Jedinchel.
Another battle won, before Tocoto had arrived.
Soldiers and nobles alike were praising one another over the victory when he found the blood-drenched battlefield. Tocoto's face was wooden as he looked over the carnage, his heart angry. The thirst for vengeance was not quenched, he reflected, by the deeds of others.
The Darkest Hour of some direction or another had been felled by the warrior named Rila, and some impulse in him drove him to seek him out for a forced word of congratulations that hid within it a bitter note of envy. He found the telltale banners and men in time to see a half-crazed woman in armor shouting defiantly about Daimons, and collapse in a cold faint. He frowned, disturbed. A woman had stolen his glory! But she didn't seem to have profited much from it.
He maintained his distance, eyes dark with thought. Then he turned to his new captain. "Gregor, fetch the healer and send him to Lady Rila. Tell him to bring his potions and a word of congratulations from me. And a skin of wine."
"Aye, sire," Gregor said. The captain didn't seem saddened in the least that he had not fought in the battle. Tocoto didn't think he was a coward, just a common man with goals of survival instead of glory. Well, commoners always had silly notions.
