Post by Admin on Jan 19, 2015 19:01:02 GMT -5
The packet arrived from the west, a nondescript pair of parchments bearing no identifiable mark pressed into the plain wax. Receiving them from the ship on which they were carried, the equally nondescript man carried them to where his company was waiting for their orders. He walked calmly, like a man on his way home after a long day, to where they were camped beyond the outskirts of the village to avoid any undue attention. As he neared the camp, he was pleased to be challenged at least twice by those assigned sentry duty. The last thing they needed was to be rousted before carrying out their employer's orders.
Once he was safely ensconced within the camp, word was passed for those not on sentry or patrol to gather at the fire pit. Orders had arrived and now would be dispensed; each man had a specific order so needed to hear it with his own ears. Breaking the seal on the first, he quickly scanned the contents and nodded to himself, opening the other to do exactly the same. His eyes took in the men who were milling about in various stages of interest, straightening as he held up the twin parchments. "Our marchin' orders have come, me boys. We'll be dividin' into two comp'nies. One of the comp'nies will be goin' after th' red, an' the other will see t' th' gold."
He stood, making sure to meet each man's eyes directly. This was a job they couldn't afford to muck up, not when their employer made it clear just how much of their fee was riding on the successful following of his orders. He'd impressed on each man who signed on for this job that there would be no improvisation, no going beyond their bounds. Any man who took it on himself to do so would not only be relieved of his place in their band, he'd be relieved of his life. They had a reputation to maintain, and these kinds of jobs were the making or the breaking of those reputations. The man waited until he had a nod of acknowledgment from each man, then continued, "I'll be walkin' among ye. If I touch yer right arm, it's for Red. If 'tis yer left, it's for Gold. Red, to th' right o' the pit. Gold to th' left."
He wove a path through the twenty or so men collected for this job, making his choices for each set of orders until two groups stood on either side of the pit. Satisfied with the groups as they pertained to each set of orders, he nodded to himself. "I'll be namin' Jem as th' captain for the Reds, an' Harm for the Golds." Waiting for the requisite grumble of reaction to die down - though not a single man was surprised, really - he gestured to the two indicated. "Ye two are wi' me. The rest of ye lads, return to yer tents an' wait for yer captains."
Without further comment, he turned and strode for his own tent, the better to put orders into action. The more organized and efficient (and professional, he felt) they were about this, the greater their chances of success.