Fifth Grain of Sand ◊ Leather
Warnings: Mention of blood
Effects: [Optional] Any feelings Dastan has during this dream (drunkenness, pain, slight anger, hangover and peace/happiness)
Privacy: Public
The dream starts with a heavy feeling of drunkenness, as well as a stinging pain in the back. When Dastan opens his eyes, white pieces of clothes are lying on the ground, covered with blood, and the stinging on his back reminds him that a healer is actually sewing up the rather large and long gap on his back. Those that have seen him with his shirt off might remember the large scar he has there. The Persian looks a few years younger, but not by much. It is clearly not his first battle, nor wound, as no moans of pain are escaping past his lips as the healer stitches his back.
The Prince's right hand clutches a jug of wine and he takes a long swing of it, obviously trying to dull the pain of the needle piercing his skin. His head is lying on his other arm on the table where he sits, and he looks up at his best friend Bis. The curly haired man keeps his gaze away from his childhood friend, looking as if he is about to be sick. The scene makes Dastan chuckle lightly and he is about to taunt his friend about it when the folds of the healing tent are roughly opened, the second Prince stomping in, already glaring at his youngest sibling. The Prince grins widely at Garsiv, sitting up properly:
"Brother!" The word is slightly slurred, but the only answer the Commandant gives him is a punch to the jaw. Dastan's vision twirls in front of him, the sound of clay crashing to the ground covering his groan of pain. He looks down at his broken jug and pouts, barely listening to his best friend trying to understand why Garsiv had just punched Dastan, or to the weak complaints of the healer: "My wine..." he says in an almost childish, slurred voice, one that is clearly induced by the amount of alcohol coursing through his veins.
"What were you thinking?" yells the older brother, his dark eyes sending daggers at the Prince as the young one simply rubs his chin, a pout still on his slightly bloodied lips.
"Your Highness...it was a trap..."
Dastan watches as Bis moves between the two Princes, trying to diffuse the situation, to no avail. Garsiv's temper has risen to a boiling point:
"Of course it was a trap, you idiot! We planned it as much!" The words are shouted, heavily covered with rage. This time, the Persian moves to catch his brother's gaze, not wanting his best friend to take the fault for a decision he made. He frowns, obviously trying to concentrate as he speaks. This is not the best time for him to explain his actions, really. But Garsiv has never been known for his timing, either.
"No. They were setting an ambush on us, brother. Somehow, they knew we were coming. I had no choice. Those archers would have decimated our army." 'And us as well' is the silent remark all warriors present have no need to say.
By the blessing of the Gods, or out of sheer luck, Dastan had seen the glint of the armor of the hidden archers waiting to shoot at the Persians. There had been no time to turn around and so the Prince had abandoned his mount by a wall, scaling it quickly before improvising a way to make the columns supporting the balcony where their enemies had hidden fall. In the melee, the youngest son had found himself alone and cut off from reinforcements for a moment that seemed long as eternity to the warrior. He had held his ground, but not without consequences: he had to leave his back unprotected for barely a second, but one long enough to receive a rather worrisome wound.
Despite the light sway the Prince has, he looks up at his brother, his gaze almost challenging his sibling to argue with him. Instead, Garsiv crosses his arms over his chest:
"Why weren’t you wearing your armor, Dastan?"
The young man makes an annoyed face: "It's too stiff and heavy. I can't move properly in it." He gives the plate armor a glare, as if it would make it less offensive to him. And then, he looks back at his brother, smirking teasingly:
"Plus, I cannot stand the helmet. It makes me look like a walking nipple." He tries not to laugh as his gaze goes up to Garsiv’s pointy helmet. Dastan would have never made comments on the Commandant's helmet, but wine has loosened his tongue, obviously. But the second Prince only glares at this brother before turning to the man that never leaves his side:
"No more wine for him." The he turns to Dastan, his own teasing smirk on his lips: "As well as women. You need to rest, little brother. We ride tomorrow at dawn."
As Garsiv walks out of the tent, he deftly evades the apple thrown at his head by a clearly annoyed baby brother. His laughter booms outside the healing quarters and Dastan grumbles something about gluing his annoying brother's hands to his horse's reins as the healer finishes the stitches on his back. Moments after, he lays on his side, exhaustion and the wine sending him to a deep sleep.
On the morn, when he finally wakes, Dastan notices the new, leather armor by his bedside. Despite the pounding in his head, he smiles softly, not needing to ask who had put it there. He knows it is his brother's way to thank him for saving his hide, yet again.
[The Prince wakes up, barely, and rolls over in his bed. The sheets slip slightly, showing off his back, as well as the scar running through his skin. Each scar has a story, after all. When he opens his eyes, his gaze catches the leather armor resting on a chair by his bed. He can't help but smile, at first fondly and then a bit sadly. Gods, he's even starting to miss his brother Garsiv.]
Effects: [Optional] Any feelings Dastan has during this dream (drunkenness, pain, slight anger, hangover and peace/happiness)
Privacy: Public
The dream starts with a heavy feeling of drunkenness, as well as a stinging pain in the back. When Dastan opens his eyes, white pieces of clothes are lying on the ground, covered with blood, and the stinging on his back reminds him that a healer is actually sewing up the rather large and long gap on his back. Those that have seen him with his shirt off might remember the large scar he has there. The Persian looks a few years younger, but not by much. It is clearly not his first battle, nor wound, as no moans of pain are escaping past his lips as the healer stitches his back.
The Prince's right hand clutches a jug of wine and he takes a long swing of it, obviously trying to dull the pain of the needle piercing his skin. His head is lying on his other arm on the table where he sits, and he looks up at his best friend Bis. The curly haired man keeps his gaze away from his childhood friend, looking as if he is about to be sick. The scene makes Dastan chuckle lightly and he is about to taunt his friend about it when the folds of the healing tent are roughly opened, the second Prince stomping in, already glaring at his youngest sibling. The Prince grins widely at Garsiv, sitting up properly:
"Brother!" The word is slightly slurred, but the only answer the Commandant gives him is a punch to the jaw. Dastan's vision twirls in front of him, the sound of clay crashing to the ground covering his groan of pain. He looks down at his broken jug and pouts, barely listening to his best friend trying to understand why Garsiv had just punched Dastan, or to the weak complaints of the healer: "My wine..." he says in an almost childish, slurred voice, one that is clearly induced by the amount of alcohol coursing through his veins.
"What were you thinking?" yells the older brother, his dark eyes sending daggers at the Prince as the young one simply rubs his chin, a pout still on his slightly bloodied lips.
"Your Highness...it was a trap..."
Dastan watches as Bis moves between the two Princes, trying to diffuse the situation, to no avail. Garsiv's temper has risen to a boiling point:
"Of course it was a trap, you idiot! We planned it as much!" The words are shouted, heavily covered with rage. This time, the Persian moves to catch his brother's gaze, not wanting his best friend to take the fault for a decision he made. He frowns, obviously trying to concentrate as he speaks. This is not the best time for him to explain his actions, really. But Garsiv has never been known for his timing, either.
"No. They were setting an ambush on us, brother. Somehow, they knew we were coming. I had no choice. Those archers would have decimated our army." 'And us as well' is the silent remark all warriors present have no need to say.
By the blessing of the Gods, or out of sheer luck, Dastan had seen the glint of the armor of the hidden archers waiting to shoot at the Persians. There had been no time to turn around and so the Prince had abandoned his mount by a wall, scaling it quickly before improvising a way to make the columns supporting the balcony where their enemies had hidden fall. In the melee, the youngest son had found himself alone and cut off from reinforcements for a moment that seemed long as eternity to the warrior. He had held his ground, but not without consequences: he had to leave his back unprotected for barely a second, but one long enough to receive a rather worrisome wound.
Despite the light sway the Prince has, he looks up at his brother, his gaze almost challenging his sibling to argue with him. Instead, Garsiv crosses his arms over his chest:
"Why weren’t you wearing your armor, Dastan?"
The young man makes an annoyed face: "It's too stiff and heavy. I can't move properly in it." He gives the plate armor a glare, as if it would make it less offensive to him. And then, he looks back at his brother, smirking teasingly:
"Plus, I cannot stand the helmet. It makes me look like a walking nipple." He tries not to laugh as his gaze goes up to Garsiv’s pointy helmet. Dastan would have never made comments on the Commandant's helmet, but wine has loosened his tongue, obviously. But the second Prince only glares at this brother before turning to the man that never leaves his side:
"No more wine for him." The he turns to Dastan, his own teasing smirk on his lips: "As well as women. You need to rest, little brother. We ride tomorrow at dawn."
As Garsiv walks out of the tent, he deftly evades the apple thrown at his head by a clearly annoyed baby brother. His laughter booms outside the healing quarters and Dastan grumbles something about gluing his annoying brother's hands to his horse's reins as the healer finishes the stitches on his back. Moments after, he lays on his side, exhaustion and the wine sending him to a deep sleep.
On the morn, when he finally wakes, Dastan notices the new, leather armor by his bedside. Despite the pounding in his head, he smiles softly, not needing to ask who had put it there. He knows it is his brother's way to thank him for saving his hide, yet again.
[The Prince wakes up, barely, and rolls over in his bed. The sheets slip slightly, showing off his back, as well as the scar running through his skin. Each scar has a story, after all. When he opens his eyes, his gaze catches the leather armor resting on a chair by his bed. He can't help but smile, at first fondly and then a bit sadly. Gods, he's even starting to miss his brother Garsiv.]