Yes: Most of my previous chapters (from long, long ago) have been corrected a bit, so please look over them when you have the chance. Thank you, sharp-sighted reviewers!
The most valuable factor of advisors is obviously their communication skills. Expressing one's own meanings onto paper, into words, or into gestures can only do so much separately; it's only when all viable methods are used that advisors can guide their pieces to victory.
This fact alone is why the condition of being Sensebound is so horrifying; the afflicted, cut off from the outside world, are left to fend for themselves, trying their utmost to repel the shadows of their own mistakes from nibbling away at their sanity.
The few who are blessed with freedom from their "disease" tend to value their work more. The rest? I cannot say.
The Wordless Language
There's quite the abundance of stars tonight... Looking at the clear night sky beyond the beaten trail before him, the tactician, sitting cross-legged on dry dirt, flipped through the pages of his journal as the campfire crackled near him. "It's nights like these that make you wonder about the simpler things in life... Wouldn't you agree, Master Rath?" he asked the rugged nomadic acquaintance keeping him company.
The man in question, who was chewing on pieces of dried meat he had gotten from the pouch his mount had been carrying, shot yet another of his icy glares towards him.
Ugh... Dammit. Mark, disappointed in himself for yet another failed approach, made a dull hum as he frowned at the less-that-ideal response.
Earlier that day, he had been treated to the sight of a bonfire-in-progress at Castle Araphen- with the castle itself as the firewood. One of the suspected perpetrators had tried to rush straight for Lyn's throat, his speed faster than her- much less the advisor's- awareness; the assassin obviously had cared little for his own well-being. Thankfully, the leader of the castle's defense force had crippled the would-be murderer in the nick of time.
After hiring a sharp-eyed, dexterous thief who had been witnessing the spectacle from a nearby villager's home, helping the perpetually-silent horseback archer retake the castle, unceremoniously losing the aid of the marquess who had at that point despised the damage the Dispute had already made to his territory, and gaining the cooperation of the recently-made-ex-captain himself, the Legion now found themselves spending yet another night outdoors, Mark's first plan- resting inside Castle Araphen itself- long since blown spectacularly to tiny little bits.
Why is this route so hard to access!? the tactician mentally exclaimed, referring to the bond he had been trying to establish with the nomad since the latter's inclusion.
Ever since Rath had joined the group, a number of Mark's approaches towards familiarity had earned him only hateful-looking stares; it was almost as if Rath had hated his guts from the very beginning.
Fiddling with the feathery end of the quill that had been inserted before the first page of his journal, he retraced the path of today's memories, looking for the cause of his current predicament...
"These brigands are after me. If they're attacking the castle, it's because of me," Lyn said to the Araphen captain, explaining the reason behind her offer to help him mere seconds earlier. "So I must help if I can..."
He closed his eyes as he loosened his grip on the reins of his mount, mulling over her words. "It sounds like you're involved somehow..." Opening his eyes once more, his face hardened. "Let's go," he spoke, half requesting and half ordering her.
"You'll accept our aid?" Lyn wanted to confirm.
The Crimson Shield, who had arrived just moments after the attempted attack on his mission, frowned ever so slightly at how she was about to endanger herself once more- an expression Mark caught in the corner of his eye.
"I am Rath of the Kutolah," he introduced himself. "Our tribes may be different, but I will not abandon a woman of the Sacae." He shot a glare at the tactician.
He discovered the clue: it was the leer Rath had sent his way at that exact moment. Why had he said "abandon"? The plainswoman at that time had offered her aid- not asked for his. He assumed only two possibilities: either his incompetence in repelling the attack on Lyn had made a horrible first impression on the then-captain- which was, he hated to admit, understandable- or Rath had been holding a negative preconception about him from who-knows-when.
Speculation can only go so far, though, and he needed to break the ice now; after all, the thief's shift was fast approaching, and Mark had already sworn to acquire the trust of both newcomers.
Clearing his throat- rather loudly, at that- he looked straight at the Sacaen and began his surefire assault. "Alright, Master Rath, I've had it with your fortified emotional defense. Why in Elimine's name do you hate me!?"
Swallowing the dried meat in his mouth, the addressed responded coolly, "Whatever do you mean?"
His normally-calm demeanor swiftly shattered as his annoyance flared. "You obviously hold ill will towards me for some reason. Is it mainly because I couldn't save Lady Lyndis from the assassin, or is there something I should apparently know?"
"You really have no clue?" he asked, the tiniest bit of surprise in his tone. "I thought your kind were more observant..."
"Apparently not- wait a second. What group are you referring to, per se?"
"So you don't know," he confirmed.
"Listen, Master Rath, I'd love to word-joust with you all night, but I have one other objective I need to complete and do not intend to have two plans fall apart on me on the exact same day. Put aside the banter and grace me with your knowledge already."
He smirked ever so slightly. "Very well; even you have duties, after all. I had known one other person who had worn attire similar to yours- specifically, a green-colored cloak that had been concealing his body."
A cloth similar to mine? A fellow tactician? He had long known about the organization's influence on the continent, so he had been expecting to meet a former comrade sooner or later; he had only hoped that he would meet- not engage- one first. "Go on..." Mark pressed.
"Like you, he, too, had been holding a hidden agenda; unlike you, he hadn't been as clever as his position had appeared..."
"Marquess Araphen, putting your personal feelings aside, surely you can see the benefit of actively cooperating with Lord Lundgren..." Sitting to the right of the castle guard captain- who himself was seated opposite the elderly-looking noble at the far end of the planning table- was a man who wore a forest-green cloak over himself and had shoulder-length blonde hair, thin sideburns on both sides of his face pointed sharply downward. His brown eyes failed to hide his ambitiousness.
"My 'personal feelings' do not involve Marquess Caelin," the noble harshly corrected him. "Besides, I've no need for whatever paltry reward you've prepared from that region."
Desperation seeped into his tone. "But-!"
"Silence, tactician," he interjected. "Your negotiation skills obviously need honing; if you persist with this conversation, you'll only evoke my pity towards your employers and your superiors. Leave my sight this instant."
"Tch." He mentally refused to obey the words of the decrepit geezer before him, but even he knew when further persuasion would only hurt his position. He hissed through gritted teeth. "Very well... Good day." Abruptly rising from his seat, he left the presence of the marquess and the nomad. When he was closing the room's door on his way out, he slammed it at the last second.
A few seconds passed before the blonde-haired elder sighed. "I hate dealing with his kind; even that strategist ally of his- 'Mark', I think- had been more pleasant to converse with."
Rath maintained his silence; unless prompted, he knew his liege only needed a pair of ears to blather to right now.
"Honestly, what does Hausen see in that Cassio boy? He didn't seem as brilliant a mind as his reputation had made him appear. Maybe his organization's standards have lowered..."
"Cassio"... Was there anyone with that name back at the tacticians' grounds...? Mark tried to recall that name, to no avail; he may have made many acquaintances during his training sessions, but his memory chose the worst time to fizzle out.
"Right now, you've made yourself look much more capable than your fellow peer under the same amount of time," Rath quipped. "I can only hope that you'll be consistent with your endeavors, for our group's- much less Lyn's- sake."
"Oh, rest assured," the advisor emphasized, "I've never failed to fulfill a request, and I don't intend to break that streak anytime soon."
"Only your results can prove just that," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Hmph."
Time passed as the campfire the two were sharing shrunk little by little. Mark ended up being occupied with sketching the nomad's form into his journal; Rath, enjoying his food. The tranquility of their surroundings made the perfect atmosphere for them both.
Eventually, the nomad's shift had reached its end. The person in question was about to stand on his feet, intending to retreat into the sereneness of his makeshift tent.
"Hold on, Master Rath," the advisor spoke, the tone more of a request than an order. "I need your opinion on this." He showed his work, a depiction of the Sacaen's sitting form, to his last-minute model.
He analyzed the sketch. "Accurate," Rath replied simply.
"That's nice to hear. Well, then, good night to you. I'll get your replacement here right away..." He was about to turn towards the thief's location when his eye caught Rath's outstretched hand; a few pieces of dried meat sat on his palm.
"As thanks for your drawing," he explained.
"Ah... Thank you kindly." Accepting his "reward", he chewed on a small portion as he pocketed the rest; it had a distinctly-flavorful taste, and he couldn't stop himself from thoroughly enjoying the juices. "Delicious."
He gave a small hum in agreement. "Good night to you, too, Mark," he said before taking his leave.
The advisor, swallowing the delicacy, was about to retrieve another piece and continue his walk towards Matthew's tent when he felt the sharp edge of a blade being pressed against his back.
"Don't move, Mark- if that is your real name," the thief spoke plainly.
"Good evening to you, too, Master Matthew." At least he didn't need to find Rath's replacement anymore.
That, my friend, was how the first of many heart-to-heart conversations with my first thief acquaintance would start. At least with the nomad, I had to maintain initiative; it feels nicer playing the Black King every once in a while.
Yes: With this, I revive this tale from limbo, a slew of new ideas in my arsenal!
