The host’s march stopped short upon the peak of a particularly cumbersome hill. The soldiers were panting, and even Zenitsu’s advanced conditioning couldn’t stop him from betraying a hint of fatigue. After all, they’d marched far, and in a short period of time.
“Sir,” a man of slight build but superior height announced himself, posting a salute, and then relieving it subsequently.
Zenitsu had seated himself right on the ground, and was taking a fruitful cross-legged rest. He looked up to behold the speaker. Three men had emerged from his squadron to pose as advisors towards their Lieutenant. Though their qualifications were unknown to him, the young swordsman was grateful to lend an ear towards any advise. His experience with leading was non-existent, and even with the newfound confidence he’d gained upon his appointment there was still a large gap in experience he was unable to surmount with willpower alone.
“Zenitsu is fine,” offered the youth, bestowing a winsome smile upon his subordinate. “At ease. What do you have for me?”
“The city ahead, Sir. We’re told that one of the men enlisted is a native of this city. He let some of his circle know that we’re approaching the City of Eisenstadt,” the advisor explained. ‘Schnozz’ was the name he’d given the man, if memory served.
“Alright, Schnozz,” Zen began, taking in the man’s red face, large nose, and bushy mustache. “Can you locate the soldier from the city and bring him to me?”
A salute and a nod. “Yessir. Right away, Sir.”
A short time later Zenitsu sat, still cross-legged, before an enormous man of unparalleled bulk. He boasted a barrel chest forged hard from labor, a face full of cheer, and a body whose hair poked out around every break in his armor. That hair was dark as the night, and Zenitsu reckoned that the brickhouse stood somewhere between six and seven feet.
“Sir, you wanted to see me?”
It wasn’t lost on Zenitsu that his lowborn accent made a strange bedmate for formality.
“At ease. Zenitsu is fine,” the straw haired boy informed, grinning widely. “I may bark the orders, but I’m not above you.”
The man relaxed some, visibly, but still seemed a little off-put. Maybe he wasn’t used to speaking to superiors. ...that was probably it. Zenitsu himself hadn’t quite gotten used to it either - his exchange with his armor-clad Commander had left him rattled, even though the man had given him his vote of confidence in his own gruff way. That’d been odd enough for a young man just finding his footing as a Lieutenant, but the common link between them as Slayers of Demons left him thinking that the figurehead of their army had more than an inkling of what he was doing.
“You wanted a report on the City, I’m told,” began the towering man, looking down at his Commanding Offier.
“Right. Sit with me, if you don’t mind,” and Zenitsu patted the ground beside him. “Tell me about the people. What are they like? They’re in our territory, so I imagine they’ll greet us easily enough, but I want to make sure the soldiers can find themselves comfortable there.”
He realized quickly that he didn’t know the man’s name.
“...and tell me what you call yourself, too.”
“Borsenhurst, Sir. Bors for short.”
“Bors, then. Go on,” coaxed the Lieutenant.
Over the next few minutes the soldier (support, Zenitsu understood, though he’d struck him as an infantry man) informed Zenitsu of the people of Eisenstadt. A hardy people, they worked hard but played harder. They were industrious to a fault and patriotic to boot - if he knew his people, and Bors thought he did - they would defend the City in the situation of invasion down to a man. Despite this, however, they had a love for music and theatre, and welcomed entertainment whenever it showed itself.
...this gave the armor-clad boy an idea.
---
Hours later, he sat upon a simple stone bench on a raised pavilion. Bors’ family, thrilled to see him if just for a moment, had been happy to provide a quaint instrument for the young Lieutenant to utilize. Their reward? An evening’s entertainment.
The buzz of locals mixed with four hundred and fifty soldiers armed to the teeth with advanced weaponry suddenly died down. The cause? Lieutenant Zenitsu Agatsuma had stooped his head low over the neck of the mandolin they’d lent him. He turned an ear to its pegs, twisted one, and plucked out a note.
As he did so, a mantle of anticipatory silence draped itself over those gathered, and they too turned their ears to the instrument.
He tuned it. It was a careful process, but well practiced. Back in his Sensei’s cabin he’d grown familiar with stringed instruments, and he was at home here despite the crowd. The valor he felt at his Commander’s praise swelled big in him, and Zenitsu was abuzz with it even on the stage.
A few more notes plucked, and then he began picking them out in a series. His voice rose high above them, a clever tenor which fell short of beautiful but held a certain unique appeal to it.
‘Come, gather round, and I’ll tell you a tale,
A tale of a man who was destined to fail,
He was born to a town where not one could spell!
And though he was named, he wasn’t named well…
This man’s name was Denis, spelled with one ‘N’,
We’ll keep it between us when this story ends,
It was meant to be ‘Dennis’ but fortune did scowl,
When this boy was born to a family most foul.
A barbarian born, his mother did try,
To give him a name that was strong, on the fly,
But she knew not how to spell, I’m afraid,
And maybe that’s why Denis murdered by trade.
He assembled a crew, a right fearsome bunch,
When they heard a rumor, they pursued it by hunch,
Gold, chests, and coin they devoured for lunch,
And few could oppose them, they flourished by month.
That is, ‘til the day, they came by a blizzard,
They strayed from their path! How they shook, how they shivered!
They took the best shelter the lands had delivered,
But woe, it was nary enough.
They hid in a bluff,
The cold made them gruff,
Denis and crew - oh, they had it rough!
But by fate had the group been rebuffed.
He perished there, the barbarian, Denis,
His best friend survived, who wasn't a genius,
He erected a shrine, and scrawled on it ‘Penis’,
And that’s all that remains to recall his meanness.’
He plucked out the last couple of notes and lifted his head to look out at the crowd.
Silence.
And then they erupted in raucous applause and laughter. The crowd spilled forth upon the pavilion and Zenitsu found himself lifted up quickly, the mandolin snagged from his hands by Bors, and an ale thrust into his hand.
A small celebration ensued, and Zenitsu felt on top of the world throughout the duration, celebrated by townsfolk and soldiers alike.
However, the closer the grew to enemy lines, the more a quiet discomfort had begun to well up in the boy. He washed it down with ale and the praise of his fellows, but…
Something uncomfortable still remained. There was carnage ahead. He knew it.
