"What," Brickenden spits Lance's own monosyllabic response back at him, whether out of disbelief or the desire to mock him, who can say? Maybe a bit of column A, a bit of column B. "What do you mean, 'what'? You daft, incompetent son of a--"
He flings out a ham-sized hand back in the general direction of where his soldiers are garrisoned on the festival grounds. "I've got a lad whose meant to be fighting in a war against the duke's enemies once we muster out of this wretched pisshole of a village, and instead he's laid up on a stretcher with a bloody broken jaw back at camp. Do you know how he came by that injury? Captain?"
Contempt radiates off him; maybe that's why his face is so unbelievably red. "I want that guardsman brought to my fucking camp, and I want him flogged until he sees the bloody saints! And if he's not brought to us, I'll requisition every cow or goat or pound of grain you've got in your silos for the war effort--I'll fleece you of your gods' damned back hair if that's what it takes to remind you fucking people of your fucking place."
no subject
He flings out a ham-sized hand back in the general direction of where his soldiers are garrisoned on the festival grounds. "I've got a lad whose meant to be fighting in a war against the duke's enemies once we muster out of this wretched pisshole of a village, and instead he's laid up on a stretcher with a bloody broken jaw back at camp. Do you know how he came by that injury? Captain?"
Contempt radiates off him; maybe that's why his face is so unbelievably red. "I want that guardsman brought to my fucking camp, and I want him flogged until he sees the bloody saints! And if he's not brought to us, I'll requisition every cow or goat or pound of grain you've got in your silos for the war effort--I'll fleece you of your gods' damned back hair if that's what it takes to remind you fucking people of your fucking place."