A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1439 - 1439: Muddy Greatness - Part 8

"Indeed," Oliver said. "We can stick to the plan."

"Ehhh, Ser Patrick," came a voice of interruption. "Do excuse me again, Ser. But that one there – who just got through this round – keeps shouting for you."

One of the Blackwell soldiers called out to him, a strained look on his face. Oliver turned to see who he was pointed at, only to see a man covered in filth that he did not recognize, making loud proclamations from inside the arena.

"Another madman that you've collected?" Greeves asked.

"Madman, is it…" Oliver pondered. Only with that thought in his mind did he realize who it was that he was staring at. He was the only man on the field of Captains that had not been wearing armour. He was still dressed in his ragged peasant dress, though he was covered in even more mud than before. "He made it through, did he?" Oliver asked the Blackwell man.

"He did, Ser," the man responded in the affirmative.

"Hm… I suppose I will talk with him then," Oliver said. He'd practically forgotten that the young man had existed, whilst he was busy watching his own men fight. But he supposed that, surviving in such a high-level round was a matter that deserved compliment, despite how outlandishly the man had behaved, and continued to behave.

He wandered down, with Jorah and Kaya at his back. Greeves and Judas disappeared, having their own matters to attend to.

Oliver found Verdant frowning next to the shouting young man, and with Blackthorn giving him one of her icy glares, whilst Firyr grinned to himself, not realizing that anything was wrong.

"BRING ME SER PATRICK!" The young man bellowed. "I WON! BRING ME SER PATRICK!"

"I'm right in front of you, fool," Oliver said.

"Oh," came the sound, as he finally pulled his eyes down from the sky that he was shouting to. "I won." Even his normal speaking voice was loud. Enough that it would have given Firyr a run for his money.

"Do you still insist on bothering my Lord?" Verdant said distastefully. "You were given your opportunity, and you've made use of it. That's worthy of compliment. But there was no need to shame yourself with all this shouting."

"Your noise bothers me," Blackthorn said, quite simply.

The youth looked at them blankly. "I won," he declared. "Who are you?"

Verdant's look grew increasingly strained, whilst Blackthorn bristled. "They were there when you met with me earlier. Do you not recall them?" Oliver said, as patiently as he was able to.

"No. I won," the youth said, going back to his original thought.

"Ya didn't win," Firyr interjected. "I won."

"Neither of you won!" Jorah fumed, losing his cool. "You survived until the last twenty. You've not won, you've merely made it through the round."

"If anything, I won," Blackthorn said. "I knocked out more men."

"…Do not encourage them, Lasha, they'll never settle down," Oliver said.

Now Firyr and the young man were glaring at each other, like two dogs catching the scent of another dog. They weren't exactly growling, but the low rumbling that they were making in their throats came close to it. Firyr was the far taller man, but somehow, the youth didn't lose out when it came to the matter of intimidation. His scraggly long hair, matted with mud, and his genuine madness that seeped off him like a bad odour did much for making him appear alarming.

"He's right, you know," Oliver interceded, seeing if he could get through the young – though supposing, despite it, that it was likely a wasted attempt. "I did not manage to catch you fighting, but you must be capable enough, if you made it through this round. For that, you have my compliments. However, there's much more work to be done before you can declare that you've won."

The youth straightened up, serious, just for a fraction of a second. "True. First, I need to defeat you."

Those words came with such a strong force of determination, that Oliver had to meet him with an almost equal amount of seriousness. But then, just as soon after, the youth was back to having his mouth hanging open, and dribbling a long trail of salvia down his chin.

"Who the hell is he, anyway?" Firyr said, irritated now that the young man seemed to be ignoring him.

"I have no idea," Oliver replied. "He was shouting earlier."

"He's quite clearly insane, my Lord," Jorah put in.

"But, he's… competent?" Oliver said. "Somehow, that word doesn't seem right for him. Especially given that I didn't see him fight. But he stood up against Second Boundary men. For a peasant, that's remarkable. Did any of you manage to catch sight of him fighting?"

Verdant shook his head. "I am afraid not, my Lord."

"Me neither," Blackthorn said.

"I was too busy," Firyr said.

"What about you, Yorick?" Oliver said, calling to the Commander, as he hung uncertainly on the edge of their circle of gathered men, apparently unsure as to whether he should involve himself or not.

"I caught just the slightest glimpse…" Yorick said. "I saw him deal a wound to a Captain's forehead, and I remember being glad of it, because that Captain seemed to be one of the stronger men on the field."

"He was weak," the young man interrupted. "You're weak as well. Why are you here?"

He stared Yorick down as he said that, tilting his head. "You're weak too," he pointed at Firyr. "And you as well. And you." He pointed out Blackthorn, and then Verdant, making enemies of everyone that stood around him. Then his finger settled on Oliver. "You're strong. But not as strong as me."

If they were angry at hearing themselves insulted, then it was pure wrath that the Patrick men felt in seeing their Lord insulted. From Yorick, to Jorah, to Verdant, every single one of them lost their cool.

"You dare to speak on matters you know nothing of?" Verdant bellowed.