Following the French - 25th Morning, Afternoon, Night

"Oh, I am grateful enough, although I have my doubts about how safe it is to be walking with you." Hunter was still leaning against the tree, managing to look very relaxed and cheerful.

"Afraid what the locals might think of you, acting so friendly towards
their ..your enemy?" He asked, relaxing somewhat when he saw that his
men were done.

"You may consider putting your skills to good use
now, Englishman." The men lined up, each now carrying a portion of
their supplies, if not for the lack of a proper pack, they could nearly
have deserved a name of soldiers fairly well equipped. Sadly they could
only make do with what weapons they had collected and stole, but it
would have to last till they might find better, or reach their army.

Hunter assumed a look of wide-eyed innocence. "Which skills do you mean, my little saint? I have so many."

Saint-Hilaire did not look amused by Hunter's display of innocence, nor by his taunt for which he took his words. "You know perfectly well, dear Englishman." He spoke calmly, not allowing this time, for his irritation to show.

"..You will find I am no saint, should you choose to prolong this with taunts and what you alone should find, an entertaining remark. His mouth twitched into a smirk. "Though..so willing, I will allow you to recount all of your skills.. during the time that you should make use of your memory to take us across this country."

"You don't seem like you appreciate me at all, it will not be gratifying to tell you anything about myself." Hunter straightened, with almost a pouting expression on his face. "Well, let's go then."

"You have first to show me reason for which I should appreciate your services." Saint-Hilaire answered simply, his soldiers arranged themselves in a similar manner to how they have traveled before. A few guarding Hunter and the rest walking behind them, weighed down only by the sacks that they were carrying.

"Do not pout so." He could not help but find the expression amusing, even to the point that he would chuckle softly after a moment of silence. This was simply an odd character that they have picked up.

"See? You do care!" Hunter grinned at Etienne.

Saint-Hilaire shook his head, rolling his eyes. Could he not act like a prisoner at all? "Let me rephrase what I have said last. Should you not make it your priority that we should be lead, safely and without any tricks, to our army, you shall learn what real suffering is." With a hand to his temple, he added. "We've not the time to chatter and sit around."

Atleast the men were fed now, they were alert and awake, still perhaps shaken at nearly being discovered and feeling how fortunate they were that it was not a whole army, but a mere two civilians, or rather a civilian and an army man, that came across the house.

Although Hunter was still smiling, his eyes darkened, became glacial. "And what makes you think I do not already know what suffering is, my dear? Be not so swift to judge."

For a moment Saint-Hilaire held Hunter's gaze, long enough even that he noticed the change of his expression, the feeling that his eyes portrayed. He tore his eyes away in time that he stepped over rather than stumbled.

"I'll admit that I know nothing of you, but what I have seen so far." A man who wore civilian's clothes but was not one, who visited the Portuguese, but did not desert. A man who joked and kept a light expression on his face even with the prospects of spending the remaining of his life in some prison.

"Enlighten me, if you will." He added after some time had passed, and silence looked to nearly prevail. Behind them he could hear hushed whispers exchanged between atleast two of his men. They must've talked of home, perhaps of a lass that they've met once, or what they might do, once they reached the army. For now, living in the ignorance of how terrible was state of their army, and how awful the situation which forced them to flee, their spirits were light enough, their expectations great.

"Perhaps some other time." Hunter turned away from Saint-Hilaire, his whole being showing that this particular conversation was over.

A curse from behind him stirred the young officer and he turned around to look at the partly damaged shoe of the tall, broadshouldered Frenchman. He had slipped in the mud and as his foot struck a stone, it seemed that the sharp edge had torn it. Quite possibly the seam had been bad before this time and the state of the ground, upon which they treaded, only made it worse.

As he had fallen his belongings had clattered on the ground around him, and were now being picked by his mate. "Be quiet." Étienne had said. "Your lumbering complaints can be heard all the way back to Lisbon, damn your voice."

The man clambered up and straightened himself just a little, wiping mud from his hands and his shoes. He opened his mouth to curse at the luck which had his shoes in such a dire state, curse the luck that they were the ones having been taken prisoner, possibly had been lost and all of them other things, but instead he uttered a more solemn. "Sorry, sir." And was quiet.

Saint-Hilaire averted his gaze back to the front:" ...Devil's weather. Damn devil's weather." And then he nearly slipped himself, which brought a furious look to his face at the indignation of the act.

Hunter couldn't help but smirk briefly at the Frenchman's annoyance. He didn't seem like a bad youth and Hunter hoped that come night, he won't have to "disable" the younger man permanently.

The walk had returned to its usual routine. Silent mutterings, a curse every so often, or a grunt under the weight of their sacks. Generally a well trained group of men, with its usual grumblings. They climbed a slope, which had quite a few breathe a bit heavier and again have them slipping at a given step. Not even if the ground was solely littered with rocks, did the going get any easier.

Which was something Saint-Hilaire had found very soon. The rocks would become slippery when wet, the rubble around them would easily give, if weight was distributed poorly on it. If there was mud, or one wore mud caked shoes, it was only as if adding oil to an already freshly oiled track.

Reaching the top of the slope, all seemed fine. Saint-Hilaire was in mid turn, to see what set off a number of pebbles and rocks, tumbling down with such a noise that he'd have feared confrontation in that exact moment.

And then, ground gave way, or rather his shoe skidded neatly across a flat surface of a rock behind his heel, his other leg had moved to obtain his balance, but struck a higher standing rock in mid way. With a sharp gasp, the Frenchman had reached forward , grasping at air only. Some pebbles shot out from under his feet as he began to fall, probably forced up by the way his weight had shifted. And then there was a loud umph, followed by some mud thrown up.

Hunter skidded downwards a little and stood over the Frenchman, smirking.
"Are you always this clumsy?"

Saint-Hilaire shot Hunter an icy glare as he struggled to his feet. His ego was bruised, but for the few cuts and minor bruises of the physical nature, he suffered no worse injury. "I'll ask you the same, when you come skidding down a mud covered slope." He snapped.

Hunter bent over and grabbing the Frenchman's arms pulled him to his feet. "If I come skidding down, not when." He grinned. "Just look at you. So muddy and bruised! I bet you won't need to steal food anymore, the locals will just give it to you, you look that miserable."

There were a few clicks and men stepping forward when Hunter had bent down to help their lieutenant up, perhaps a few of them believing that he would reach for the man's throat.

They relaxed when they saw only Saint-Hilaire now up on his feet and dusting himself. The later did little to improve his appearance. Mud clung to his cheek, a part of his head, his coat over by the shoulder and, well since he had rolled there was quite a few dirty spots.

The young officer smacked the helping hand away and took a step back. "Be quiet!" He adjusted the angle of his coat and checked that all was in the right place. His tone was as unfriendly as the look on his face. "..Though you jest about these locals, do you not, even you English, know what hospitality they have reserved for us?"

Hunter took out a handkerchief from his jacket and proceeded to wipe mud off Saint-Hilaire's cheek. "I do. But then, do you think their hospitality is totally unreasonable considering what sort of guests you turned out to be?"

"..Not quite, though I would remind you that your country men are no better in the ways of manner. Some of course, as some of ours behave in an abhorring ways." He hadn't reacted as he felt the handkerchief pressed to his cheek and only later raised his hand to take hold of it and wipe his skin with it on his own.

"..By no means are either of us perfect.." As they have just stolen, but they also left the men alive and did not harm the woman. " I hope you do not believe that the despicable acts to which the local population resort to, we are deserving of."

He ordered for the little expedition to move from the standpoint where they could be easily spotted from a great distance. The peak of the slope was not a place to be in the hostile territory.

"Who knows what I would have believed were I in their place." Hunter studied Saint-Hilaire's face with interest and tapped the man's forehead with a tip of his finger. "You missed a spot."

"Thank you." It did sound somewhat sarcastic, as the lad said it, but with a swipe at his forehead he drew away the final speck of dirt. He folded the handkerchief neatly and held it to Hunter.

"We shan't be finding that out though, now shall we?" He added. Somehow no type of terrain would feel safe to the French. Not if it was bare and one could see for miles, not if it was thick with forest and one could be concealed.

The tall man from earlier, by the name of Pierre, uncorked his canteen and drank from it. He forced a stopped back to it and adjusted the bag. It was slowly sliding down his shoulder and cutting at the skin rather uncomfortably. He yanked it up again, and grunted.

Hunter looked at the stained cloth. "Keep it." He looked at the road. "Shall we continue? You can take my arm, if you don't trust your legs to keep you upright."

He slipped the cloth into the inside pocket of his coat.

"Listen." He whirled around, his eyes flashing angrily at the taunt. His hand held a blade that was pressed under Hunter's neck, his other hand reaching out to push him back further and grip a handful of cloth of the collar of Hunter's coat.

"I don't quite like to hear you mocking me." His eyes were dark and relayed clearly all the emotion in the temperamental mind of the young officer.

"And I don't quite like to hear you period." Hunter looked down calmly on the young man without attempting to free himself. "So I am afraid that we are going to have to put up with each other's little quirks."