[i]Shame[/i] motioned Ottavio, as Il Sposoletto stoked the fire that warmed their Lancia. The mute knight made a couple of lazy gestures that roughly indicated his concern – the captain had been a rock that kept the company grounded, the Compaigna di Fortuna isn’t what is was half a decade ago. Compaigna di Sventura would be more accurate, the company of misfortune. Ottavio sucked his teeth, before hawking and spitting bloody phlegm into the fire, returning to sharpening his blade.

Il Sposoletto had just returned from the company meeting with a few of the other men-at-arms in their lance, bringing the news, food supplies and water. Tossing hard loaves of bread at a pair of the archers still asleep, he dumped some of the water into an old cast-iron pot to prepare a heartier meal. He predicted it would take about half a day for the company to divide itself into who it’s going to support in the election, and a bit of stew would drag a conversation out of the hungriest of men.

Hanging the pot over the fire, ignoring the grumblings of the archers he woke, Letto turned to Ottavio. “I hear there are two farms and a small hamlet along the east fork of that stream near the windmill.”
Ottavio nodded without looking up, his hand twitching in a semblance of acknowledgement. Slowly returning the nod, the little groom looked around to the rest of the Lancia, in various states of getting ready for the day. “Quarter of a bell, then mount up,” he said, to their grumbling. At seven men they made up one of the larger lances in the contingent, but Taratis have to stick together, especially with the rumours of the Prince gathering his armies to push his claim. There were perhaps another forty Tarais and their Bordian cousins spread throughout the company, but there was no complaint – Taratio has been fighting Taratio for centuries, it was ingrained into the culture.

As Sposoletto turned away from the fire and began heading towards the centre of the camp, Ottavio grunted to get his attention. [i]Where?[/i] the Knight motioned, pointing at the squire. 
“Blacksmith.”
The knight shrugged, spat again, and went back to cleaning his blade.
Sposoletto shook his head slightly, continuing to make his way towards the banging in the centre of the camp, tugging on his beard in thought. The knight had an unhealthy obsession with knowing his movements of late, but since the plague he had seemed overly concerned for most. As young men they had seen some of the worse epidemics sweep the slums of Taratio so it wasn’t a surprise. One of his archers was still recovering from the same flux that had killed the captain.

Which reminded him… he shot out an arm to catch a longbowman who seemed to be rushing toward the stables and looked up with a squint. “[i]Scusa[/i]...” Sposoletto sucked his teeth before recalling the name, “Amberstone – [i]si[/i]?” He pronounced the name slowly; while his mastery of Common was excellent, he knew he still had a heavy accent. “I’d feel safer with an extra archer in my lance today, and you were a farm lad, [i]si[/i]? Do you feel like a short ride this morning, or are you already tasked?”
[@Mattchstick]