Several hours later, the General lay back, exhausted, spent, fully pleasured. The flask had been upended somehow, and dripped moderately-acceptable wine on the floor. The gorgeous girl lay in dazed half-sleep, one breast exposed outside the white linen sheet, smiling slightly. She opened her eyes, looking for a drink. "Did you like it?" she said, touching his chest.
"Right, right, you've done well, girl," said the general.
"So, am I dismissed, or..." said the scout, shuffling his feet, as he still stood in the door.
"Oh, Fendrick, are you still there?," said the General, getting up, toweling off, and sitting in his camp chair. "Report."
"Well, like I said, the Wardens are coming. Totally coming. You seemed like you were about to do something about it. We need to retreat. We need to set a rear guard and see if we can penetrate their lines from..." Fendrick the scout looked down as the General and the gorgeous girl shared a look. Fendrick suddenly couldn't think of any military action that didn't sound like a euphemism. Flanking action. They're right on top of us. Their forces are potent and coming immediately. He shook his head.
"Uh-huh. No, I heard you."
"We must prepare!"
"Right, find a place, a safe place far away, somewhere where they can't hurt us. Like I said earlier. You said the Wardens, right?"
A young herald-in-training ran into the room with a requisition form. "For you, general."
"Let's see. Yes. Yes. Mm-hm. Very good. I'll speak to the quartermaster."
"Everything correctly done?" the herald asked eagerly.
"Right, right, you've done well, son," the General said automatically. "Very good, very important work you're doing."
The herald ran out, and then the General sighed, crumpled up the requisition form and throw it on the ground. "Boy gets everything wrong. I just try to make him feel as if he's doing something important. Get kicked in the head by a mule when he was younger.
Fendrick stepped back. "Should I gather the captains together to prepare for the coming of the Wardens."
The General picked up a bottle of wine and held it up to the light. He was still nude. "The thing about Old Graymalkin is that the odd numbered vintages need serious decanting. Why would that be? What are they doing in those odd years that there's so much sediment?" He opened the bottle and decanted it slowly. "What were you saying."
"The Wardens, sir!"
"Oh, I'll take care of that. Very serious. Very serious stuff. Right, right, you've done well, son. Medals and commedations and so forth. Why don't you run along and let me think about strategy and how to put into practice this very important information." He continued decanting his wine. "Wardens," he said quietly, under his breath, and trying not to spill the wine as he laughed.