Halbarad the Just

(Yet another miniature-inspired tale as I lack the wherewithal to comment meaningfully on current events! And no, this isn't one of my characters either.)

The tall, lean man awoke with a start but without a sound. Sitting in the pre-dawn twilight, Halbarad steadied his breathing and listened intently for a moment, then chided himself and clambered up from his sleeping mat. 

The air this close to the jungle was humid and lacked the offshore breeze of his homeland that made the air a bit more agreeable and far less sticky. He thought briefly about a trip to the well so he could buy a bucket of water and rinse himself off, but since he would need to dress in order to visit the agora anyways, he decided against it. 

Not agora, he reminded himself again, the market. Sighing, he grabbed his scarlet tunic from the foot of his mat, used the back of it to wipe some of the night's sweat from his face and neck, then pulled it on over his head.

Looking around in the slowly brightening gloom Halbarad found his cuirass, turned the breastplate to face him and kissed the image of Pallas Athena embossed on the left side. Reversing it again, he thrust his head into the gap between the front and back pieces, adjusted the shoulder pauldrons and cinched up the two leather straps on the side. 

I am leaner now, he thought to himself. I may need to punch a new hole in these straps. It simply would not do to have his breastplate shift or pinch in the middle of combat, or even rattle on the march. He resolvcd to go to the docks if there was time and see if he could beg use of an awl.

He turned and caught a gleam or bronze in the corner, revealing where he had left his greaves the night before, and after fastening his well-worn sandals, buckled them onto his calves and flexed his knees to check the fit. All the marching has at least maintained the muscle on my legs.

Gathering up his gauntlets, he paused again to admire the owls that graced the protective plates on the back, with their immense and impassive eyes and intimidating talons. Wisdom and strength, he thought. Goddess grant me both this day, and every day.

Before gathering up his shield, he hefted his warspear, shifting his grip, thrusting it with a grunt into the air at an imaginary foe's abdomen, their unguarded shins, now overhand at the neck exposed by a tired arm hoisting a now-leaden shield. The replacement haft he had made with locally procured hardwood was holding up well, thanks in part to the metal shank he had added to the remainder of the original.

By all rights he should have replaced all the wood and kept only the broad-bladed spearhead itself, but he had not seen a single oak tree since coming to this blighted peninsula a month ago, and knowing that sentimentality was a weakness had not overcome his desire to hang on to that small piece of his homeland.

Again he caught himself listening for a sound that would not come. Your uncle's olive orchard is a long way from here, Halbarad Agonistes, and you will not hear their narrow leaves rustling in the breeze for a long while yet.

With another sigh, he dropped his crested helmet onto his head, turned his neck all the way to the left and then all the way to the right, rolled his shoulders, twisted his hips, and at last picked up his enormous hoplon with Athena's avatar owl painted on it, and made his way out the door.

But not before reminding himself that here it was a shield, not a hoplon.