God of Trash

The three soldiers landed, dismounting their swords with well-drilled motions. They turned toward Rhys and the others, looking them up and down.

Rhys harrumphed and stepped forward. Before they had the chance to speak, he crossed his arms aggressively and glared at them. “You’re late!”

The leader, a man with a red sash across his chest, stepped forward. “What happened here?”

“We were beset by some bandits! Luckily, we dealt with them, but can you imagine? If they were more competent, we’d be dead before you showed up! Rapid response force, my ass!” Rhys snapped, annoyed.

The leader crossed his arms back at Rhys. “The amulets are only to be used in dire straits. If you are not on the brink of utter destruction—”

“We could have been! No—we were! It’s fortunate that I was able to turn the tides, or else these brutal bandits would have had our heads. I can’t believe it took you so long. But fortunately, I was stronger than my underlings feared, and able to defeat the bandit leader,” Rhys said. He uncrossed his arms, putting his hands on his hips instead, and shook his head, letting out a breath as though he’d just now gotten his anger under control. “Still… we lost good men today. Merchants who didn’t have to die, who died because of your incompetency. Your barracks will be hearing from me.”

“You can file a formal complaint with the barracks captain,” the leader intoned, clearly used to hearing this kind of diatribe. He flicked his wrist, and his travelling sword left its sheath and hovered before him.

The other soldiers turned to go. One glanced back, rolling his eyes, then leaned toward the other. At a whisper, but one that he knew full well Rhys could hear, he asked, “Why do we let merchants have cores at all? They’re just a bunch of weak cowards.”

“Shut up, or are you volunteering for caravan duty?” the other muttered back.

The first one shot his friend a narrow-eyed look, but said nothing. The two of them mounted their swords as well, and all three vanished into the sky.