camp
[ kamp ]
noun
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The camp
was silent. The only sounds were of the
flickering fire in the center and the myriad insects that buzzed and chirped
around the people occupying the area. There
were five of them, all of whom were too busy thinking to say anything. The silence was broken when one of them finally
said something.
He was a
large man, powerfully built. He leaned
against his large tower shield that he had stuck into the ground for just such
a purpose. When he spoke, his voice was
thin and weak. Much weaker than one
would think for his size. And yet, it
seemed to echo like a gong through the otherwise silent camp.
“What
now?”
The two
words broke the silence for but a moment.
It returned quickly as the others considered his question.
“We have
to do something. We can’t stay here.” The
shield user said, once again breaking the silence.
“What
can we do?” Another asked. This one was
on the shorter, plumper side. He bore no
weapon, but the scent of herbs, ash, and a small hint of viscera wafted from his
robes, and the bottles he had tied to his belt.
“It’s
obvious. We have to press on.” The man was tall and wiry. He had a bow resting next to him, although
the quiver near it was empty of arrows.
The archer had a thin stick resting on his lap, half whittled into a
roughly arrow shape. “We can’t stay
here, and we can’t go back. It’d ruin our
reputation.”
“So does
dying.” The lone woman of the group said quietly. Her once white robes had been colored red. She held a thick oak staff with a large crack
running along the side of it. “We’re
down five of our number, we’re tired, low on combat supplies, and some of us
have broken weapons. We have to return.”
“I can
replenish my arrows.” The archer said. “And
you don’t really need a weapon to do your job.
All you have to do is stay back and heal us. No weapon needed.”
“It
helps.” The healer said. “Trust me,
without a staff, my spells won’t be nearly as effective. Now, if you really want to fight an army of
goblins in our current state, then let’s go.
I’m sure it won’t be an absolute disaster. Some of us might even survive.”
“Not an
army.” Said a deeply tanned man. He sat
on the ground, clutching a pair of daggers and a worn whetstone. “A dozen at most. Only reason for defeat was ambush. Still drove them off.”
“There,
you see? We thinned their numbers a lot.”
The archer said triumphantly.”
It was
the alchemist who spoke next. “That was
a scouting party. A small band made to find
and weaken any potential enemies. You
can tell a lot about the size of a group of goblins by their scouting
parties. A dozen means they have numbers
to spare. A few hundred easily.” He said
the words automatically. His voice was devoid
of emotion, like he was reciting words from a textbook. Once he had finished, the healer looked oddly
smug. The archer looked much less sure
of himself.
“Well,
if you really want to fight a few hundred goblins, don’t let me stop you.” She
said.
“So,
what do we do?” The shield barer asked again.
“Go
back. Get more. Get revenge.” The rouge said curtly.
He began to sharpen his daggers. The sound filled the air in a way words could
not. The others said nothing. It was a plan. The only plan any of them could think
of. And so the conversation ended,
replaced by a silence broken only by the quiet sound of stone sliding against
steel.
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Why did I make a fantasy story with such a mundane word? Because I could, that's why. Don't like it, tough.
I...I would rather it be liked though. I really would. Is that such a bad thing?
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