AN: I know the official translation is "Band of the Falcon", but I'm sticking to Hawk out of personal preference.
It had been a long day and a long night for the Band of the Hawk. Another tight skirmish with Chuder forces, another ten new scars—minimum—on everyone who'd fought. Not even the resident aces could claim to be in high spirits after what was supposed to be a victory, playing cards over a rickety wooden bench with the light of a nearby bonfire to warm them. The flame, at least, seemed to be a deterrent to the mosquitoes about the campgrounds.
"...Corkus, I told you to stop whining already!" Casca groaned, no longer able to put up with his gripes about this wound here or this sore there. "We're all injured, it's not as though you're a special case."
Judeau snickered at Corkus's expense, shut up by a swift elbow to the rib from the offended party. thankfully not wearing any gauntlets or armor of the sort.
"I'm not saying nobody else is injured here, but I was busting my ass out there, wasn't I? I was swinging like Griffith against those Chuder bastards! Or—or maybe, of a lesser-but-close caliber to Griffith."
"Hm." Pippin grunted, skeptical.
Evidently, Casca wasn't convinced either. "Yes, I'm sure you were. That's why Guts and Griffith are in the medic's wing right now and you're sitting out here playing cards with us."
"Listen!" Corkus planted his sword in the dirt behind him, getting flustered. "Griffith I can understand, but Guts doesn't know what he's doing. He looks for the biggest guy, and guns straight for him! That's not strength, that's having a death wish! He doesn't know what it's like to really get out of a scrape, in a life-or-death scenario."
"But you do?" Judeau side-eyed him.
"Judeau, how long have I been a Hawk for? Of course I've brushed with the Grim Reaper."
"You have an example to back that claim up, right? A really good story?" Casca leaned over the bench, calling Corkus's bluff once again.
Rickert peeked from the opening of a nearby tent, eyes wide and curious. "Are you guys telling war stories?"
"Go to bed, Rickert," was their unanimous response, and he slunk back inside, disappointed.
Corkus leaned back and shut his eyes, reminiscing with an easy smile. "I don't have a story. No, I have a tale..."