A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Likely," the man said, returning the look with a menacing smile of his own. "If I were strong, I wouldn't want to be getting looked down on by the likes of Serving Class dogs, would you? It would be like me getting dismissed by peasants. Unthinkable."

"Dismissed by peasants?" Oliver repeated, his smile widening dangerously. "Now that would be unthinkable." The golden flecks of his eyes were painting a savage picture. Northman was watching those eyes carefully, holding Oliver's gaze just for a few fractions of a section.

His smile broke, this time fading into something more genuine. He chuckled.

"Aye, you ain't so bad, Ser," Northman decided. "Being a noble, you're entitled to take command here. I suppose that's what the boys are in a tizzy about. We've got something of a rhythm built up, you see."

Oliver too relaxed, ever so slightly. "You need not worry, Commander. I am not here to take over. I am the outsider here. I will follow your customs. Nothing will change.

Though, Skullic did promise me command of ten men, to do with what I wished."

"They heard that," Northman said, "and they're not keen on it. Neither am I, speaking truthfully. This hundred has been together solidly for more than a couple of years now. We do fine enough under our own leadership."

"You have sergeants commanding men of that number, do you not?" Oliver said.

"Well, aye. But that's a branching command. You, Ser, would exist outside the command chain. You'd be making those men your own. That's dangerous, that is. I wouldn't mind if you turned that privilege away.

You'd do better here for it," Northman said. "Besides, what would you need men for?"
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"No," Oliver said firmly. "I won't budge on that. I will have my own uses for them. Choose ten and give them the order, that is the best you can do. They will decide whether or not they serve me properly, I expect."

The Commander eyed him carefully, his narrowed eyes flexing the wrinkles of his brow, telling of his age and all that he'd experienced. It took him a moment, but he gave a begrudging agreement. "Aye, I suppose they will," he said at last. "Give us another ten minutes and I'll be off."

The tents had already been felled behind them as they spoke. There weren't many of them, only ten in total, but it still made for quite the sight. They were large things, after all, with the heavy waxed canvas giving them a solidness like a house, especially when the moisture on the inside froze, hardening them.

The Commander went to join them, leaving Oliver feeling considerably less vexed than he had been before. Honesty was a trait that he missed seeing. That straightforwardness that came from the lower class. The Serving Class soldiers were good for it. They wouldn't play at words for too long, not if they were decent men. Oliver decided that Northman was a decent enough man.

Still, he wondered if he didn't just have a peasant heart in him. He longed for those easy exchanges with Greeves. As slimy as the merchant had been, as outright monstrous as he'd acted, Oliver had always been able to speak straight to him. Well, maybe that was more a defect on his part, a problem of not knowing when to hold his tongue… But still, the results were fine.

There was Nila too, who he began to miss with an increasing urgency the more the struggles mounted up. He found that weakness strange in himself, but the complexity was unforgiving. He was still at a point of political suffocation. Until the tides began to shift, it was hard to tell when he would be getting a breath of fresh air again.

"I found him," Petyr said cheerfully as Northman left.

"You did," Oliver agreed. "Good work."

"He was better, wasn't he? More respectful, I mean," Petyr said. "Though, I think even he should have been a little more polite, Ser… They're a strange group, these men."

There were few better ways to describe him. They were indeed a strange lot, as one would expect from having a man like Skullic as their General. They seemed neat and tidy, but as a group of people, their ideals seemed so separate from those of the Academy folk that it was almost startling.

As the last of the tents began to go down, men were gradually sent Oliver's way. It was a steady trickle of them, like a puncture in a waterskin, and all of them seemed particularly reluctant as they stood to attention before him, their spears leaning against their shoulders and their swords at their hips.

They didn't introduce themselves. They simply remained at quiet attention, as soldiers ought to. Oliver didn't fault them for that. Nor could he find any particular faults in the rest of them. They seemed physically capable enough. It didn't seem as though Northman had sent him lesser men out of spite.

They weren't all small, nor were they all too old or too young. They were a healthy mixed force.

It wasn't as though Oliver knew exactly what to do with them either. There was still some time to get a Commander's speech in before the rest of the soldiers finished their duties, but Oliver hadn't been in that position before. He couldn't find the words for them, none apart from a simple introduction.

"I am Oliver Patrick. You will be working under my command today and for the duration of this mission," he told them.

They saluted at that, crisply, but somehow they managed to make that gesture unenthusiastic. They didn't move slowly or anything of the like. There didn't seem to be clear spite in their movements, but there was still a lingering dissatisfaction there. They would much rather have been fighting under their usual Commander than put with some noblemen that they'd never even seen before.

Finally, their old sergeant came over, completing their number of ten.