Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Word: Camp


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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