Your tormenter is a tall man – he comes up to your breastbone - and is as thin as a reed. He's wearing a stiffly starched white cap, brown shorts that end below knees that make their knobby nature known even through the crisp fabric, navy blue sash and khaki shirt open to his waist. Which is only sensible, because it is bloody sweltering out here. His kit is similarly mismatched, with all kinds of little pouches and belts and bandoleers and things festooned all over him to pad out his otherwise spare frame and one of the big metal things you're seeing everywhere around here slung over one shoulder. He looks like he's mugged at least three different people and stolen their uniforms – if it weren't for the muggle cut of his clothes, he'd probably be the height of wizard fashion.
"Saoul au milieu de la journée, tax de merde? Où est ta solidaritée? Si tu as à boire, partager est la moindre des choses."
"Pipe down, ye daft bugger," you moan. "An' speak English – no, better 'n tha', please stop talkin' would yeh?" Tha's a good muggle..." It is at this point, that your treacherous brain, clearly not sufficiently pickled the night before, reminds you that you're never going to be a wizard, not if your homeland has anything to say about it. You might as well be a muggle yourself. Naturally, in the face of such an unpleasant recollection, you articulate your displeasure as eloquently as possible. "Nyye-aaaurrrgh…"
"T'as vraiment enroller sans connaître un mot, huh? Ca suit les traditions de la legion, je suppose." He hops down from his perch on some kinda boxes and moves closer. You gradually realize that he isn't shouting at you, that's just your head pounding. You find it difficult to forgive him, all the same. He lightly taps you on the elbow with his hand – as high as he can comfortably reach – and makes a clear gesture for you to follow him when you prove as responsive as a boulder.
You swipe at him with a wobbly hand, wanting him to leave you to your misery. Or he could get angry and kill you, that would also be nice - just so long as you don't need to put up with this bloody headache anymore. He neatly ducks your clumsy swing, and you accidentally knock over that stack of crates he was leaning on with a thunderous crash. Damnably flimsy, that. Lots of metal things spill out, and you're pretty sure you hear something snap-that's not good, that's NEVER good. You wince, and only partially from the noise. You've always found the world to be far, far too breakable, so naturally you'd be reminded of that fact the moment you wake.
The man stares at the accidental destruction and... he's not saying anything. His eyebrows have disappeared under the starched brim of his cap - is that good? Given your experience, probably not, but at least he's not shouting. If you're lucky maybe he'll leave you be and you could-
"Il est temps de continuer." He pats your back and puts some muscle into it, giving you a push. Obligingly, you sling your oak walking stick over your shoulder and move. You don't want to be around when people investigate that, either, so off you go.
You wonder briefly how you kept the stick from last night and not your pants.
He keeps chattering away in what you think might be French. Or maybe Spanish. They all sound kind of the same to you, by which you mean entirely incomprehensible. He might as well be speaking Gobbledygook, except a goblin you know taught you a few words of Gobbledygook. So on the plus side, you're sure no one's calling you a penniless waste of flesh… in Gobbledygook. That's some proper silver lining, right?
Your attention is caught and held briefly by a trio of dark-skinned men in turbans and thick jackets, sitting on rolled blankets and playing cards. Their camels are grazing nearby on what thin scrub grass isn't trampled in the middle of a big camp like this. Handsome beasts, those, all thin knobby knees and dual heavy humps. Egyptian, you suspect, and well cared for.
"Quel est ton unitée, grand gaillard?"
"I. Can't. Understand. Yer." You speak slowly and carefully, thinking that maybe speaking slower will help somehow.
"Pionners probablement, avec cette barbe. Je demanderai. Nan, pas besoin de me remercier; Bien que tu sois Anglais et moi Français, aider les plus pauvre a fait parti de mon education."
He just doesn't stop talking. He push-guides you through a veritable sea of white and tan tents with the occasional stockpile of … stuff. Boxes of muggle things, you don't know. Tin cans and little shiny metal things and black powder and dried food. You stay well clear of those, just in case. It's dry and hot enough to be bloody unpleasant, your lack of clothing or no, and there's enough people tromping around that the dust is getting kicked up something fierce. At this rate, you'll have to wash out your beard tonight, unless you want something taking root-isn't that just fantastic.
The people wear a mish-mash of different things in colors ranging from brown to white with some navy blue mixed in, but everyone has those flat topped white hats. They are good enough to mostly get out of your way when you get steered in their direction so you don't have to watch where you're going too closely. There's a little staring and some quiet comments – and at least one low, quiet whistle – but you can't understand them. Probably something nice, you try to tell yourself.
There're a good few dogs around, nosing into things and sneaking scraps. Mutts, mostly. Mixes of pointers, basset hounds and pointing griffons - which had excited you when you first heard about them, but the reality was a little disappointing. Silly muggles, calling a dog a griffon.
You kinda wonder what all these muggles are doing, anyway. Not that asking works, since this bloke shoving you along doesn't speak a word of proper English.
You mostly just get steered around and try not to step on anything or knock anything over.
Should you… should you do something about this?
[X] He probably knows what he's doing? More than you do, anyway. Stick with him. Lettin' smarter folk figure stuff out usually works, so...
[X] You've had enough of going starkers. Surely they have something in your size around here somewhere… probably. Maybe. You're sure you could find something.
[X] What's that sound? No, not the Frenchman. It almost sounds like… tapping?
[X] Enough of this silliness, time to go home. No, you're not sure where home is from here. So what? You'll figure it out.
[X] Write-in