It was a signal all the Templars and TIWs (Templars in Waiting) knew – a squeezed hand moved side to side in quick thrusts. The game was on. Rapid and quick, men in various states of dress and undress bolted seeking their weaponry. Some dove into their beds. Others bound to armoires. Everywhere chaos erupted.
It was one of Alistair's favorite things about being a Templar – the games they played, the brotherhood, the sharing. His hand gripped firmly at his weapon of choice, squeezing tight. His mouth curled in anticipatory grin. He squatted in low crouch, letting his soft baton brush light against the ground.
Balls of white came at Alistair's head, pounding at his chin. With a one-two punch, they pummeled him fast in rapid thrust causing him to swallow down bits of downy residue seeping forth from the feather soft armaments.
A roll to the side, a quick push from the ground, and Alistair stood behind Seamus, ready to pounce on
him from behind. With all the strength he could muster, he lunged with his sack in hand and rammed the man standing before him. A low groan grew deep in Seamus' throat as Alistair connected with his target.
Pleasure rich laughter ripped at Alistair's mouth. He had the upper hand. Seamus collapsed to the ground, the weight of Alistair's onslaught too much to bear. "I win," he yelped, triumphant. "My pillows reign supreme!" Arms pushed into the air in victory. The jostling motion caused his now limp and uninspired pillow to bounce loose from its case and fall upon the rock hard ground. It was good to be the King even it was only that of a mountain made of pillows.