Work It

The night was normal enough.

The air was dry and still-ish.

They were camping near the Crimea-Begnion border on a return trip to Crimea and everyone was travel weary, though some showed it more and others showed it less. Soren was one who all took care to avoid among the mercenaries as the young mage was just as apt to throw flames at you as he was to let you pass with a death glare and a mumbled insult. His sullen manner lent exquisitely to his preferred and appreciated isolation in which the tactician would mull over tomes or records or scribble on worn maps while traveling up through when halt was called and often into the early hours of the morning.

This normal night was one such night and it found Soren leaning wide-eyed over a ridiculously complicated tome in the empty conference tent. His pale face glowed quite appallingly white against his large dark eyes and loose raven hair most would not be surprised if one mistook him for a ghost in the moonlit canvas cave (for rather than waste candle wax or torches, Soren preferred to strain his eyes and read à la lune). Maybe a ghost, at first glance, but never what he, very fortunately, was mistaken for by a group of very unanticipated visitors.

For, as Soren sat wholly enraptured in his literature, the tent was slightly illuminated due to it's open flap and fairly massive weights left indentions in the grassy floor of the temporary shelter and, if he'd been a bit less absorbed, the grumpy wind wielder would have immediately noticed several additional presences in the vicinity. As it was, Soren was not aware of guests until a slight and unnatural breeze brushed his neck in the wake of a rough hand that clamped down over his mouth. Instead of the predictable shock that should have manifested in his mannerisms, Soren glared with malice at the unfamiliar hand and calmly attempted to follow the tug at the back of his collar so as to sustain as little damage as possible while being removed from a chair backwards. Upon being hoisted into a stand-able position, Soren planted his feet and glanced up at his attackers calculatingly. Bandits, so it was purely his luck that he'd been in the biggest, most promising tent, he had not been targeted. He sighed inwardly with disgust at the pathetic situation and immediately discarded the possibilities of screaming, running, and fighting as the odds of any of these tactics succeeding were well under fifty percent. The remaining option, a quite unpleasant prospect, was to be captured and, he presumed, sold. Ah well, it hadn't been "his day" in quite some time and one casualty was exceedingly preferable to multiples, the only irksome aspect of the entire ordeal was that he'd allowed himself to be captured at all.

Tsk. What a juvenile maneuvering error. Now I'll have to walk alone back from wherever I can escape from. Ridiculous-

"Hey, wench,"

Soren registered dimly through his self-berating rant that one of the bandits had heard no noun or pronoun that might apply to him and so ignored the noise. The ruddy faces of the highwaymen reddened with anger and one of them brusquely grabbed the front of Soren's garments as he repeated,

"Hey! Wench!"

Soren glanced up over the dry fingers smothering his lower face, now realizing that the speaking had been directed at him and that… for some reason… they'd called him a wench, as in a female, as in a girl, as in not male.

As in they'd made a costly mistake.

Soren's mind clamped onto his role without question and gladly accepted the chance to warn his comrades of his fate. All he had to do was work his audience properly and tricking bandits would be one of the easiest ploys his mind had ever conceived.

He caved his chest in, away from the hand at the front of his clothes, as if attempting to preserve modesty, and then flailed his thin body weakly, providing the power position-hungry with powerless prey. They resumed they're self-satisfied state instantly and his captor threw him roughly to the ground. Soren grabbed the under layer of his robes, aka sleeping garb, protectively around his frame along with the thin sheet he kept with him for warmth and realized that, if he were indeed of the gender they believed him to be, he would feel quite earnestly endangered. He stared up at his aggressors blankly, hoping to pass his absolute lack of emotion as fear, and scooted away from them into a corner of the tent. The ruffians heckled quietly and formed a barrier around him, the one semi-intelligent thing Soren had seen them do at all.

"Hey, now, girly," the largest of the group, presumably the leader, leaned his leering face threateningly close, "let's not get too hasty…" Soren flicked his eyes from one axe wielding brute to another and whispered,

"What do you want with me?" ensuring not to make eye contact with his conversation partner. The gang laughed nastily again and the leader replied, as expected,

"Whatever we'd like to want with ya."

The utter cliché-ness of the dialog made Soren slightly nauseous.

"Are you going to sell me?" Soren made a show of cowering and looking for chains or rope they might be carrying. This time the shag-haired leader grasped Soren's wrist and began pulling him up, saying,

"Maybe after we have a little fun of our own," as he did so. Sarcastic as ever, the snippish schemer found it difficult not to remark on their sexuality if they indeed desired to have "a little fun" with him but managed to contain himself and attempt to appear scandalized. He swatted the thick tan hand gripping him and said sharply,

"No! You'd sell used merchandise?" The leader let go from the smack and he and his assembly stood dumbly, trying to make sense of the huddled victim's words. "If I told my new master he almost bought a virgin, I don't think he'd be too pleased. And if he told his noble friends, I don't think you'd have much of a business left. And if-"

"But what if we could convince ya not to tell," one of the larger brutes brought his axe blade up to Soren's throat and the previously subdued bandits regained a malicious gleam in their eyes. Soren stared at his potential murderer blankly and answered,

"Then you'd be out of some money."

The leader cast a frantic warning look at the daring subordinate and the axe was lowered and the threat dismissed.

Soren waited cautiously, not wanting them to realize how completely in control of their kidnapping he was before venturing, "If you'd be so kind as to excuse me, I'll just change into something more travel worthy and return shortly." He glanced at the group and proceeded to pass through them to a partition in the tent when all the response he received was a look equally as vacant as his.

In the safety of the secluded area, Soren let out a short sigh and allowed himself a moment of self-pity and self-congratulation before making excessive noises while in search of quill, ink, and scrap paper.

The noise was to let his predators know where he was.

The supplies to leave, essentially, his own ransom note.

In a matter of seconds his tools were procured and a tidy opening read:

This is Soren: I've been captured.

Soren's crimson gaze focused exasperatedly on his pitiable message and he shuffled idly through some papers to maintain the slight noise level as he considered the best way to continue.

Do NOT follow. I'll catch up later.

"How?"

"Well, I'll simply- what?!" Soren turned and collided solidly with an unidentified torso, internally chastising himself yet again for allowing someone to sneak up on him. As he (rather violently) attempted to shove away from the tactlessly close intruder, his mind collided with a wall of comprehension, and as calloused hands (gently, in comparison) seized his wrists and backed him up, Soren confirmed the owner of the voice. "Commander!" he hissed hotly, anger becoming predominant over the embarrassment, annoyance, and gratitude he was feeling at the time, this aided by a curious smirk in place on Ike's calm features. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, much peeved by this disruption to his plan, as much as he detested his plan.

"Are they over here?" Ike gestured towards the partition.

"Yes. What are you doing here?"

" I was on watch."

"No, you weren't. They wouldn't have made it in camp if you were. What are you doing here?" Ike fearlessly met Soren's infamous void stare and repeated,

"I was on watch."

"Commander, we already-" Soren made a rebuttal angrily but then halted mid-sentence as the statement's insinuation became clear. "Watch on me?" Ike nodded seriously. "Why?"

"Because of things like this while you're not exactly… while you're tired." Soren strove to keep an un-amused visage in face of the sincerely concerned and forgiveness-beseeching look in Ike's eyes.

"Just you?"

"No… Mia and I switch every night. We've been doing it for a while now. You always get this way after campaigns." Soren gave up his façade out of exhaustion and relief and instead pursued the topic of escape.

"Can you take them?" Ike's face lit up, a warrior through and through, delighted by the chance to fight.

"How many?"

"Five or six."

"Who are they?"

"Bandits."

"Soren!"

"Hey! We're waiting!" The two mercenaries spared the partition a startled glance and Soren replied,

"A moment more, thanks!" before returning his attention to his seemingly displeased commander.

"You were going to go with them?"

"I have to get dressed, you can attack from the entrance behind them, I'll distract them from the front."

"Soren," Ike captured his retreating comrade's forearm, "were you really going to go with them?"

"Were you listening, commander? I need to get dressed to buy you time and their patience is wearing thin." Soren tugged his arm free and turned away, feeling (surprisingly) guilty for planning to potentially shorten the mercenaries' numbers by one.

"Get dressed then." Soren looked back at Ike whom, despite his anticipations, was not headed for the exit but instead was standing resolutely, arms crossed, with a severe look set on his face. "You can answer me in the meantime."

"With all due respect, sir," Soren shut his eyes in attempt to control his aggravation and humiliation, "I'd prefer you to wait outside while I dress. Your presence makes me highly uncomfortable."

"Soren, we're both me-"

"Wench! Hurry it up already!" Ike paused, a look of supreme confusion contorting his features.

"Wench?" Soren cut his eyes towards the partition, mentally cursing them for their ignorance and mentally cursing Ike for his concern-spurned interference.

"Yes, that's me," Soren decided to give up on Ike leaving and pulled a spare mage robe from atop a decrepit luggage box, letting the blanket slip off his frame and gathering his hair over one shoulder. He froze, petrified, when for the second time, Ike came unnoticed behind him, sliding his arms over Soren's and taking control of the robing process, whispering,

"My apologies. It doesn't really suit you." The extremely adamant defender of personal space quivered slightly at this invasion of his safety zone, but, by biting the inside of his cheek, was able to suppress his nerves born of habitual seclusion and slip out of his garments as the new ones were, courtesy of Ike, donned.

Really. Highly indecent. The entire ordeal. All for an attempt at peaceful privacy. Tsk. Though I really shouldn't blame the commander, he was trying to be courteous, as ever.

"Commander…" Soren rotated himself on the spot, facing his superior, "Ike…" Soren found himself unable to look the man in the face due to Ike's similarly scarce night wear (Soren told himself it was out of respect that this bothered him). "Of course I was going to go with them. It was the only logical course of action, taking into account potential casualties and probable simulation outcomes, and I realize it would be ideal to discuss parting and taking the company's numbers down personally with you, but-"

"Soren, hush," the mage looked up sharply at the unexpected interjection. "It's not about numbers, Soren, you're the only one who thinks about numbers." Ike eyed the partition significantly and began sidling towards the back tent flap. Soren, supremely befuddled as to what it possibly could be about besides numbers, likewise pattered over to his position. He watched Ike until he lifted the tent flap before beginning his awaited entrance only to halt when a voice from across the tent said, "It's you I'm worried about." The poorly disguised "wench" looked back in time to glimpse the canvas flap falling back into place and so, feeling all together flustered, pressed on through his own woven barrier.

"Sorry for the wait," he announced airily to the dozing and surreptitiously ware-inspecting bandits who all bolted to their feet at the sound of his voice.

"Ya certainly should be," the leader grumbled in a less than intended threatening way due to his recent departure from idling. As they moved towards Soren, he noticed a slight movement in the back promptly preceding the soft thud of a corpse hitting grass. The two men nearest the fallen one took note of the deceased and then the killer in a most comical moment of epiphany. With cries of shock and rage they rose their axes and turned on Ike, now fully in the spacious tent, their shouts spurring two men to join the attack, the leader to seize Soren in yet another stunning show of intelligence, and, to Soren's dismay, the sound of several nearby tents opening and feet and boots hitting the ground.

A combination of the lightest sleepers and the closest tent occupants appeared in the doorway as a second bandit fell to Ettard, a shirtless Oscar who blindly entered the fray with a short spear, an all but naked Boyd who stood blinking in the doorway with an iron axe held aloft, a scantily clad Mia who slipped between fighters to take out the third ruffian with a flash of steel, Titania in a night shirt who side-stepped the oblivious Boyd and dealt the fourth bandit a swift blow to the shoulder, and a fully robed but bleary Shinon who planted an arrow solidly in the lead bandit's chest (and dangerously close to Soren's head). As the head man's weight began to succumb to gravity (with Soren stuck between), Boyd threw himself at the final brute at random and Oscar finished what his brother had started with a short jab.

There was a brief pause broken by the whiz of another arrow as Shinon, wholly unawake, continued to fire at inert foes, encouraging Titania, Oscar, and Mia to rush and disarm him before any unintentional damage was done.

"There now, steady," Titania managed between breaths as she managed to drape one of the flailing archer's arms around her shoulders. "Right back to bed with you…" As she limped away with the groggily protesting marksman, Soren noticed the entire camp was now stirring, a tousle headed Rolf running straight into his eldest brother who directed him in a prompt about face, a partially armored Gatrie who followed the brothers in search of an explanation of the commotion, a yawning Mist who was fortunately too sleepy to realize how sparsely clad some of the men were, and Rhys, attentive as his day time self, who inspected whoever came near him before checking the bandits.

It was at this time that Soren lost his struggle to support the dead weight of the lead bandit and so found himself on an uncomfortable crash course with the ground, resisting the urge to call for assistance in hopes that he could exit the scene without further confrontations. But of course, without fail, Ike arrived just in time, remembering Soren while surveying his company, turning to find him in lieu of being crushed, and scrambling over the fallen men fast enough to intercept his tactician's collapse.

"Thank you," Soren muttered as he was dragged from beneath his ex-attacker's corpse.

"Quite the damsel in distress, aren't we?" Ike replied genially, smiling kindly at the tersely glaring mage. "Don't be upset, Soren," he added as the shorter man crossed his arms and scowled bitterly into a corner of the tent, "It could have happened to anyone and you handled it…" Soren shifted his scowl to his commander who thought carefully about word choice before continuing, "efficiently. No harm done. And we don't have to tell anyone the whole story, we can just say bandits attacked. Not that they'd blame you if they knew the whole story, Soren," Ike sighed in dismay at the still glaring mage, racking his sleep deprived mind for the right thing to say.

"Commander," Ike looked over to the tent door to see Oscar standing behind a barely conscious Mist, pointing down at her and mouthing, "should I take her to her bed?"

"Mist?" Ike called to his younger sister.

"Good morning…" she mumbled in response, eyelids fluttering.

Ike nodded to Oscar, self-appointed child wrangler, who nodded back before hefting her up and leaving Ike and Soren alone once more.

"Like that, Soren, everyone's like that. We're all comrades, we're all friends," he leaned down to Soren's height to look him straight in the eye. "We're not just numbers." Soren sighed in defeat at Ike's valiant attempt to talk emotions with him and opted to accept the proffered kindness in favor of expediting retiring for all involved.

"We're not damsels either," he replied, "but I see your point." Ike grinned apologetically and Soren concluded, "Thank you, commander," before the two exited the conference tent. Rhys and Titania returned from toting the last dead man outside of camp and Soren and Ike followed their example of heading to bed.

"Good night, Soren," Ike paused as the weary wind sage stopped at his personal tent.

Soren glanced back before entering and replied, "Good night, Ike."

The tent flap fell shut and Ike continued on his way to his personal tent in the dry, still-ish air.

The night was normal enough.