I - Horse Play [Madmartigan was used to being in the saddle. He'd been riding as soon as he'd been able to walk, and he'd continued to ride for the rest of his life. Being a swordsman and mercenary soldier was all well and good, but horses were part of what drove armies; both in carrying them to where they needed to go, and oftentimes feeding them during long sieges or bare times. They kept you warm on cold nights and provided a body to talk to when one was on the road alone for long stretches. Horses were as good as gold in his book. Not as good as a sword, of course, or a woman -- well. Maybe if one could combine women and horses in such a way as to make the better attributes shine through...
It was the unsettling image that thought flashed in his mind that jerked him awake, or maybe it was the jostle of another horse nudging the one he rode. Either way, Madmartigan woke in the saddle, taking a moment to look around, tongue running over his mouth to work up saliva to wet his lips. The horse he rode huffed, as if offended at the nudge, and Madmartigan looked over to the other rider, scowling slightly.]
Stay in your lane. I'd rather not be dumped on my ass because you've gone and soured my horse.
[With that, he looked back down at his horse with a smug look as if to say 'See? I stood up for you.' The horse looked less than impressed, but kept slogging along, following the dusty trail that seemed to stretch out endlessly ahead of them.]
II - Dark and Stormy Night [Dark was falling, and while Madmartigan was used to riding through the night on more than one occasion when there was a need to, the incoming clouds that had been threatening to crest over them late in the evening made the collective group's mind up in stopping and bearing down for whatever it decided to unleash. Smart choice. It was one thing to ride through a storm when you knew the lay of the land, but this was all new to him. Too much was.
He'd woken in clothes that weren't his on a horse that wasn't his surrounded by people that he didn't know. Quietly, he'd assessed the rest of his situation. He wasn't in a crow cage. No chains were laid on him. He had his sword. He had his sword. That alone had kept him steady, given him hope that he could manage whatever was thrown his way. Anyone with an eye who'd let it wander his way might have seen him occasionally with his hand on the hilt, just holding it as if to assure himself it was still there.
The coaches were ringed, fires set with windbreaks, people bustling in the way that people moved when working in groups, but with that oddness that made them stand out to him. Just in the little things; the way they lit the fire, the workmanship of the coaches, the attire of all those gathered... It was just that little bit of 'off' that kept him on edge, hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he found a quiet niche to lean in, chewing methodically on a strip of dried meat as he watched. Celebrating. It was piss poor weather to celebrate in, but they'd said they were close. Close to... what, exactly? He still had no notion of where they were or how he'd gotten here. Where had the Peck... what was it's name? There'd been a baby... red hair. So much red hair.
His hand lifted to his head, rubbing at the front as if he could massage the memories to the surface. He must have taken a hit at some point. Addled his thoughts. Maybe he needed to see a healer. Or maybe he just needed a drink. His eyes lit on a dark bottle being passed from hand to hand, debating on if he wanted to delve into the mass of bodies to try to pry one free.]
III - Wildcard [Not interested in the other prompts? Feel free to add something. Maybe you see him relieving himself off by the side of the road. Perhaps he's come up during meal time and has just taken 'his share' and stalked off. Or maybe he's eyeing someone pretty with long hair and who may or may not be taken already... Feel free to come up with something that suits you.]
Madmartigan | Willow
[Madmartigan was used to being in the saddle. He'd been riding as soon as he'd been able to walk, and he'd continued to ride for the rest of his life. Being a swordsman and mercenary soldier was all well and good, but horses were part of what drove armies; both in carrying them to where they needed to go, and oftentimes feeding them during long sieges or bare times. They kept you warm on cold nights and provided a body to talk to when one was on the road alone for long stretches. Horses were as good as gold in his book. Not as good as a sword, of course, or a woman -- well. Maybe if one could combine women and horses in such a way as to make the better attributes shine through...
It was the unsettling image that thought flashed in his mind that jerked him awake, or maybe it was the jostle of another horse nudging the one he rode. Either way, Madmartigan woke in the saddle, taking a moment to look around, tongue running over his mouth to work up saliva to wet his lips. The horse he rode huffed, as if offended at the nudge, and Madmartigan looked over to the other rider, scowling slightly.]
Stay in your lane. I'd rather not be dumped on my ass because you've gone and soured my horse.
[With that, he looked back down at his horse with a smug look as if to say 'See? I stood up for you.' The horse looked less than impressed, but kept slogging along, following the dusty trail that seemed to stretch out endlessly ahead of them.]
II - Dark and Stormy Night
[Dark was falling, and while Madmartigan was used to riding through the night on more than one occasion when there was a need to, the incoming clouds that had been threatening to crest over them late in the evening made the collective group's mind up in stopping and bearing down for whatever it decided to unleash. Smart choice. It was one thing to ride through a storm when you knew the lay of the land, but this was all new to him. Too much was.
He'd woken in clothes that weren't his on a horse that wasn't his surrounded by people that he didn't know. Quietly, he'd assessed the rest of his situation. He wasn't in a crow cage. No chains were laid on him. He had his sword. He had his sword. That alone had kept him steady, given him hope that he could manage whatever was thrown his way. Anyone with an eye who'd let it wander his way might have seen him occasionally with his hand on the hilt, just holding it as if to assure himself it was still there.
The coaches were ringed, fires set with windbreaks, people bustling in the way that people moved when working in groups, but with that oddness that made them stand out to him. Just in the little things; the way they lit the fire, the workmanship of the coaches, the attire of all those gathered... It was just that little bit of 'off' that kept him on edge, hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he found a quiet niche to lean in, chewing methodically on a strip of dried meat as he watched. Celebrating. It was piss poor weather to celebrate in, but they'd said they were close. Close to... what, exactly? He still had no notion of where they were or how he'd gotten here. Where had the Peck... what was it's name? There'd been a baby... red hair. So much red hair.
His hand lifted to his head, rubbing at the front as if he could massage the memories to the surface. He must have taken a hit at some point. Addled his thoughts. Maybe he needed to see a healer. Or maybe he just needed a drink. His eyes lit on a dark bottle being passed from hand to hand, debating on if he wanted to delve into the mass of bodies to try to pry one free.]
III - Wildcard
[Not interested in the other prompts? Feel free to add something. Maybe you see him relieving himself off by the side of the road. Perhaps he's come up during meal time and has just taken 'his share' and stalked off. Or maybe he's eyeing someone pretty with long hair and who may or may not be taken already... Feel free to come up with something that suits you.]