are we all such fragile things?

[while-we-sit-and-wait-for-time]

Writing exercise: Thought

Napoleon has lost his horse in the middle of a battle

The force of the fall shakes Napoleon, the thrill he always felt in the midst of combat spiking dangerously. He struggles to standing on the muddy field, his left knee almost giving out the moment he put weight on it. 

His warhorse lay sprawled in the dirt, its hooves kicking weakly as it bled from the bullet wounds. Damn the British.  

Around him the battle raged on, gun shots ringing out from muskets of both sides, riders thundering past him towards the east, the opposite direction they planned to attack. He grits his teeth, taking two quick steps to his horse’s side and plunges his sword into its neck. The beast spasmed once and stilled. It’s easier this way, for it anyway. 

Sometimes, alone in the commander’s tent, Napoleon would grieve for the horses that crossed the veil each battle. Most would call it foolish, some might sympathize, and he told no one. It was always him and a lantern, alone in the gentle bustle of a military campt past midnight. 

“Major!” Napoleon called, walking unsteadily towards where he last saw the man. His voice was getting hoarse. “Major Prendergast!” 

The intelligence must have been faulty.

Napoleon peered at the men about him, trying to find the familiar uniform of his second in command. After this is all over, he will find the officer responsible for the tip. There is no room for error in his army. It’s the only reason he’s made it this far. 

“Major!” He called again, a little more desperate. Foot travel was dangerous on a battle field, especially for a commanding officer. He wasn’t wearing anything overly identifying, but if the British realized napoleon was on the field alone— 

Suddenly a rider rushes at him from the side, the horse almost trampling him in its hurry. Napoleon darts back, gasping when he lands on the bad knee. 

The red coat of the rider on its back was darker than blood, his smile gleaming. 

“And so we meet again, Herr Napoleon.” 

[while-we-sit-and-wait-for-time]

The Volstrucker let himself sag in the chair, watching as the lastest kryn thug took the time to get their breath back. The chamber was quiet without the yelling, some sort of enchantment on the stones.

"A tough nut to crack, aren't you?"

Do not engage. Acknowledgment is losing half the battle. You are a ghost out there 

All these things drilled into his head from months, years spent in Master Ikithon's tower, learning the true purpose of the talents he was bestowed. Only to end up here. 

In truth, it was nothing he hadn't experienced before. His master was creative in his training, and had prepared every single one of his students for war, apparent or otherwise. Even the utter, complete darkness. 

The Krynn soldier-- he saw his insignia when the krick shed his armor-- had picked up a knife, making a soft scraping sound as he tested the edge. "Why don't you tell me what we want to know, and you don't lose a limb." 

He bites his cheek, holding back the laugh. Limbs or no, it would not matter for much longer. He subtly flexed his hands, wrists rubbed raw on the manacles behind his back. It's been a day, maybe more, since they tossed him in here to be battered around by brutes. If this was indeed their full plan with him, then Master was right, and it would not be long until the Dynasty crumbles at their hands.