The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Proxenus One-Eye, the tavern's cook, had seen the face of a few different flavors of horror in his lifetime as a professional soldier. That was to say, one that fought for coin. He understood as well as anyone, also, the fine dinstinctions some of the old men giving the orders in the militia were missing;

Armies, even small militias, marched on their stomachs. And so it was with that in mind that the canny old goat began to make it known that he was running his kitchen, albeit outdoors, and doling out food to those militia currently called up and doing their jobs. The tavern made a logical point from which to arrange this.

Apparently, no one else had thought to organize a field kitchen to address that logistical necessity; one couldn't have men tramping about and trying to keep order without food in their bellies to sustain them. Not only had the old man provided the food, he'd also set up a pavilion for shade, so the militiamen could stack their arms nearby and eat along crudely-made plank-and-empty-keg benches that the old man and some others he'd convinced to help out provided.

The cook took in the militiamen and helped prepare the less prepared, with advice on avoiding sunburns to how to keep one's feet from blistering badly. He didn't do so with bluster and orders, though he occasionally swore a lusty oath or cracked a vulgar joke. It was mostly done through a manner that evoked smiles and self-deprecating laughter, to help defuse the short tempers.

Also, Proxenus the Cyclops used these moments to confer with the old veterans that were commanding the militia; veterans, yes, professionals, no. And so with soft words, and encouragement, for he knew when to scream and when to cajole, Proxenus One-Eye made sure to get his words in on certain issues.

Once the old men in charge realized that they had an unexpected windfall in professional experience, their attitudes changed from grateful for the food, but somewhat indifferent to advice to carefully attentive.

For example, he suggested using horses and oxen to help in the construction of ditches and dirt palisades around certain vital buildings, notably the ones where food and water was cached. That was to protect against fire.

He suggested that wagons be provided to move the young and infirm among the farmers into the meetinghall and the tavern, if they wished, to help relieve the burden on able adults.

Given a map, he provided his best choices for placement of watchposts. He established sites for other, smaller field kitchens and supply caches, so that it wasn't all in one place, vulnerable to a fire or an act of the Gods. He established places to billet refugees from outside of town, and cautioned them on the issues of sanitation. He helped the old veterans in the mundane, almost inconsequential trivialities that run armies; scheduling watches and shifts, straightening out who was in command of those watches and shifts. Units were formed and jobs were assigned.

Asked a question, he provided decisive answers. He didn't order, he merely suggested. After all, he was not technically a member of the militia. Yet, it was he they were coming to for the supplies, as his field kitchen quickly became a supply dump as well.

In short, he helped keep the militia moving forward and on their task without issuing a single damned order.

It was barely dawn, and with his failed crops -- Haar had to find another line of work. Already, the heat was sweltering just as the sun barely crossed the horizon. Groggy and tired, the regular militiamen of Myrken Wood looked at him alternatively with contempt and disgust at making them get up this early... then all Hell broke loose. He spoke a military grunt in his native tongue, to get their attention:

"Ich hasse Ihnen, und Ihn hasst mir sogar mehr! Sie würden mir hart und herzlos finden, aber ich bin gerecht und fair. Ich bin schwer und wegen ich hart bin, sie würde mich nicht mögen."

Then again in his best common, "Ai haete you, und you häte me more. You will me hard and callös finden, but I am tough and fair. I am hard, und becauss I hard am, you will not like me!"

One recruit snickered at his awful Common, which immediately prompted the obscene ogre of a man to get in his face and snarl, "NICHT LÄCHELN!... NO LAFFIN'! I AWN DEIN ARSCH! I AM DEIN GOTT!" ...his voice rang across the line, and immediately he had garnered respect. He had inspired fear, and fear would whip these pathetic maggot of men into good, hard cavalrymen that would be PROUD to fight for Myrken Wood and keep the borders safe. Even the watching lemurs knew his voice commanded respect, and they scattered.

He continued to march the line all through the morning, making the new militiamen go through all sorts of horrendous exercises that were regular in his regiment during the early days of his own military career. As the morning pressed on and things grew hotter, so did tempers. Several tried to quit, only to be decked and put back into line -- not just by Haar, but by some of the more gung-ho young men involved. It was going to be a long time shaping these boys into fighting men, but it would be worth it... and they would be the best damned cavalry unit the Wood had ever seen.