Post by Deleted on Nov 23, 2022 14:57:46 GMT -5
Ber's words pushed the breath out of Warren, his chest deflating and his head shaking. He pushed himself up from the table and took both mugs of water with him. Walking up to the bar, he pushed the mugs in front of the barkeep and they shared a word or two. As the keep emptied the water and filled the mugs with something darker, Warren pushed a few more coins over to him and returned with two mugs only half-full of ale. Water didn't suit the topic of conversation, but he wouldn't have them too buzzed to recognize Whitby if he ever decided to come by the tavern.
Settling back down, he slid one of the mugs over to Ber and his hand remained on the table, finger tapping at the wood. A few minutes earlier, when Ber had been speaking of the horrors the Dresmondi had suffered, he'd reminded Warren of someone. It tightened his chest, and reminded him that though the soldier in front of him was a man who had likely spent his whole life taking care of himself, he was still young. Too many people lost their compassion as they grew older, especially nobility, and especially soldiers.
"The Eldouir know no different," he finally replied, taking a drink of his ale. It wasn't great, but at least it had a bite to it. "They're a threat and everyone knows it. They found the only Kingdom that Nevermere hadn't reached and capitalized on that." He thought of open court, and of Howell and Vernon, both of whom considered Warren to be little more than a warmonger. A man anxious to fight in more battles, to bloody his hands. But all Warren ever did was embrace the reality he could see before him.
He met Ber's eyes again, and felt...well, it didn't matter. "Worth it? Yeah. I think so. The sooner we get rid of the Eldouirs, the safer we all are. Because it won't just be the Dresmondi. They'll come after Nevermere, and then they'll go after Loren. But it doesn't matter what you or I think, kid. We're just soldiers. We get our orders. We do what we're told. We fight who they tell us to fight, when they tell us to fight. You and I are the same in that." His nobility meant nothing in battle, after all. "Which," he sat up some, tapping the table with his index finger. "Is why I push you all so hard. Regardless of what happens to Dresmond, this fight is coming and the Eldouir and their army will not care how old you are or how much experience you have. If you don't have the discipline, and you can't keep your wits about you, you won't come back. Do you understand me?"
The words were more like a plea than a threat or a warning. He'd lost a lot over his time in the military. He'd lost friends during the battle with Coheed, he'd lost his wife and son to their own failed battles. The soldiers he trained now, they were his responsibility. Every one that fell in battle would be on his conscious. "So from now on when everyone is complaining about Quick Wick giving them too many laps, remember what you've been told about the Eldouir. I'm not training you to patrol the peaceful streets of Skia. I'm training you to fight them."
Settling back down, he slid one of the mugs over to Ber and his hand remained on the table, finger tapping at the wood. A few minutes earlier, when Ber had been speaking of the horrors the Dresmondi had suffered, he'd reminded Warren of someone. It tightened his chest, and reminded him that though the soldier in front of him was a man who had likely spent his whole life taking care of himself, he was still young. Too many people lost their compassion as they grew older, especially nobility, and especially soldiers.
"The Eldouir know no different," he finally replied, taking a drink of his ale. It wasn't great, but at least it had a bite to it. "They're a threat and everyone knows it. They found the only Kingdom that Nevermere hadn't reached and capitalized on that." He thought of open court, and of Howell and Vernon, both of whom considered Warren to be little more than a warmonger. A man anxious to fight in more battles, to bloody his hands. But all Warren ever did was embrace the reality he could see before him.
He met Ber's eyes again, and felt...well, it didn't matter. "Worth it? Yeah. I think so. The sooner we get rid of the Eldouirs, the safer we all are. Because it won't just be the Dresmondi. They'll come after Nevermere, and then they'll go after Loren. But it doesn't matter what you or I think, kid. We're just soldiers. We get our orders. We do what we're told. We fight who they tell us to fight, when they tell us to fight. You and I are the same in that." His nobility meant nothing in battle, after all. "Which," he sat up some, tapping the table with his index finger. "Is why I push you all so hard. Regardless of what happens to Dresmond, this fight is coming and the Eldouir and their army will not care how old you are or how much experience you have. If you don't have the discipline, and you can't keep your wits about you, you won't come back. Do you understand me?"
The words were more like a plea than a threat or a warning. He'd lost a lot over his time in the military. He'd lost friends during the battle with Coheed, he'd lost his wife and son to their own failed battles. The soldiers he trained now, they were his responsibility. Every one that fell in battle would be on his conscious. "So from now on when everyone is complaining about Quick Wick giving them too many laps, remember what you've been told about the Eldouir. I'm not training you to patrol the peaceful streets of Skia. I'm training you to fight them."