Man O' War

Maladjusted

Quye'ck's practice sword went flying as he fell back into the mud with a grunt and a splat. The cadets that surrounded the sparring ring laughed and lobbed whispered jabs his way. He frowned. Assholes. He propped himself up with a sigh, shivering as the breeze cooled the mud on his back.Admitting that their laughs and this waterlogged ground were his closest companions of late was kind of pathetic, even if it was true.

"On your feet!" Warden Ophax circled him, waster sword in hand. "Or do you think the enemy is going to give you the chance to collect yourself?!"

"I can count on it if they're anythin' like you..." Quye'ck muttered as he pulled his tail free from the soaked earth with a squelch.

"You smarmy little bastard—!"

"Enough, Sir Ophax. Enough." Warden Eraj stepped forward, clapping a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Let the boy on his feet."

Warden Ophax shrugged the restraining hand off, keeping his angry glare fixed on Quye'ck. "Come three days' time, he will be a boy no longer."

"Then you're in luck. You can bet on what will kill him first, a sand lion or a puddle of mud."

"This is funny to you, is it?" He bit back, now turning to look at Warden Eraj.

The more even-tempered man sighed. "What master blade was forged in three days' time, hmm?"

The response did little to diffuse Warden Ophax's displeasure. The two men could not be more different despite both being wardens of The Hantaphian Reserves. One was fit to combust at a moment's notice while the other looked about ready for a nap. Quye'ck didn't know which disposition he preferred, but he knew he didn't enjoy being at the center of their present conflict.

"You are quite attentive to him, aren't you, Eraj?"

The man in question remained still, not at all bothered by the venom in Warden Ophax's voice. Quye'ck couldn't say he shared the same neutrality. That blue-scaled bastard was exactly the sort that his Pa called fincha—cockless. Though saying that out loud was probably not a good idea.

"Perhaps. Though I doubt it's at all like the one you've taken in Lord Halva's young daughter."

Warden Ophax growled and wrapped a hand around the live steel at his hip. His counterpart did nothing to entertain the gesture, but the cadets did. A collective of entertained murmurs erupted around them. Skirmishes, even verbal ones, between their two sparring masters certainly made for a rare form of amusement. Quye'ck might have joined the other cadets were another in his place. He got on his feet, slipping once or twice on the way up.

"Can I go?"

"Gaj. Go on and get cleaned up." Warden Eraj said, finally breaking eye contact with the other man, eliciting a disappointed sigh from the young hopefuls that surrounded them.

Quye'ck stomped past a few still snickering cadets as he made his way toward the small wash spring nearby. What was the point of any of this? The war, his impending ikismal, the Hantaphian Reserves. None of those things mattered! Not without him, anyway... And his Pa's indifference at a distance didn't help either. He was off...somewhere, drinking Hartim blood and fighting The Emperor's War. Rather losing The Emperor's War if the latest missives from the front lines were to be believed.

He growled and flicked his tail behind him, flinging mud across the ground, then shoved aside the straw mat that acted as a door to the spring. The bank was easy under his feet, and here, the trees, breeze, and water all breathed loudly enough to quiet his thoughts. Well, most of them. He tossed a furtive glance over his shoulder, then quickly produced a crudely hewn pipe, a small vial of starshoot, and a couple of matches from his pocket. He was lucky to have them. Food, supplies, and especially vices like xulque and starshoot were rationed very strictly these days.