"Don't worry sir, he won't get anywhere on my watch!" said the first-lietenant.
"Right..." he said distantly, staring out of the stained glass window, out into the landscape beyond.
Jean-Pierre Louis Robalt had never been the type of man to question the absolute word of his authorities, and he did not faulter now either. But he was most certainly troubled. He found it hard not to be troubled when he was ordered to imprison the single life of one child of the enemy rebel forces. Why was this child so important that he was to be saved and imprisoned, when countless others were probably much more valuable to the French Royalist forces in taking back the Bastille? The boy couldn't have been older than five years of age, and he would not speak a word either. But for some inexplicable reason, unbeknownst to Captain Jean-Pierre Louis Robalt, this childs life could be weighed against the hundreds that they lost taking the boy. But Jean-Pierre did not question the orders, he wouldn't, so he shoved the thoughts into the furthest corner of the back of his mind and focused on more pressing matters.
It was almost dawn and neiher he or his men had gotten any sleep that night, and they were expected to go to arms the next against more of these rebels, these revolutionaries. He found himself in the main hall after wandering around for countless hours in the pre-morning darkness in a very large and very old, rustic chateau. He found some sagging shapeless forms in the seats circumnavigating the enourmous round table that was centered in the exact middle of the vast space. These shapeless forms were unrecognizable in the dim morning light, but were soon known to be human bodies, asleep in their seats, not making a sound. Figuring it best not to make not to disturb their sleep, he managed his way around the hall to the huge oak doors across from the entrance.
He then heard a small quiet thud coming from somewhere near the center of the room, but seeing nothing when he turned around, explained to himself that he was delusional from the lack of sleep. As he entered the mess hall, seeing nobody within it's confines, he helped himself to small glass pinot noir. As he slid comfortably into a padded velvetine chair, somewhat inebriated, fell asleep.
His dreams were haunted by strange, shadowy figures and odd runes, painted in red stretched across entire walls with their creators laughing maniacly, and then disappearing, melding into the shadow. These strange images made him rouse himself within his chair, but he did not wake up until a few hours after the sun's rise. As he awoke, he could smell smoke, not a dangerous kind, but a welcoming, pleasing kind, that brught thoughts of food into his head. Maybe this is what woke him up? Surely enough, the head cook and his handful of assistants were standing over the cabinets and cupboards while overlooking the large stone pot bubbling and seething with a pleasant aroma of vegetables and various different meats. Wonderful, the captain thought to himself, I'm starving.
Thoughts? Just started typing for the first time today.
