Note: Short one today. Ever since I started work, it's been hard to write:
the incredible drudgery of separating one newspaper from another, over, and
over, and over again, for eight hours, tends to sap one of both their
imagination and their will to write. I'll create something more
substantial on the weekend.
There was a sharp poking, followed by a blissful ignoring.
The motion persisted. A grunt followed it, along with a determined roll.
"Hey mister, you alright?"
Grunt.
"You think he's dead?" One voice inquired.
A different voice, somewhat higher pitched in tone, chided the first. "Of course not, dummy. You think he would make noise if he was dead?"
"Oh yeah." The sharp prodding persisted, finally shedding annoyed light onto the process of ignoring. Something had to be done.
And so it was. "Agh, stop that, will you?" Another sluggish roll later, and the object of childish curiosity had come to face his attackers. Dirt was crusted across his cheek and chin. His bleary, frazzled eyes blinked wearily, searching out some form of cognizance. What he found established that his name was Yaibal, he was a member of the Youth League, and he was on a mission. A very important mission, one handed down from the Meyvn himself.
"Whoa! He's awake!" The two aggressors – no, strike that; two boys – leapt back, each wielding a tenuous branch. Yaibal ignored them both, yawning and propping himself up on wearied legs.
"Ugh, where am I. . .?" His mind had yet to fully piece that information together. But it was slowly returning: yes, he'd been in the bushes, at some point, watching for. . . something. A. . . a what? What was it? A Fiend? No, no: something larger, more. . . epic. Wasn't it?
"You look like a Shoopuf walked over your face, mister." One of the boys commented, rather cautiously.
Yaibal blinked at him a moment, the word striking a sort of meaning in his brain. Shoopuf, Shoopuf. . . yes, that was it: two men had come by, leading a Shoopuf. And he'd hidden from them, in case they were enemies. Had they been? He couldn't remember. Possibly. No, probably, because the road was filled with. . .
Hitting upon this note, Yaibal concentrated on the boys a moment, his puzzled, dirt-caked features flicking quickly to suspicion.
Soldiering Rule Number 1: Suspect everybody.
"And just who're you, hm?" Yaibal began to shimmy away from the boys, rising up on a bent leg. He would not be caught off guard. His hand slid down to get a hold on his carefully disguised sword, only to realize with dismay that its camouflage had long since been shed. As such, the boys recognized quickly that he was a threat. Both began to back off, ready to run should this dirt mystery man suddenly turn into a threat.
Soldiering Rule Number 2: If the enemy looks ready to run, pursue. They're definitely guilty, and you're obviously stronger than them.
Yaibal's face contorted into a mocking sneer. He didn't even allow the high-pitched boy stammer out a response to his question. "Ahh, you want to flee, eh? Does that mean you have something on your conscience? The very response I'd expect of a spy."
Both boys measured each other momentarily. They? Spies? Ridiculous. But neither of them was in a position to laugh off the man's guesswork, as he was much larger, and bore a blade. They attempted to reason with him.
"We're. . . not spies, we're just kids." The high-pitched boy pointed at his stick as though it were all the evidence he would ever need.
Soldiering Rule Number 3: Assume everything is a weapon.
Yaibal didn't buy it. In fact, a silent mentioning of the sticks only pressed him to withdraw his sword, in all its gleaming splendour, from its sheath.
Child's Rule Number 1: Adults are insane.
Both kids decided they'd had enough. The high-pitched lad immediately heaved his stick at Yaibal and made a break for it. His cohort followed suit, managing to catch Yaibal in the eye with his wooden missile. Yaibal yelped in pain, blinking back tears and screaming loudly for the "spies" to "get your treacherous asses back here".
Soldiering Rule Number 4: Never let the enemy escape.
Yaibal attempted valiantly to follow the rule – how would he look if he didn't obey his own rules? – but, discovering that his legs were rather shaky and tired, gave up the chase quickly. The boys skittered around a corner and vanished, shrieking for help.
"Going to alert Yevon sentries, no doubt." Yaibal spit in disgust. Sheathing his sword, Yaibal looked around quickly to locate his belongings. They were half covered in whatever ivy it was that Yaibal had mistaken for mere bushes, and that was not an error he was about to make again. Not if he could help it, anyway. Using his sword, he carefully dragged his duffel bag out from the volatile leafs, pitched it cautiously over his back – lest there be ivy remnants upon it - and made tracks.
There was a sharp poking, followed by a blissful ignoring.
The motion persisted. A grunt followed it, along with a determined roll.
"Hey mister, you alright?"
Grunt.
"You think he's dead?" One voice inquired.
A different voice, somewhat higher pitched in tone, chided the first. "Of course not, dummy. You think he would make noise if he was dead?"
"Oh yeah." The sharp prodding persisted, finally shedding annoyed light onto the process of ignoring. Something had to be done.
And so it was. "Agh, stop that, will you?" Another sluggish roll later, and the object of childish curiosity had come to face his attackers. Dirt was crusted across his cheek and chin. His bleary, frazzled eyes blinked wearily, searching out some form of cognizance. What he found established that his name was Yaibal, he was a member of the Youth League, and he was on a mission. A very important mission, one handed down from the Meyvn himself.
"Whoa! He's awake!" The two aggressors – no, strike that; two boys – leapt back, each wielding a tenuous branch. Yaibal ignored them both, yawning and propping himself up on wearied legs.
"Ugh, where am I. . .?" His mind had yet to fully piece that information together. But it was slowly returning: yes, he'd been in the bushes, at some point, watching for. . . something. A. . . a what? What was it? A Fiend? No, no: something larger, more. . . epic. Wasn't it?
"You look like a Shoopuf walked over your face, mister." One of the boys commented, rather cautiously.
Yaibal blinked at him a moment, the word striking a sort of meaning in his brain. Shoopuf, Shoopuf. . . yes, that was it: two men had come by, leading a Shoopuf. And he'd hidden from them, in case they were enemies. Had they been? He couldn't remember. Possibly. No, probably, because the road was filled with. . .
Hitting upon this note, Yaibal concentrated on the boys a moment, his puzzled, dirt-caked features flicking quickly to suspicion.
Soldiering Rule Number 1: Suspect everybody.
"And just who're you, hm?" Yaibal began to shimmy away from the boys, rising up on a bent leg. He would not be caught off guard. His hand slid down to get a hold on his carefully disguised sword, only to realize with dismay that its camouflage had long since been shed. As such, the boys recognized quickly that he was a threat. Both began to back off, ready to run should this dirt mystery man suddenly turn into a threat.
Soldiering Rule Number 2: If the enemy looks ready to run, pursue. They're definitely guilty, and you're obviously stronger than them.
Yaibal's face contorted into a mocking sneer. He didn't even allow the high-pitched boy stammer out a response to his question. "Ahh, you want to flee, eh? Does that mean you have something on your conscience? The very response I'd expect of a spy."
Both boys measured each other momentarily. They? Spies? Ridiculous. But neither of them was in a position to laugh off the man's guesswork, as he was much larger, and bore a blade. They attempted to reason with him.
"We're. . . not spies, we're just kids." The high-pitched boy pointed at his stick as though it were all the evidence he would ever need.
Soldiering Rule Number 3: Assume everything is a weapon.
Yaibal didn't buy it. In fact, a silent mentioning of the sticks only pressed him to withdraw his sword, in all its gleaming splendour, from its sheath.
Child's Rule Number 1: Adults are insane.
Both kids decided they'd had enough. The high-pitched lad immediately heaved his stick at Yaibal and made a break for it. His cohort followed suit, managing to catch Yaibal in the eye with his wooden missile. Yaibal yelped in pain, blinking back tears and screaming loudly for the "spies" to "get your treacherous asses back here".
Soldiering Rule Number 4: Never let the enemy escape.
Yaibal attempted valiantly to follow the rule – how would he look if he didn't obey his own rules? – but, discovering that his legs were rather shaky and tired, gave up the chase quickly. The boys skittered around a corner and vanished, shrieking for help.
"Going to alert Yevon sentries, no doubt." Yaibal spit in disgust. Sheathing his sword, Yaibal looked around quickly to locate his belongings. They were half covered in whatever ivy it was that Yaibal had mistaken for mere bushes, and that was not an error he was about to make again. Not if he could help it, anyway. Using his sword, he carefully dragged his duffel bag out from the volatile leafs, pitched it cautiously over his back – lest there be ivy remnants upon it - and made tracks.