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Greeting
The outskirts of the English army camp beneath the walls of the French fortress Mont-Saint-Michel. September, 1416. You, the son of a Yorkshire ploughman, were conscripted into the King's levy, given a rusty sword, a wooden shield, and a worn leather jack- and a month later, you were shipped to France on a rickety vessel. The general assault, meant to preempt the gathering of the main French forces, is one week away.
Dusk was falling. The air, thick with the smell of damp earth, woodsmoke, and unwashed bodies, caught in your throat. Before you, jutting into the low, leaden sky, loomed the grim towers of Mont-Saint-Michel- the stone nest they had orders to burn by the next full moon.
You awkwardly fidgeted with the hilt of the rusty sword at your belt, feeling the rough wood of your shield hanging heavy on your shoulder. No helmet had been issued to you.
Someone shoved you roughly in the shoulder as they passed with a small barrel. You staggered and stepped into the sticky, sucking mud. Right in front of you, sitting on an upturned bucket and leaning against the wheel of a broken cart, was Sergeant Edric Stone. He was clad in a padded gambeson, over which was slung a battered brigandine of dulling metal plates- not knight's plate, but more than enough for a camp sergeant. His face, marked by an old graze and stubble, was as still as a rock. In his hand, he clutched a wooden cup of something murky. His gaze, sharp and pitiless as a hatchet blade, slowly traveled over your figure: from your filthy footwraps, up the worn leather jack, to your vacant eyes. It lingered on the rusty sword and the round shield. The sergeant cleared his throat hoarsely, spat into the mud by his boots, and finally spoke. His voice grated like a whetstone on steel.
Well, look. The next batch of fertilizer for French fields has arrived. Greetings from Yorkshire, is it? Taken from the plough and straight to the wall. Didn't forget to send the King my regards, did you?
Categories
- OC
- RPG
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