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fandomweekly2016-06-27 09:03 pm
inevitableentresol) wrote in fandomweekly2016-06-27 09:03 pm
Entry tags:
[#018] Kingdom of Sand (Bravely Default)
Theme Prompt: #018 – Law And Order
Title: Kingdom of Sand
Fandom: Bravely Default
Rating/Warnings: PG (violence)
Bonus: No
Word Count: under 1000
Beta: Thanks todagbok
Summary: At dusk, the men gather to eat on the carpets spread out like a patchwork on the desert.
There are about forty in Jackal’s gang. That’s forty swords, forty wrong opinions, forty mouths all yammering about which one of them should be in charge. Even if food and wine supplies were regular, which they're not, when the big boss is someone like Jackal it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going to happen next.
Money buys all kinds of luxuries, such as water and not being stabbed in the back, trinkets like that.
In the end, it’s Farack who makes the first move. He does it right in the open as they’re sitting down to eat, which is a lot better than Jackal expected.
At dusk, the men gather to eat on the carpets spread out like a patchwork on the desert. The rugs were one of the very early spoils. It was the first time Jackal had been truly reckless. Instead of just harassing dregs at the oasis for Khamer & Profiteur, like a good little boy, he’d gone out and attacked a whole caravan.
After, when Jackal had seen the result of all that fear and death, he'd spat on the sand.
He doesn’t spit any more. It wastes water. The real spoils of that first raid weren’t the useless carpets, untradeable now that merchants flee on sight. The real prize was Jackal's new bodyguard.
At its height, the gang boasted fifty blades, thugs, ruffians and rogue monks. They come and they go. Jackal burns almost insane with anger when they leave, but his kingdom only stretches so far. He orders his carpets laid out, turquoise, black and deep umber patterns. His kingdom of the sand.
If there’s one thing Jackal’s parents taught him, it’s that following other people's laws gets you dead. His damned parents were too weak to rob or murder to get what they wanted, and all it did was starve them half to death. Jackal is a runt. He's a target for any full-grown man with an empty head and a five-peeg knife, and it's all his parents' fault.
Jackal needs more gold. Carpets are all very well, and goblets with fake glass jewels, and fancy translucent silks. Outside, Spell Fencer Khint guards. A prince of the desert should be surrounded by bounty and the respect that’s due to him. So Jackal needs to buy all that.
The first time Jackal ordered the men to raid Khint didn’t say a word, just observed Jackal yelling while the caravan slowly rolled past. In an act of desperation, Jackal offered Khint double his usual, just to stay by his side while he attacked solo. Within a moment, Khint had added flames to his sword and was running with Jackal. That day, Khint slaughtered five times more than anyone else. The rest of the men paid for their delay in the share out.
Jackal calls his new bodyguard “chief”, and it feels good. If Khint is the chief, then he's king of the oasis.
Farack arrived last week, along with a defrocked monk, and another with his face covered in the local Harena ochre cloth. It's like this each week, new ones to teach.
The sun goes down. Jackal sits at the head of the carpets. He takes his wine from a from a yellow plated goblet with gaudy purple stones, eats from a huge embossed platter. Impresses the new recruits.
By the way Farack is looking across the carpet, hand on dagger, then grunting a slobbery laugh at the men around, he's making jokes at Jackal's expense. The defrocked monk is there as well. The third man must have had sense, ditched these dullards.
Farack is only two strides distant. Jackal would draw his dagger at the same time he jumped up. He wonders if he'll have to.
The attack, when it comes, is from somewhere else. Jackal drops his yellow cup at the sizzle of a blade. By his ear, there's heat. The lick of flames behind him. Scarlet wine spills in his lap.
Farack and the monk are closing the trap, from the front, weapons out. Jackal's vision shakes. Betrayed from behind. Just like his parents.
He throws himself forward and to the right, tumbling over dishes, reaching the empty middle of the carpets. Jackal will go out fighting. The monk is the slowest. Then Farack. Then Jackal will turn to the last man, where he has no hope.
But Farack and the monk have stopped. They have their hands up.
Jackal spins around. Khint is behind him, flame sword drawn. Khint's shaded eyes are cold. Even though he knew it, Jackal staggers back.
Khint's flames points to the desert with his sword. “Leave. Now.”
Jackal's mouth drops. He almost falls back. But it's Farack and the monk that exchange glances, break into a run. Three days across the desert to Ancheim. Jackal calculates their chances.
There are charred remains behind Jackal's seat. Ochre-colored fabric, and worse. The third man. Jackal breathes hard.
Flame glints off the dishes as Khint's blade flicks down. The fire evaporates as he sheathes his sword.
Jackal lets out a shaky breath. He stands up straight and holds his dagger high. “That's what happens!”
The men cheer uncertainly.
“They were lucky!” Jackal roars. “Better not mess with us!”
Bigger shouts. Jackal bares his teeth. He wheels round, egging them on.
This is a good night. Jackal, his pulse high, turns to share it with Khint. Khint is by the dead body, looking down. His expression is blank.
Jackal's stomach lurches. He wants to yell “the next caravan is yours!” But the men would riot. Khint's eyes go to the north-west mountains. Jackal wishes he knew what was there.
Whatever it is, like always, it does its job. Closing his eyes, Khint comes to Jackal.
“Oasis law!” Jackal shouts.
Khint says nothing. He sits on the carpet.
“Law of the oasis!” the men whoop around them.
As the last rays of the sun goes down, Khint quietly takes his place, his blade smoking slightly.
Title: Kingdom of Sand
Fandom: Bravely Default
Rating/Warnings: PG (violence)
Bonus: No
Word Count: under 1000
Beta: Thanks to
dagbokSummary: At dusk, the men gather to eat on the carpets spread out like a patchwork on the desert.
There are about forty in Jackal’s gang. That’s forty swords, forty wrong opinions, forty mouths all yammering about which one of them should be in charge. Even if food and wine supplies were regular, which they're not, when the big boss is someone like Jackal it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going to happen next.
Money buys all kinds of luxuries, such as water and not being stabbed in the back, trinkets like that.
In the end, it’s Farack who makes the first move. He does it right in the open as they’re sitting down to eat, which is a lot better than Jackal expected.
At dusk, the men gather to eat on the carpets spread out like a patchwork on the desert. The rugs were one of the very early spoils. It was the first time Jackal had been truly reckless. Instead of just harassing dregs at the oasis for Khamer & Profiteur, like a good little boy, he’d gone out and attacked a whole caravan.
After, when Jackal had seen the result of all that fear and death, he'd spat on the sand.
He doesn’t spit any more. It wastes water. The real spoils of that first raid weren’t the useless carpets, untradeable now that merchants flee on sight. The real prize was Jackal's new bodyguard.
At its height, the gang boasted fifty blades, thugs, ruffians and rogue monks. They come and they go. Jackal burns almost insane with anger when they leave, but his kingdom only stretches so far. He orders his carpets laid out, turquoise, black and deep umber patterns. His kingdom of the sand.
If there’s one thing Jackal’s parents taught him, it’s that following other people's laws gets you dead. His damned parents were too weak to rob or murder to get what they wanted, and all it did was starve them half to death. Jackal is a runt. He's a target for any full-grown man with an empty head and a five-peeg knife, and it's all his parents' fault.
Jackal needs more gold. Carpets are all very well, and goblets with fake glass jewels, and fancy translucent silks. Outside, Spell Fencer Khint guards. A prince of the desert should be surrounded by bounty and the respect that’s due to him. So Jackal needs to buy all that.
The first time Jackal ordered the men to raid Khint didn’t say a word, just observed Jackal yelling while the caravan slowly rolled past. In an act of desperation, Jackal offered Khint double his usual, just to stay by his side while he attacked solo. Within a moment, Khint had added flames to his sword and was running with Jackal. That day, Khint slaughtered five times more than anyone else. The rest of the men paid for their delay in the share out.
Jackal calls his new bodyguard “chief”, and it feels good. If Khint is the chief, then he's king of the oasis.
Farack arrived last week, along with a defrocked monk, and another with his face covered in the local Harena ochre cloth. It's like this each week, new ones to teach.
The sun goes down. Jackal sits at the head of the carpets. He takes his wine from a from a yellow plated goblet with gaudy purple stones, eats from a huge embossed platter. Impresses the new recruits.
By the way Farack is looking across the carpet, hand on dagger, then grunting a slobbery laugh at the men around, he's making jokes at Jackal's expense. The defrocked monk is there as well. The third man must have had sense, ditched these dullards.
Farack is only two strides distant. Jackal would draw his dagger at the same time he jumped up. He wonders if he'll have to.
The attack, when it comes, is from somewhere else. Jackal drops his yellow cup at the sizzle of a blade. By his ear, there's heat. The lick of flames behind him. Scarlet wine spills in his lap.
Farack and the monk are closing the trap, from the front, weapons out. Jackal's vision shakes. Betrayed from behind. Just like his parents.
He throws himself forward and to the right, tumbling over dishes, reaching the empty middle of the carpets. Jackal will go out fighting. The monk is the slowest. Then Farack. Then Jackal will turn to the last man, where he has no hope.
But Farack and the monk have stopped. They have their hands up.
Jackal spins around. Khint is behind him, flame sword drawn. Khint's shaded eyes are cold. Even though he knew it, Jackal staggers back.
Khint's flames points to the desert with his sword. “Leave. Now.”
Jackal's mouth drops. He almost falls back. But it's Farack and the monk that exchange glances, break into a run. Three days across the desert to Ancheim. Jackal calculates their chances.
There are charred remains behind Jackal's seat. Ochre-colored fabric, and worse. The third man. Jackal breathes hard.
Flame glints off the dishes as Khint's blade flicks down. The fire evaporates as he sheathes his sword.
Jackal lets out a shaky breath. He stands up straight and holds his dagger high. “That's what happens!”
The men cheer uncertainly.
“They were lucky!” Jackal roars. “Better not mess with us!”
Bigger shouts. Jackal bares his teeth. He wheels round, egging them on.
This is a good night. Jackal, his pulse high, turns to share it with Khint. Khint is by the dead body, looking down. His expression is blank.
Jackal's stomach lurches. He wants to yell “the next caravan is yours!” But the men would riot. Khint's eyes go to the north-west mountains. Jackal wishes he knew what was there.
Whatever it is, like always, it does its job. Closing his eyes, Khint comes to Jackal.
“Oasis law!” Jackal shouts.
Khint says nothing. He sits on the carpet.
“Law of the oasis!” the men whoop around them.
As the last rays of the sun goes down, Khint quietly takes his place, his blade smoking slightly.
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