely. Karstly didn't believe it even though he was the one to say it – Oliver had been able to tell as much, but still it seemed a sound enough point. There was no good reason to be wasting opportunities for rest when they were in such a dire state.

He pushed his way outside, and the burning sun illuminated the state of his undress all the more. He squinted, shielding his eyes against its glare. It was already high in the sky, just past midday.

It was not true undress, of course, but for a nobleman it very much felt like it. Oliver was well aware of the standards that his new class held him to by now, and he summoned up a wry smile as he thought of how he would have been taken to task back at the Academy for the way he looked now.

Of course, he did not particularly mind. The morning was a fine one. The sky was as blue as a princess' eyes, and what clouds there were only served to add to the scene. They did not encroach on the main sky's blue, they merely sat beneath it, as if bowing to the beauty of the morning. Or at this point, Oliver supposed it was indeed early afternoon.

The camp was in a roar of activity already. Thousands of soldiers had needed to be stationed, after all, along with the wagons that they'd brought with them. Looking over at the wagons now, Oliver had to shake his head. It was a wonder that they'd survived. They hadn't lost a single one, despite the harshness of the combat that they'd endured.

If he'd known just what their battling would have been like from the start, he would have known to more harshly question the decision to bring so many wagons.

Still, if they hadn't brought those wagons, their situation would have been even worse. The best they could really do was what they'd already done, in having horses pull them for the extra speed.

They'd truly threaded their way through an incredibly small needle. If they were to attempt it again, Oliver doubted that events would have lined up so well in their favour. Even with Karstly leading them, overcoming the likes of Khan more than once, with his monstrously large army, it seemed very much like an impossibility.

Alas, the day was too pleasant to dwell on such things. Oliver had his sword sheathed at his waist, and he tapped it with the fingers of his injured right hand. "Another week," he told himself. "I'll be practicing once more."

"Would you wait a week?" Ingolsol sneered. "In your weakness, you would still wait?"

Oliver ignored the provocation. Ingolsol knew full well that Oliver did not plan to let the time pass in stagnation. He had something that he could well and truly aim for now. The passion, and the direction had returned to his want for training. Every moment would be a precious one.

Even now, as he only just exited his tent, first thing in the morning, the thing foremost on his mind – beyond even food, and his heartily growling stomach – was where and when he might be able to train.

He looked around. He saw more than a few heads of his men, just as he saw heads of the Blackthorn soldiers, and the other troops that Karstly had brought with him. Oliver knew it not to be his imagination when he noted that their encampments were less segregated than they had once been.

Perhaps it was merely due to the tired state of the soldiers that had put up their tents, but the lines separating one order from the next were much less clearly defined.

"Ah! Captain Patrick!" One of Oliver's men found him standing outside his tent, and he gave a crisp salute. The man's uniform was clean, as was his face. Even his boots were polished to a shine. He had been up a while.

"Good morning, soldier," Oliver said, sparing a smile for the man. "How goes your wounds?"

"I did not receive any of particular note, Ser, mere scratches. I will be at full health in a matter of days, I do say," the soldier told him.

"Good, good," Oliver nodded. "Let us hope that the same is true for the rest of our men. The fighting, I imagine, will only grow worse from here on out. But the glory will be all the better for it… Speak, then, soldier. Verdant sent you to find me, did he not? Where is the man?"

The soldier flushed slightly at being seen through so easily. "He did, Ser… He had me stationed nearby, so that I might keep an eye on your tent. I believe he was concerned with the matter of your breakfast, and your clothing from the wagon. Both have been prepared – but the food, at least, he wished to have warmed for you."

"Very well, you may fulfil your duty in telling him," Oliver said. The man saluted again, and hurried away. Everything about the man, from the way he dressed, to the way he spoke, showed his position as a man of the Serving Class. There were few enough of their type within the Patrick forces, and so Verdant took care to use them when he had to.

'He overthinks such small matters,' Oliver thought to himself, as he prowled the area around his tent. He saw more soldiers of his own, all of them clean, and looking as well rested as one could hope. There was a tentative liveliness to them, as if they were testing the limits of the energy they had recovered, without daring to truly exert themselves, and risk tiring once again.

"""Captain!""" They saluted as he passed. Oliver nodded back at them. With his state of dress, he knew he ought to have been confining himself to his tent. Around other soldiers, he likely would have been forced to. Around the Patrick men, however, there was no need for such shame.

If anything, his freeness in his presentation – when necessity demanded it – only seemed to serve to the benefit of his troops. It seemed to cultivate the sort of mindset that he wanted in them. There were things he held far above mere appearance, after all, and that was performance on the field of battle.