|Catch And Release|
|Summary:||Senna sends Caytiv elsewhere for his pre-battle send off.|
|Related Logs:||Army camp logs|
|Army Camp — Stonebridge|
|Tents, cookfires, and soldiers.|
|January 13, 289|
With the Ironborn massing not so very far away, the camp is tenser than it's been most of the week. Some are quiet, focused. Others are trying to cram in a little more life and laughter before they put it all on the line in the morning. The practical ones, like Senna, are doing their best to pack up whatever they've brought along in order to be ready to move. Not having much to begin with, she's more or less finished, and stands just outside her small tent surveying the others around her.
Caytiv is happy enough to have worked up a sweat in drills and have tended to Ryande, getting the mount prepped in light tack for spur-of-the-moment maneuvers, if necessary, before easing off through the camp, steeped in sweat and, even if his odor is rather stable-esque, it certainly provides a suitable aura of masculinity that his graceless motions and muscled build tend to corroborate.
The passage of the squire brings a faint smile to Senna's lips all unwilling when she sees him. It's hard not to smile at someone who's so entirely comfortable with himself, when it comes down to it. "Ready for battle, squire?" she calls toward him after a moment, tightening the ropes on her tent.
Caytiv draws to a dawdle, then, finally, to a halt, watching Senna, for once, with a look neither playful nor lustful. "Reckon that battle will come for me as I am, ay? C'n hardly be other'n ready for't," he reasons with a stubborn fort of sixteen-year-old philosophy. "An' are ye comin' along, ay, t' the field?"
"Waiting for a chance to discuss it with Ser Rygar," Senna confirms, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Though Lord Flint offered to send me back to Stonebridge with his wife. It's a kind offer, but I don't think I'll be taking it." Her smile quirks. "Though I think I'll stay behind the lines, either way."
"Ay," Cayt assents with a slow moment's consideration. "Lassies wi' skill in th' healin' arts be best kept out a' th' rain, ay?" Presumably a proverbial rain, a rain of arrows or spears or just the general storm of the melee. "Though more'n a few'd be a good sight fairer on the field theymselves than some a' the lads we're settin'."
"That isn't saying much," Senna chuckles, looking in the direction of the Ironborn camp. "I'd rather not be within range of the battle, though. Battles have a tendency to…overflow their boundaries, and men engaged in battle tend to forget what their ultimate goals are." Taking a guide rope and wrapping once more around its peg, she arches a brow at the squire. "So keep your eyes open."
"Nay, I'd rather fancied me goin' a-field all bound at the eye, lassie," Cayt answers back, smirk touching at the corners of his mouth. "Anyhow, the way I reckon, 'fin the battle strays too far past our bound a' the field, 'tis not for any want of ours to press thither, but that we would fall back in holdin' it. 'Fin it strays past their bound, 'tis sure on our part 'tis done so."
Senna looks up from the tentlines for a moment, watching him as he speaks. "Hill, sometimes I wonder if you're even speaking the Common tongue," she notes with some amusement. "Though I think I heard you say you'd do your best to hold the line. I'm sort of guessing, though."
Caytiv reaches up toward the sky with one hand, then bends his elbow until his hand is in his hair at the back of his heaad, hair soaking his hand as he watches Senna, a huff of laughter shaking his shoulders and flaring his nostrils without making a sound. "Ay, lass," he finally just tells her, though he might only be sayig it to placate her. "Reckon there's better t' git done than talk, ay?"
"Oh, honey. It's the night before a battle, and you don't have nearly enough seniority in these ranks to lay that kind of claim," Senna says with a small, rueful smile. "Three quarters of the men here are going to be looking for someone to scratch that itch before they run off. Most of the other quarter probably think it's bad luck. A few'll scratch it with a brother in arms. But there just aren't enough women here to take care of everyone."
"Been scratched out, 'ave ye been, ay?" Cayt asks, his tone indicating an easing off of attention, even if his attention had seemed flagging at best. "Best leave ye t' be recovered of it, then," he adds with a boyish smile. "Reckon I'll be well enough without. Worn weary of drills an' will sleep well when I reach mine own pallet. The dawn will come early an' there'll be work to do."
"Let's just say there's the possibility of requests that can't really be turned down," Senna admits. She looks him over, that faint, fond smile lingering through a low laugh as she shakes her head. "Go on, Hill. I think if you head south down that path there, take a right, there's a girl in the Frey camp who'd be glad to scratch your itch. Her mother keeps a close eye on her, but you've got the charm to ease her mind, I think."
Caytiv's brows rise a moment, then draw somewhat, "Ay?" he asks. "I ne'er reckoned to lay with a lass was much of a pleasure unless she willed it so," he gives his own opinion on the matter. "Be well, ay, lassie?" he asks of her, sounding almost concerned, after a fraternal fashion.
"Oh, the girl's willing," Senna laughs, smile flashing wickedly. "It's the mother you've got to convince." She lays a finger to the side of her nose, winking at the squire. "I'll see to myself, squire. You watch your back, hmm? I'd rather not have to sew your hide back together. It's a rather nice hide, all told."
Caytiv looks to Senna, brows flat in a serious stare that seems to tacitly accuse her of willfully misinterpreting him. "Ay, lassie," he finally tells her, keeping eye contact the while.
Senna doesn't even seem to get it until Cayt holds that gaze, when she suddenly blinks, brows rising. "Oh, you mean me?" She sighs, looking away for a moment to try to pick out her words. "It's complicated, Caytiv. But I promise, no one's going to do anything to me that I don't let them do." Which is different from 'willing,' but it's a fine shade of meaning, after all.
"Don't reckon it's as complicated's all that, ay," Cayt replies. "A lass is a fancy-fair creature t' stay the eve with, but I don't reckon she's well t' be trod on."
Senna steps away from the tent, moving close to the squire to reach up and pull his head down to press a kiss to his brow. "And it's a rare few men who truly take that to heart, Squire Hill," she murmurs. "The rest, on the other hand, are usually easy enough to play off of what they want. Now you quit worrying about me," she concludes, taking a step back. "Go and show that laundress' girl a good time."
Caytiv scrunches up his face in a smile that's diminished by a wrinkling of his nose, somehow finding the kiss to his forehead, as he bows to receive it, somewhat like that of an aunt. But he gives her hip a pat, no less. "Ay, lassie," he tells her, squeezing the hip before he pulls off. "You be well."