#Don’t believe what people say it ain’t grim up north it’s so much better

[aspiringhorrorauthor]

I am so fucking done with living down south. Someone get me home

[curuniel]

Where There’s Smoke

Spoilers for ‘No Quarter’ Angst, cw character death The latest living world episode gave me many feelings and got me inspired, so here’s one charr warband’s experience of civil war with the Dominion and the things they stand to lose.

When the Smoke warband trudged back from their latest shift on the battlefield against the Dominion, it was through a haze of the drizzle for which the region was named. Rain wasn’t constant but it had become a regular and unwelcome companion, and the unnatural blizzards that persisted in the north did nothing to help the climate. Someone had commented that the Iron Legion had marched out bright, polished and proud but would be returning significantly more rusted, and at this point Skoria felt rusted to her bones.

“Say what you will for Flame,” Torun grumbled as they passed the sentries on their way back into camp, “at least they can keep a place dry.”

Voska, Skoria’s lieutenant, scoffed. “If we set you on fire you’d dry out, yeah.”

“I might take that over the rain right now.”

“Go ask them, then. I’m sure they haven’t lost the knack of it.”

“Quiet, both of you,” Skoria chided them. “The last thing we need is more in-fighting on this side.”

“Didn’t think you were much for the Flame Legion as allies, Legionnaire,” Eris spoke up from behind them.

Skoria replied over her shoulder, “I trust them and their magic about as far as I could throw a fireball myself. But it’s rude to talk about it.”

The line got a few chuckles from the warband, and tired as she was Skoria smiled. As they reached their tents she turned to address the group, dropping her pack onto the muddy ground as she did.

“Alright, Smoke, we’re done for the day. Go get dry, magic or no magic, I don’t care to know. We’re on sentry tomorrow morning then back out at noon. Until then rest up. Oh, and Marix, it’s your turn to fetch dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” their engineer agreed with a grin.

There was gear to return (Marix had a sling full of broken equipment gathered up in the field for repair), armour to stow, clothes to change, and for Skoria a report to give although there wasn’t much to tell. Gained ground here; lost ground there when we looked away. Ambushes and counter-ambushes and dead charr. By the time she rejoined her warband around their small fire they had settled in for what passed for relaxation in these damp woodlands, and she gratefully accepted a steaming side of roasted meat from Voska as she sat down.

“I’m not saying they aren’t on the wrong side,” Torun was in the midst of explaining, “I’m just saying, they’re damned impressive. Look like they’re hardly out of the fahrar and holding their own against the imperators.”

“Are they, though?” Voska asked with some scepticism. “This is Ruinbringer’s show. Steel are a flashy front line, but I can’t help but feel he’s got something else going on right behind them.”

“Even if that’s true, Steel are the front line on the Dominion side,” said Eris. “Seems like every time the legions get any momentum one of them pops up to rally their troops. Or spring a trap. Or in Ryland’s case, just being loud and looking pretty seems to do it.”

“Hey,” Torun grumbled. “He’s not that pretty. S’posed to have those big scars.”

“Oh, no,” droned Eris, deadpan. “Scars. How unattractive…”

The others laughed, while Torun sulked just a little. Skoria refrained from pointing out that he had scars of his own; he’d figure it out eventually.

“Love them or hate them, they do make an impact,” she said aloud. “Seems like I hear about them in every camp we pass through. Everyone’s seen them. More people claiming to have fought them than is possible, though.”

Voska snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“Have you seen that tank that Steel likes to drop in the middle of things though,” Marix commented wistfully. “Oh, baby. How did Blood get their hands on something like that?”

“Trust you,” Grim sniggered. “One of the hottest champions of the Blood Legion turns up on the field and the engineer ogles her equipment.”

Marix shrugged. “We’d have interests in common, what can I say? Takes a trained hand to manage a beast like that.”

“The tank, or the charr in it?” “Aw, shut up Eris.”

The warband laughed again. It was nice, Skoria reflected, to have these quiet patches in a day where they could just be together. They seemed to get fewer and fewer of them as the weeks went by. Smoke hadn’t been part of the very first Iron Legion forces to come chasing after Bangar, but they hadn’t been far behind. Back then it had been all drums and cannons and crisp banners, legion ones and the new United Legions flag. Urged on by their imperator, Iron had expected to crush a small rebellion and put Blood in their place on the battlefield while they were at it. Blood were allies, of course… but putting down their rogue imperator was an honour to make a tribune, and everyone knew it.

In the Cascades they had found something different. The so-called Dominion forces may have been small when they left the rally in Grothmar Valley, but there were far more of them now than Skoria had expected. They weren’t all Blood, either - every legion was represented, Iron included, charr who should know better. The fighting was brutal and neither side hesitated to bomb an area to ashes if it meant denying the enemy a wall to stand behind. It wasn’t long before the shine came off. Now the United Legions banner was necessary for everyone, because you couldn’t tell who was on your side without it.

"Thing is, Bangar was the one who wanted Flame back in the fold," Grim was saying. "Seems crazy to think that getting rid of one big shaman makes their troops all friendly and fine now. Dunno why Smodur lets them stay." He shot a wary glance in the direction of the Flame encampment. It was laid out next to the other legions but surrounded by a verge of empty space on all sides. The eerie shamans, with unnatural eyes smouldering against the dusk, watched over their borders in silence.

"I do," Eris said wryly. "Gears over grunts, remember? Flame can boost Iron's guns, which makes them more valuable than us whether they're loyal or not."

Voska frowned at that. "Smodur's never been one to let Iron be second best at anything. He doesn’t go begging to other legions."

"Smodur wants to win," countered Eris. "Everything else is secondary. Including the legion."

"Bullshit."

"Then how do you explain how many Iron Legion charr he's executed in the last few days?"

"That's -"

"Enough," Skoria interrupted abruptly. Apparently the warm glow of fellowship was done for tonight and it was time to be a legionnaire again. "Defectors are traitors, Eris, and Iron has never tolerated traitors." 

She looked at each of them in turn. "Weren't we happy enough hunting out renegades? And didn't we all agree that they were disloyal scum stuck in the past? Bangar's Dominion is the same crowd. They don’t like that the world’s changing and now they have a rallying cry that lets them believe they’re something more than deserters. That doesn’t change the fact that our imperator is here, our orders are here, and the High Legions are here. Four of them, even." She bared her teeth. "Imperator Smodur has never led us wrong before. There's a reason Bangar's jealous of the Citadel and Iron might. I know it's been a rough few days, and there's a lot of talk. But we are Smoke, and we are better than that."

“Hear, hear!” cried Voska, raising a fist, and the warband whooped in response. But not all of the warband, Skoria noted with concern; there were conflicted expressions, quickly hidden, and conspicuous silences. Eris looked like she had more to say, Marix’s brow was furrowed in thought, and Grim was quiet - though that wasn’t so out of the ordinary.

Torun was the one who spoke up. “I hear you, Legionnaire, and I’m not planning on going anywhere, but you’re right that people talk. Fighting our own… even Iron… I don’t like it.”

“And seeing Steel run rings around our veterans isn’t helping morale much either,” added Grim, to which there was general grumbling agreement.

“Charr have warred with each other before,” Skoria reminded them. “And in the end the High Legions have always survived and come back stronger. We are the blood and body of the Iron Legion.”

“And anyone who leaves the legion,” Voska added, “is a renegade. Sure, I’m sorry to see some of them go, but they’re charr and they made their choice. Just like with the renegades, if they make the wrong choice…” She thumped a fist against her paw.

In the quiet that followed, Skoria wondered what they were all thinking. Wondered if she needed to do more for their morale, and what she could do beyond tell them to trust in orders. Marix, however, was the one to break the silence. 

"Those shamans sure do boost the guns, though. I've seen some things out there, and I’d love to know how they work."

Skoria snorted. At least some things were consistent in troubled times.

"Get some sleep," she told them all. "Plenty waiting for us tomorrow."

* * *

“Where are you going?”

Skoria’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Grim’s low voice, with the sudden alertness that came with sleeping on a battlefield. She didn’t move. Grim had been assigned to the first night watch; it might be nothing.

The next voice belonged to Eris. “Nowhere, Grim. Keep your eyes pointed outward and don’t worry about me.”

There was a pause. “The watch ain’t only outwards these days.” Another beat. “Taking your rifle with you to take a leak?”

“These are dangerous times, aren’t they?” “Where are you really going, Eris?”

Skoria was tense now under her thin standard-issue blanket, but she held herself still. If Grim could handle this, while the legionnaire was officially asleep and didn’t know a thing, she could forget it ever happened.

“Out. Away. This shit doesn’t make sense anymore, Grim, you know it, I know it.”

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, don’t. We’re Iron Legion, and the Iron Legion is here. Duty’s clear.”

Eris growled at that. “The Iron Legion’s out there too, in case you haven’t noticed. Tell me you haven’t seen familiar faces.” A silence; Grim said nothing and Skoria winced; she wasn't wrong.

“Everything’s a mess, but one side’s making sense and one side’s telling us to shut up and fall in line.”

“Eris.” He spoke quietly. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave us.” Skoria silently echoed him. Don’t do this, Eris.

“I’m going,” was the reply. “Forget you saw me. I don’t want to get you or the others in any trouble.”

The next sound took a second for Skoria to interpret, where she lay pressing her eyes closed and willing this situation to go away.

“Go back to bed. Please.” Grim’s voice wavered, and Skoria realised in that moment she had heard the sound of a bowstring being pulled taut.

“Put that down.”

“Don’t move.” “You can’t -”

There was a twang.

Skoria hurled her blanket out of the way and sprang to her feet, claws out on instinct. She started to say something, she didn’t even know what, some firm command that would bring it all under control again, but the words died in her throat. Eris clutched her side where an arrow had stuck deep; she wore no armour. Grim stood with his bow in hand, shaky, staring.

“She was… I didn’t…” he stammered.

“Never mind that." Skoria’s speech was a lot steadier than she felt. "Go find a med kit. Not a medic, unless we have to.” She waited until he moved before she turned on Eris. “Skoria -”

“You’re Smoke as long as you’re here,” she told her soldier with a scowl. “As far as I’m concerned that’s the end of it.”

Eris snarled, then winced at the pain from her wound. “It’s not the end of it. Look, I don’t want to leave the warband - if you talked to the others, we could all -”

“That. Is. Enough.” Skoria stepped towards her so she could lower her voice, knowing it would be intimidating and letting her anger show. “We stay. Smoke is loyal.”

They stared each other down in tense silence, a contest Skoria had always won before. Then a new voice broke in. 

“Eris?”

Torun stood, blanket still held loosely in one hand with his brow furrowed as he looked between them. Skoria took a half step back out of Eris’s face, but before she could give either an order or an explanation Grim blundered back into their camp, his bow still out in one hand though he held the med kit in the other. Torun looked at him, then back at Eris with her paws pressed to the arrow wound, then back at Grim.

“Torun, listen,” Skoria growled. “This is all a misunderstanding and -” “Grim,” Torun spat.

“I didn’t mean to -” he protested. 

Torun snapped his teeth and snarled, uncaring. “I’ll kill you!”

He leapt at Grim, catching his shocked ’bandmate a slash across the cheek before they rolled to the ground together. Skoria tried to haul Torun off but couldn’t keep hold of his flailing limbs as he did his best to beat Grim bloody. Behind her, Eris hissed in pain as she tried to move.

“All of you, STOP, right now!” roared Skoria, discarding stealth entirely. “That is an order!”

It worked, to some extent. Torun and Grim paused, Grim just holding back Torun’s bigger paws with a grasp at the wrists. Voska was already awake, she saw, and now examining Eris’s wound. Around their little camp circle, however, more charr were waking and soon they’d be coming to see what the yelling was about.

“This ends now,” Skoria declared coldly. “Torun, get off him.”

Torun glared daggers at her. “He shot Eris, didn’t he? Our own warband!”

“She was going to leave!” protested Grim.

Torun looked disbelievingly at Eris, who laughed weakly. “I was,” she admitted. “Still am, if I can get away with it. Torun, Smodur doesn’t give a shit about-”

“Traitors? No. I really don’t.”

A shiver of dread ran down Skoria’s spine. She turned slowly, with a final warning look at her ’bandmates on the ground. On the ridge not far from Eris stood Smodur the Unflinching in the flesh, Iron guards to either side.

“Legionnaire,” he drawled. “Care to explain this?”

Skoria drew herself up straight and saluted, thinking fast. “A scuffle, sir, that’s all. Misunderstanding. People are jumpy with everything going on right now; I’ll discipline my warband accordingly.”

Eris laughed bitterly. Voska chose that moment to give the arrow in her side a testing tug, a warning that Eris took heed of with another hiss and a fit of coughing. Skoria vowed to thank her second for the quick thinking later.

Imperator Smodur regarded them with an unreadable one-eyed gaze. “Discipline should be better to start with. Iron needs to set an example, Legionnaire. To show this rabble how real charr fight.”

“Understood, sir,” Skoria replied, not knowing what else to say. 

Unfortunately this wasn’t enough to satisfy the imperator. He looked down at Eris, taking in her wound as she averted her eyes and gritted her teeth.

“How did this happen?”

Torun answered before Skoria could. “Him,” he growled, poking a claw at Grim. “Attacked our own warband. Bastard.”

“And did you have a reason for that, soldier?” Smodur asked. Grim looked at Skoria, uncertain, and she gave him a long hard stare that she hoped he could read.

“Uh. Jumpy. Like the legionnaire said.” Skoria held in her sigh of relief as Grim answered awkwardly. “Saw her in the dark and thought she was Dominion. Funny now, eh, Eris?”

Eyes turned to the wounded charr, who just worked her mouth and spat. Smodur’s eyes narrowed.

“Disappointing. I expected better from you - all of you. Legionnaire! Smokeheart, isn’t it? I remember you. Come up here.”

There was nothing for it. Skoria gave Grim, Torun and Eris a final warning glance and Voska a grateful pat on the shoulder as she clambered up to stand with the imperator and his guards.

“Something here doesn’t smell right,” Smodur said. His tone was calm, almost friendly, like he was confiding in her. “So tell me, Legionnaire Smokeheart. And think hard. This wounded soldier of yours. Was she going to defect?”

Skoria’s breath caught, and she couldn’t seem to clear her throat to take another. She knew what this would mean. But it was a direct question. From Smodur himself. Warband above self… legion above warband.

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling detached from the word, feeling like she had no choice in saying it.

“Thank you,” the imperator said, smugly. Skoria looked away, clenching her jaw under a wash of unexpected shame.

“And now, due discipline,” Smodur continued. “You’re all aware of the punishment for deserting. I do not tolerate traitors. Defection is death.”

She couldn’t look at him. She told herself there’d been no other way. Loyalty demanded it. The excuses sat hollow in her heart.

“Legionnaire.”

Numbly she looked up.

“If you need to borrow a weapon,” Smodur said levelly, “I can give you one.”

Skoria blinked at him, having trouble processing what he was saying. “Me?”

Unfolding his arms and raising a brow Smodur replied, “you did say you would discipline your own, didn’t you?”

“You want me to… no. Imperator. I can’t.” She said it bluntly, the realisation of what he expected driving all thought of protocol from her mind.

“Can’t,” Smodur asked, with a dangerous edge, “or won’t?”

Silence stretched between them. The rest of the Smoke warband seemed frozen in place.

“I can’t,” Skoria whispered. “She’s warband. She’s one of mine.”

For a moment he just looked at her, judging perhaps, and then abruptly he shrugged.

“Very well. Shearclaw, your duty.” Smodur waved one of the guards forward. He stepped up with a heavy rifle in hand. Eris spat a curse and shoved Voska away before attempting to stagger to her feet, though she didn’t manage it until Voska slipped an arm under her to hoist her up. The lieutenant caught Skoria’s eye, but on this occasion Skoria had nothing to offer but equal helplessness.

“You might want to stand back,” the guard Shearclaw commented as he hefted the rifle.

Eris pulled away from Voska again, swayed, but stayed upright. “I’ll stand on my own legs, thanks,” she said wryly. “I can do that much.” 

Although clearly concerned, Voska slowly stepped away. Torun was less composed.

“No!” he shouted, scrambling out of Grim’s half-hearted grasp. Eris looked over her shoulder at him, and something passed between them that even Skoria couldn’t read.

“Just don’t forget it,” she told him. Then she raised her head to lock eyes with Smodur on the ridge, pain seemingly forgotten as she straightened defiantly.

“Charr above legion. Charr above all,” Eris declared, and then the guard pulled his trigger and sank a bullet into her.

Skoria’ mouth hung open. Tears filled her eyes without permission and blurred the world. Below Eris wobbled, tried to keep her feet and failed, fell to her knees. Blood welled on her chest. Her mouth opened and another bullet cracked from the rifle, silencing whatever final words she might have thought to add. It was a brave death, some part of Skoria thought. Another part silently chided, but not a good one.

“NO!” Torun roared, breaking free of anyone who might have held him back. He ran to Eris, stopped short at the sight of her blood and blankly staring eyes. Instead, the heat of his gaze found another target.

“Skoria,” he snarled, claws unsheathed. “How could you? How could you? She was ours!”

“I…” She had nothing to say.

“She was right,” Torun said incredulously. He still couldn’t look at the body. “What kind of charr kill their own warband? She was right, wasn’t she?”

It would have been good to say, I didn’t kill her. But Skoria could not say it. She couldn’t lie to him now.

With a wordless howl Torun leapt for her, clearing more distance than most would expect - more than Smodur expected, judging by the way he hopped backwards with a curse. Shearclaw was quicker, though. The rifle cracked and Torun fell heavily from the air to collapse beside Eris. Voska drew a sharp gasp and stepped back, eyes wide with horror, and finally Skoria found her spine. 

“Soldier!” she snapped. “That was out of line! He is part of my warband and I-”

She was interrupted by a paw closing hard on her arm, the one she’d raised to strike without registering it. She snarled and went to throw it off, then froze when she saw it was the imperator.

“He had said enough,” Smodur said. It was meant to be reassuring, probably, but there was an icy cold edge beneath. Rage, she realised. “A traitor is a traitor. Better we weed them out now.”

“Sir…”

“If not, they’d stab you in the back later. Make no mistake, Legionnaire.” He met her eye with his remaining one, and it was hard as flint. “There will be no disloyalty in my legion.”

And with that he turned sharply and walked away, his guards quickly moving to keep up. Shearclaw slung his rifle and took a last look down at the two bodies - her friends, her family - and smirked. It took all the control Skoria had left not to punch him in his stupid face.

Her shoulder slumped with sudden exhaustion, and she let it carry her down to sit in the dirt. She pressed the pads of her paws into her eyes and kept them there to hide her weeping, but an ugly sob escaped to give her away. No one commented. Whatever audience there had been, they had slunk away back to their own bedrolls by the time Skoria was ready to face the reality in front of her again.

Voska and Grim stood over the bodies. He stared blankly, she had an arm around him and her jaw clenched so hard Skoria thought she might pierce herself with a fang.

“I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I didn’t,” Grim was repeating.

“We know,” was all Voska said. As if sensing her gaze she glanced up at Skoria. “We know.”

That almost set her off again. Instead Skoria took a deep breath and steeled herself as best she could. The warband needed her now - what was left of them. Rather than waste time with the incline she jumped down, landing heavily. When they looked to her expectantly, though, it took all her will to keep her composure.

“We’ll bury them,” she said, only deciding as the words left her mouth. “Not here; somewhere else. Somewhere… nice.” Somewhere outside this damned camp. “We could wait until morning, but…”

“I’m not sleeping,” Voska said firmly. “Let’s find somewhere.”

“We need shovels or something,” muttered Grim.

Voska nudged him with her elbow. “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, and gestured towards her steel-shod staff where it lay nearby. It wobbled, and bits of mud and stone rose and wobbled with it.

“No.” Skoria shook her head. “I mean, we’ll use it, but shovels too.” She took a deep breath. “I want to help.”

The other two looked at her, but knew her better than to say anything. Voska, however, suddenly dropped her arm from Grim and looked around their ruined campsite.

“Wait,” she said, speaking low. “Where’s Marix? He should be here.”

Skoria blinked. Of course they should have the whole warband, but… “I haven’t seen him since we went to sleep.”

Grim was checking the bedrolls. “I didn’t see him leave, but he’s not here. His stuff is, though.”

Voska gave Skoria a pained look. “You don’t think he…”

They all stared at each other for a long moment, and then Skoria threw her head back and shouted the loudest, most vehement curse she could muster out into the night. The creatures of the forest and the multitude of charr in the gloom around them went momentarily still.

When she had control of herself again Skoria opened her eyes, looked at her ’bandmates and growled, “we have work to do.”

* * *

They buried their friends on a cliffside overlooking the sea. It was a long way from the red Ascalonian forests where they had grown up, but it was quiet, moody, and pretty in its own way when the sun rose. Voska used her magic to part the earth and shift the tougher rocks out of the way, and then the three of them set to work with shovels from the earthworks to dig two proper graves, side by side. By the time they sealed them over again the dawn had lit up the harbour and the charr army - presumably both charr armies - were awake and on the move.

Few words were said at the graveside. There wasn’t anything much left to say.

The warband of three trudged back down to camp, gave their signs to the sentries and headed for their tents. Skoria rounded a corner and came face to face with Marix Smokeburn, halfway through his breakfast.

She didn’t even think. Before she knew it she had him by the shoulders, digging her claws into his flesh as she hoisted and slammed him against a tree with a furious snarl.

“Ow! Ow! Burn me Skoria, what is your problem?” Marix squealed, writhing under her until his good sense took over and he went limp to avoid being hurt worse than he already was.

“You’ve got some nerve to show your face now,” she forced out.

“I didn’t do anything!”

He seemed genuinely confused, enough to give Skoria pause.

“Where were you last night, Marix?” Voska asked from just behind her. “And you might want to think about being very honest, or Skoria might just take your head off to vent some frustration.”

“Are you-” He dropped the question when he registered the look in Skoria’s eyes. “Alright, alright! I went to go talk to Flame.”

He flinched back as if expecting a blow. Instead, Skoria retracted her claws - though she kept him pinned up off the ground.

“Explain,” she said..

“I wanted to talk to some of them, the shamans, you know, about what they’re doing for Smodur,” Marix stammered. “Enhanced incendiaries and all that. I think we could use ‘em, if we understood what they can do. But I know you don’t approve of Flame, and I didn’t want you to be mad… heh…”

Skoria dropped him, and he hit the ground with another “ow!” As she stood over him trying to find her words again Grim spoke up. 

“We thought you’d... left.”

“Left?” Marix rubbed at his shoulder, checking for bleeding. “What, like, to the Dominion? Come on.”

When his comment was met with deathly silence, he looked from one to another of his warband for help and a shadow of real concern, or maybe fear, crossed his face. Skoria looked away, anger draining to be replaced by exhaustion and relief.

“Voska, with me please,” she said wearily. “Grim, fill Marix in.” To their bemused engineer she added, “Marix… it’s good to see you.”

He got to his feet while Skoria walked a little way off, her lieutenant following. Voska had been quiet, but she always saw more than she let on, and she didn’t seem surprised to be called aside. When they had some privacy Skoria dropped to sit on a convenient stack of lumber and rested her head on her paws, pressing hard at the bases of her horns like it could bring her thoughts into order by force.

“I can’t stay here, Voss,” she said quietly. “Not after last night. What kind of legionnaire can I call myself now?”

“The kind who follows orders,” Voska replied promptly. “It wasn’t your fault, Skoria. They were stupid, but they knew what they were doing and where they were.”

“It’s not just that.” She lifted her head to look her lieutenant in the eyes. “Smodur - I’ve been loyal to him since I was a cub. He’s never steered us wrong. He’s supposed to be building a better future for charr. But Voss, I think I hate him. And I let him -” 

Her voice caught in her throat, and it felt painful to swallow.

“I’d rather die than go over to Ruinbringer,” she said, “but I can’t serve under Smodur right now. Not today, not tomorrow.”

To Skoria’s eternal gratitude, Voska just nodded. “Alright. What’s your plan?”

Saying it out loud was hard, but she’d had all night to come to her decision. “Can you look after the warband for a while? I don’t want them to look like traitors, and they’ll need someone.”

“Consider it done, Legionnaire. And you?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I’m leaving the Cascades. For a while. I’ll tell the legion, but they’re not going to like it; probably best if you don’t know anything, actually.” Skoria quirked a smile, though it slipped away almost immediately. Instead she patted her friend on the back. “Thank you, Voska. I know I should stay, be here for everyone, but -”

“No.” Her eyes met Skoria’s and held them, and Skoria was surprised at how fierce her expression was under all the calm.

“Maybe if you leave, that bastard will understand how much you do for him,” Voska said, and she bared her teeth. “We already do. Go. I’ll keep Smoke safe.”

Unable to find further words, Skoria nodded. There were tears in her eyes again. With an impatient growl, Voska yanked her into a crushing hug. “Good bye, Voss. Don’t die out there,” she whispered.

“Like I’d die for him now,” Voska said with a snort, and against the odds they both choked out a little laughter into each other’s shoulders.

* * *

The last thing she did before leaving was visit the Iron Legion headquarters. On her way she stashed her pack in some bushes; turning up with her things packed would draw a little too much attention. The imperators were meeting elsewhere, a routine Skoria had bet on, and she found Tribune Kindleshot staffing a desk at headquarters.

“What is it, soldier?” the tribune asked after a brief glance up to see who had entered the tent. “We’re busy, as you might imagine.”

Skoria pulled a roll of paper from her belt and set it down on the desk. “I’m filing for a leave of absence. Effective immediately.”

That made the tribune pay attention. “Are you crazy?” she asked incredulously. When Skoria simply stood at attention she continued, “Imperator Smodur is not granting any leave right now. For hopefully obvious reasons.”

“I understand. I wasn’t planning to wait for permission,” Skoria informed her flatly. “The filing is more so he knows where I am. Or rather, where I’m not.”

Kindleshot’s brow furrowed. “Are you deserting, soldier?”

“No.” She pushed her papers across the desk. “And for the record, my warband have nothing to do with this. They’re staying with the legion. This is just me.”

“Well burn me, I can’t fault your guts.” Shaking her head grimly, the tribune considered her. “The imperator isn’t going to like this.”

Skoria shrugged. “If he notices one more soldier missing from the ranks. But tell him what you want.” She hesitated, but in the end this particular face of the Iron Legion had done nothing to offend her; she saluted. “Thank you, Tribune. I’ll be going now.”

No one stopped her. Grabbing her pack and swinging it onto her shoulders Skoria headed south - just one more soldier trickling out into the woods, except that she walked alone and in the opposite direction.

[seizethecarpe]

Just Around the Riverbend || Dave & Grace

Timing: Current Parties: @seizethecarpe @silveraccent Summary: Grace and Dave meet in the classic way: finding a dead body together

In an attempt to get to know the town better, Grace had been taking it upon herself to take walks both before work, and after work. For whatever reason, she wanted to see the town in all its hues, as she had always felt as though it brought out a different perspective in her surroundings. The tips of Grace’s shoes scattered the gravel ahead of her, the sound of rushing water bringing her to a dip in the trail. At the base of the trail was a pathway Grace assumed forked to the lake she had seen on the maps application on her phone. The further she walked, the more she felt isolated. Portland hadn’t offered the same kind of isolation as White Crest, and Grace had been appreciative of its efforts as a small town. Grace took a seat on the bench and pulled out her sketchbook from her bag. Before she could open it, however, she took notice of a strange object floating about fifteen feet from the water’s edge. It looked as though to be a burgundy sweatshirt, or some kind of fabric. Grace squinted as she slipped off of the bench. The sound of somebody behind her made her jump, but she didn’t want to take her eyes off of the figure. Grace hadn’t known who was behind her, but she asked anyways, “do you see that?” Finally, she turned her gaze back to her company-- a rugged man who she had never seen before. “Sorry, I just-- I think there’s something out there.” She said again, taking a step closer to the water’s edge, her converse now partially submerged in the water. 

Much like every other day of the week, Dave was getting a feel for the structure of the town. Most specifically, the water ways. Everything had a flow to it - the air, the clouds, the trees, the streams leading into rivers and lakes. He needed to get to know as much of it as possible, so he could always have an escape route if he was out in the open, so he could solve cases, so he could understand this town. Besides, he found it easiest to navigate other places relative to the water features. East of the river, south of the docks, north of the cliffs. It was how he’d been raised to think, how he’d spent his whole life. When he’d been in the midwest it had been hell because of how far he’d been from the ocean. He was wandering along when someone called to him, a young woman sitting on a bench by the river edge. He didn’t quite catch what she said at first, but when he followed her gaze he saw it. Something caught in the river. “Stay back,” he warned, thinking just long enough to throw his phone into the grass before he plunged in. He’d known before he’d even hit the water. He knew when his hands caught the material that he wasn’t saving someone, just pulling up a corpse. He lugged it back onto the grass. Wasn’t even really bloating yet. Can’t have been that long. “Shit.”

Grace hadn’t ever been the type to believe in the best of things. It hadn’t been that she was always faced with the worst, but she certainly hadn’t been dealt cards that were in her favor. She knew, just by looking at the way the current rocked the figure, that this person wouldn’t be coming to shore alive. A part of her had hoped that it was just fabric attached to a log, but when the man next to her told her to stay back, Grace knew that he saw it, too. She followed his orders, taking a few steps back. Her socks squished with every step, but she didn’t have time to focus on it, instead, she watched as the stranger ran into the water without a second guess. It took a minute, but once he had managed to bring the corpse to the shore, Grace approached. As she knelt down next to it, she examined their face. The blisters told Grace that bloating hadn’t set in yet. Grace glanced up to the man next to her, “it looks like they died only maybe a day ago.” Grace was careful not to touch the deceased, not wanting to cause any additional cross-contamination. Grace wracked her brain for textbook definitions, for what Regan had already taught her in her short time in the morgue. All of it, for whatever reason, was coming up blank. “Do you see that?” Grace asked as she shifted around the body. “It looks like something tried to tear their throat out, could’ve been the fish trying to get a meal.” Grace looked up at the man. “We should probably call the cops, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Dave agreed. “Guessing they ended up in the water further upstream.” Maybe it was someone drunk who had a bad fall, or got tired while taking a dip. He’d seen hundreds of drownings, and as much as one might think there was foul play involved, most of the time, it was just bad luck. People didn’t realise how fast they tired in the open water, in a current, in the cold. Even as she’d pointed out the injuries, which she was right about, Dave wasn’t about to commit either way to these things. He just looked at her and nodded sharply. He also didn’t want to do too much investigating with some random witness around, because looking like you knew what you were doing near a dead body was a great old way to look suspicious as hell. “I’ll call them. You know what the nearest street is called, by chance?” He asked, picking his phone up from the bank, and dialling the local sheriff’s department. 

Grace kept her eyes on the body, looking for any more injuries. The least she could do was brief Regan, or even Dr. Rickers before they got to the body. Grace stayed crouched, barely registering what the man was asking her. “Uh,” Grace hummed as she looked around. Grace got up from her position and wandered to the left where she thought she’d seen a sign, “Dark Score Lane?” Grace guessed. After she had confirmed their location, she returned to the body. Grace pulled out her own phone and shot a quick text to Dr Kavanagh, “I work at the morgue,” she said after a moment. This was a stranger, but a stranger who had helped her locate a dead body, no less. Half of her wondered why he wasn’t having a more adverse reaction to the decedent, and she wondered if he, too, were wondering why she weren’t. He seemed relatively calm, which surprised Grace. Most would be panicked by now. “Just so you don’t think I’m some weirdo who likes to be around dead bodies.” Grace crouched down once more, “it looks like they’re missing an eye, do you see how this socket is kind of sunken in?” She pointed to the part of their face she commented on. 

“Dark score lane,” Dave repeated, rubbing his face as he explained the situation to the officer. He was still dripping wet from the swim, and idly tried to wring out his ratty t-shirt to no avail as he explained over the line. Finally, he hung up and looked over to Grace. “The morgue, huh? No wonder you got your detective eyes open and examining things. Uh, wouldn’t touch it. Drowned bodies can get real grim.” Explained why she wasn’t half as freaked as he’d expected. Still, it was different seeing a dead person on the job, and just finding one while you were out reading a book. Or so he figured. “Yeah, I see that. Could be a fish. Eating the soft parts first and all that. But I ain’t exactly an expert. Can’t be easy, looking at dead bodies day in and day out on a job like that.” It was useless. Without much shame, Dave pulled off his t shirt, exposing the long mermaid-tooth scars that raked across his body to wring out his shirt properly. “‘Scuse me. Nothing worse than sitting in wet clothes.” Once he’d gotten most of the water out, he tugged it back on again. Not much better, but it sure was something. 

Grace got up from her crouched position and slipped her phone back into her pocket. She looked out towards the water and half-wondered, half-guessed what had happened. No matter how strong of a swimmer you thought you were, the current could always destroy that in a moment’s notice. Grace crossed her arms over her chest and nodded ruefully at Dave’s words, “We’ll be able to look into it a little more once we get them to the morgue, I’m sure Dr Kavanagh will be able to figure out what happened.” Grace was still learning, but she could tell the telltale signs of what happened, surface level. It didn’t seem like there had been any marks on the neck to indicate strangulation, but the bite mark interested Grace. She barely looked up when Dave took his shirt off, and as soon as she caught a glimpse of the scars, she quickly averted her gaze back to the body. “Nah, I get it,” Grace said as she felt the squish of her own shoes as she retreated to the bench she had been at, “did the police say when they’d get here?” She asked him as she draped her bag over her shoulder. She figured she’d need to go in now, and that the rest of her day was cancelled. Comes with the job, I guess, Grace thought to herself as she looked over the body a bit more, noticing the way that they were also missing a few fingers. “The fish must’ve been really fucking hungry,” Grace said as she looked down. 

“That the coroner?” Dave asked, not knowing that Dr. Kavanagh would hate that description more than anything else. This kid was smart thugh. He watched her searching eyes with admiration, because to him it looked right like she knew what she was looking for. “Uh, round ten, fifteen minutes. Apparently there’s some major animal attack thing taking up their resources, but they’re getting it under control.” Which, realistically, probably meant that whatever supernatural beings they’d encountered had been successfully chased back into the woods. Hopefully with no one being eaten, but realistically someone had gotten bit. “You packing up? Ah, guess you’re figuring you’ll have to go to work.” He looked back over to the dead body curiously. “Mmm, yeah, maybe.”

Grace nodded, “she’ll be able to figure out exactly what happened here.” Grace could put it together, some parts were obvious, but until they cut into the body, they wouldn’t truly know the cause of death. Whatever flesh was missing at their neck, that was purely postmortem. At the very least, who they had found hadn’t been alive-- if the police were taking that long, then Grace would think they’d have a problem. “Yeah, I should get going, call Dr Kavanagh.” Grace pulled her phone out of her pocket to check for a text message back from Regan, but found nothing. Maybe she was already there. “Well, it was great finding a dead body with you….?” Grace looked at him expectantly, “I’m Grace.” 

“Yeah, let’s do it again some time,” Dave replied with a dry smile, a little too blasély. Maybe he shouldn’t make it sound like finding bodies of one sort or another was a common part of his day to day life, but, well… he’d found hundreds of dead bodies in his lifetime. He’d made a few of them. “I’m Dave.” The sun shone a little more brightly, and Dave shrunk a little into his t shirt. People didn’t tend to be as observant as all that, but this one was. She might notice that his shadow, really didn’t match his body. 

 Grace wondered if this happened a lot, or if he had said it because she told him she worked at the morgue. Regardless, Grace gave him a double thumbs up, “Hopefully ones that don’t smell as bad as this one,” she joked. She knew she should be taking it more seriously-- this was somebody who had gone missing. Why was it she was fine with a dead body washing ashore, yet she was ready to light her apartment on fire at the sight of a mouse? “Dave, it’s nice to meet you, and I’d say under better conditions, but I get paid overtime for going in on my day off, so…” Her gaze swept out across the water again. She wondered if they’d send a recovery unit into the depths to see if there was anybody else. Her gaze tracked back to Dave for a moment, missing that his shadow didn’t quite match what it should’ve looked like. “Does this happen often?” She asked, looking back to the body, “finding something like this? You seem pretty calm.” 

Dave huffed. If she thought it smelled bad, she should have a turn in his nose. Just because haulouts stank by necessity didn’t mean he got used to a whole new level of stink in his nose. He’d grabbed the damn thing either way. “Hey, I get it. You get paid extra for finding a whole ass body on your day off.” He turned back as he spotted some flashing lights in the periphery of his vision. “Looks like our company’s finally arriving.” He turned back to Grace, and shrugged. “A handful o’ times. You don’t get to live this long without seeing some weird shit.”

She was grateful that he didn’t seem to question the way in which she was calm-- at first, it had spooked her, but once she was able to focus on the fact that it was her job, just in a different setting, she had been able to regain composure, and quite quickly, too. Maybe all of her work in regards to containing her emotions when other people were around was what made it easier to calm herself down in situations of duress, at least, when she wasn’t in danger. “This one is interesting, too, so it won’t be a boring car accident--” Grace bit her tongue, “that was insensitive, but…” Grace carded her fingers through her hair as she looked onward as investigators approached them. “Looks like it.” She looked back to Dave, “thanks for you know,” Grace motioned towards him as she sidled up to the police officer who approached the body, spitting off what had happened as he wrote it down. 

[memnonofarcadia]

The Food Chain Diary

3 December – Location unknown, I’ll be honest But my guides know, and that’s how I’m getting home at the end of this, one way or another. They don’t want to stay here longer than they have to, and I agree. Despite how grand civilization can make a fella feel it only takes one short trip to the Arctic, to real tundra to understand why civilization was built in the first place. Out there on the ice and snow the homo sapiens is, in essence, a slow moving free meal. With the exception of larger hunting parties (who still operate with an unhealthy degree of risk as it is) if you go out there unarmed or even remotely underprepared then there is little chance of anyone ever seeing you again. That is, till you get dug up in the Spring after most of the snow has melted. Say what you will about the grimness of the bodies on Everest, but at least they’ve got company. We’re not on Everest though, this is Northern Canada, beginning in what was once British Columbia, but now is something far, far more savage to the eye. If you’ve never been there before then the culture shock might kill you; best to ease your way into Mooseland slowly. They say there are moose in the Rockies but I don’t know if I really believe that one. I’ve never seen them, but here I saw one on our first day. Caribou too. Pity this wasn’t a hunting party, like I said. A good haul could feed a family for a year, maybe more if it were rationed. But no one wants to live like that, not when there are microwaves in the kitchen. It’s so cold out here. I can hardly think. It only makes sense to start at the beginning, since now, in my current state, hunched over like a bloody gargoyle writing this, it’s difficult to think of the next word, much less the next point. I’m in a tent, shrouded in many layers of warm clothing and blankets, but it’s never enough. Until you’re in the sleeping bag, preferably one that can accommodate two bodies, then the cold you will feel. Bites through anything you might have to protect you from it. Anything. Makes me reevaluate Huskies and other snow-dogs, how they not only survive but relish in the climate. Makes me wonder if Jack London only wrote fiction back then, as well. This hurts. To put it bluntly I needed a break. It had been a good few years on the beat of “nature-reporting” without much past the working class paycheck to paycheck lifestyle. It builds character, and indeed if you want to teach someone the ways of the world then a minimum wage job in some shithole will do it as well as anything, but… I’m not interested in developing something I can’t sell, at least then I wasn’t. Rent had to come first, so it did. The trick, I decided one night at an airport bar (it was dark out so we’ll say night. Truth be told it was closer to four or five AM when I had my last), was to find a lead that not everyone would be able to get. Something so good, so exclusive, that whatever nature-thing it got pitched to would have to take it on the spot. More than that, if I went out and got the article first I could practically name my price, within reason of course. If I got a juicer on my first time ‘round then they might throw me a bone and send me to Brazil to look at some toucans. But I didn’t pick Brazil, because everyone went there, and there was no way to make it in that market. In my infinite wisdom, on that greasy plastic/wooden stool, rewarding myself indiscriminately, I chose to find my way up North, to the real Arctic. People went out there, sure, but past the locals it wasn’t because anyone wanted to. Everyone wanted to be in Brazil, remember? So did I, so once I was clear of any obligations I made plans to fly my butt out there to earn my place. Don’t get me wrong now, I did my research and made sure to pack the required gear, Jack London hadn’t been for nothing after all, but even still as I waited for the taxi to bring me to the airport I wasn’t exactly brimming with hubris. In the same way that resolutions made after midnight never stick, travel plans made under the influence are consistently regrettable. Jesus, what had I been thinking? Maybe if I drank some more I could reconnect with my inner-idiot and find out what exactly, but after half a bottle of wine and God knows how many beers the flight attendant cut me off. She had seen it too many times before to feel sorry for me, tourists who were going somewhere they just remembered they didn’t want to be. Oh well, shouldn’t have bought the ticket then, but I digress. The company chosen to take me on my little trip through the Arctic was handled by two brothers, both fanatic outdoorsmen who were happy to bring a novice like me out and about. Lovely, I thought. A real homegrown thing they had going on there, very nice. They’d even offered to pick me up from the airport, which was very kind, and since I was paying my own bills on this one I took them up on it. Their names were Tom and Pete, which I took to mean they would look like the Canadian stereotype I had in my head: extremely friendly, beer-loving, hockey-worshipping, beaver-hugging folk of the North who walked around in jerseys drinking coffee all day long. However this theory was pretty spectacularly blown out of the water when Pete came to pick me up. He had a little sign with my name on it, and he was dressed in casual-outdoors gear, not ready to head out quite yet but give him 20 and he’d meet you there. What disturbed me greatly wasn’t his garb, or even his frankly rippling physique, but the series of scars that ran from the top of his scalp – where hair used to be – down to below his chin. His toasty smile made me feel welcome, but his weeping eye tore the knots in my stomach apart into open despair. They could take me wherever they liked, obviously, this was their domain, but now I knew that there was only so much they could do to protect me. When something wants you dead out there in the flat, then you’re dead. Bear don’t care, or so Pete told me himself. On the two hour car ride out to where the three of us would spend the night he regaled me with stories of adventures past, far too many to ever hope to write down here, but here’s the gist: “Yeah, see, my brother Tom, he’s the one up at the cabin right now getting everything ready, yeah see we’ve been out doing this thing now for the better part of 15 years, and I tell you ain’t nothing scarier I seen in that time than a 500 pound grizzly hauling ass straight at me. Had my rifle but it was broke from a wolf the night before, which is another story, so it was me with basically a club against this killing machine!” “Is that how…?” I gestured towards his scars, seeing an opportunity to get the scoop. Pete just chuckled. “No no no, that was from the time I almost got gored by a deer,” he said, touching the marks on his head tenderly, like a thing to be preserved. “If a bear gets you you’re dead. That’s kind of the end of it. But back to what I was saying about that last one, it charged me, full on, bat out of hell, and then about three quarters way through it just stops, turns around, and strolls off chilled as you like,” “So…?” I struggled to get the words out, searching for some kind of moral in his God-fueled nightmare. “So, it was a fake-out. Elephants do the same thing I hear, they might charge you but they don’t always go for the kill,” “Like a rattle snake has its rattle?” “Exactly,” Pete said, slapping the steering wheel happily. “Now you’re gettin’ it,” Jesus. Even now as I write this, out in the actual place we were talking about, I’m sure I still don’t “get it” 100%, but I’m also not sure if I ever want to. Not for someone as pasty as I. That was the scene as we pulled into the cabin and met up with Tom, who, barring the lack of scarring, was a virtual clone of his brother. At least it wouldn’t be hard to tell the twins apart, I joked sourly to myself. That first night it was pitch dark by the time we arrived, and the brothers informed me that it’s better to start in the morning, which I wasn’t complaining about. I didn’t want to start at all. We played cards and, yes, indulged in one or two bottles of the frothy good stuff but nothing preventative. If I was going to suffer it would be sober, I resolved. For the good of the article. For the paycheck. Only in hindsight is it obvious that I should have either brought a camera or coughed up the dough to bring a photographer along with me, for no words will ever do the robust architectures of the Cold World justice. The sky, the mountains, the crest, slopes, hills, and all the endless flora and fauna are simply impossible to put into words, not accurately anyway. So I won’t bother here, because it won’t work. Believe me or don’t, but the following is my take on the landscape of the barren North: there is little doubt that the reason for its deadliness is its beauty, for the Gods knew no man alone should possess such a thing. Leave it to the beasts and the wildmen, the things that have nowhere else to go. I mentioned this idea to Pete and Tom, but they didn’t respond, merely smiling at the thought. “Maybe that’s just the world, brother,” Tom finally said. Maybe. Or maybe it’s some mushy-gushy greeting card BS. Not my department either way, thankfully. All told it was only a total of two days (or three, if you count the first night at the cabin) that was spent traversing the landscape, keeping a steely eye out for predators and such. Tom was pointing out different tracks and kinds of scat to follow while Pete could look at a scene and tell you probably what happened: the weather pushed the snow up like this, critters burrowed down here, a predator sniffed them out and got one or two but the rest got away. All from shapes in the snow and the aforementioned scat. Where was I anymore? I couldn’t fathom it, still can’t. There is this world that we choose to ignore, that I do, and the irony is that the knowledge of its existence only drives you further away, unless you were an animal or a wildman, again. For as intense as it all got, what with the awful nights and exhausting days, the beauty and serenity and wonder always remained, even for a layman like me. At one point Pete spotted some tracks and called Tom over to see what he thought. Not more than a few seconds of thought went into it before they both turned around to me and announced that we were going back the way we came, we’re not in any danger but we were going back. I nodded and turned around to trudge back along the same path I’d followed those two on, marked by footprints in the snow. This isn’t really going anywhere, and the wind is picking up outside, again. The brothers discussed it and one of them is going to keep watch overnight, making a little igloo-type configuration in front of the tent. “But we’re not in any danger, not in the middle of camp like this,” Pete reassured me. I nodded and went back to whatever it was I was doing, probably nothing. Clearly since you’re reading this we all made it home okay, but it’s worth mentioning that that was what my last night in the Arctic was like, cold, stunned, often afraid, but never alone, even by myself.