Egyptian Night

Rest

Collapsing to the ground with a soft 'oomph', Jasmine's weary gaze turned to look up at the same soldier's muscled frame slink over to her; apparently he had been assigned to her for the entire trip. After several of the captives, horses, and soldiers had started to have trouble keeping up to a relatively good pace the generals had decided here was a good place to stop. The campsite was partly in, and partly out of a small valley. It had enough vantage points that they shouldn't be snuck up on, yet the valley's walls provided shelter and good grass for the horses. Besides the soldier's horses they now had to worry about a good sized herd of horses they'd looted during the raid. Frankly, the horses got better feed and care than most of the slaves, the lucky ones being the ones destined for a possible palace life. They couldn't have them showing up ragged and beaten down now could they? Apparently that didn't apply to letting them actually ride some of the horses instead of walking, Jasmine thought with an irritated look at the blisters and cuts that covered her dusty feet. Even though it didn't apply to her, she had seen several of the more lucky slaves actually riding with a soldier for at least part of the day. They probably wanted to try and buy those slaves for themselves, though, and didn't want them hurt. When the soldier finally knelt beside her to untie her hands for the night, she could feel his gaze drift over the wounds. "We should have better terrain tomorrow," his murmur came, a slight apologetic tone to his voice. Getting up without another word, he clearly trusted the soldiers scattered around he camp to keep an eye on her as he got some food and water.

From where she was sitting she was able to catch a couple sighting of him. In between the tent's he'd grabbed a bowl, which was probably filled with some kind of soup or gruel; filling, but probably not very tasty. That was one of the things she'd heard the soldiers complain about along the way. They missed the cooking of their home, whoever that might be cooking it. Even a well trained slave beat the army's cook any day. The last time Jasmine caught a glance of Derek he was walking back to her with a bowl of, you guessed it, a brown gruel and a leather bag of water.