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The three men were Kerrians, but they could just as easily have been mistaken for a trio of Bursians. Perhaps this is what they intended. Tall as their Kerrian brethren, but thin and stooped of posture, they wore fine scholarly clothing and kept their facial hair well trimmed. They were a far cry from the drunken revelers in the town before them.
Still, they argued with each other in the purest of Kerrian. No traces of Au or Tyrisia met their lips. It had not been an easy task, but they had managed it after a great deal of practice, study, and visits into the deep wildernesses of their country. They had spoken to villagers far from the east coast, ones who’d only heard of the horror that was the East.
These men were rebels. Thieves of Tyrisian intellectual property, masters of illegal explosives, scholars into forbidden subjects. They were men of the Martillo.
And tonight, they have a special mission. They are all abuzz about it, excited as they should righteously be. If they succeed—and some of them aren’t so sure—their research will jump ahead countless years. They may even begin to see the fruits of it within their own lifetimes, one of them whispers. Another shakes his head and loudly declares—as he is shushed by his comrades—that they cannot trust ‘her’. The other two exchange glances, wondering if they really can succeed. At least failure will not come at the hands of the Tyrisians, they agree.
The first looks down at his watch. It was a clunky, large thing, not fine and delicate like the ones they had in Tyrisia. He’d made it himself.
“Es hora,” he said suddenly, a frown on his well-weathered face. It’s time.
His scholarly brothers nodded, looking at each other, each clasping the watch-wearer on a shoulder, their eyes speaking volumes to him. Feeling newly confident, the man hurried away and left the two to deal with the mercenary.
The tall, well-dressed Kerrian man approached Belo slowly and warily, but careful to keep a friendly and respectful demeanor about him. He did indeed respect her, and had no desire to hurt her. With luck, she would cooperate, and the mercenary’s help would not be needed.
“Solo, bella dama?” he offered, smiling politely at her. He spread his large tan hands, hoping she took it as an indicator that he was no threat. He knew the girl was a half-blood, and had spent her childhood in Tyrisia—the kind that he had little experience with. Still, surely friendliness would make sense to even a Tyrisian. He cleared his throat and pulled out a handkerchief, coughing into it before putting it away.
“I have a proposition for you, sister. You could do great things for your ancestors, and your people, if you so choose. And by your people I mean…” he turned, motioning grandly to the stunning view of the valley below. “Kerria, of course.”
He crinkled his eyes, smiling at her as well as he could, and awaited her response.
Far behind him, hidden in the woods, waited his faithful soldiers. And soon, their elf.
Back in the forests just outside ma’Deu, the two scholars were arguing with each other again in rapidfire Kerrian. Before the elf’s arrival, the subject had been the safety of their third. But now, as she approached, it quickly turned to an argument over who would get to approach her. Their meaning was all too obvious for one with the trained and experienced eye of the mercenary: the twin bulges, their sudden ferocity towards each other, the way they looked her up and down again and again. Finally the eldest won, and he found himself swaggering almost comically across the clearing towards her. A too-wide grin was plastered across his face, and he took the time to look at her from top to bottom again before dropping the jewel purse in her small hand.
She had made it painstaking clear that the hefty payment was simply for not turning them in to Tyrisia. Though, still they did not trust her—after all, she was Tyrisian herself, even if not a human—and had taken careful pains to keep their names and information hidden from her. No, her real payment for bringing them the Innate was a mystery—one they shuddered to think of.
“He’s asking her now, at the docks. She’s the one with the metal arm—not that you need to know, we know—and if she says yes, follow them and ensure it stays that way. If she says no, well…make her say yes.”
The nights festivities were far from her mind, even as the soft twittering of music drifted towards the docks. There would be no happy reunion for her and she wasn't prone to dancing with total strangers. No, she was a painfully stereotypical example of the lone wolf in this scenario. It wasn't not entirely of her choosing and more a conflict of taste and nature. She pursed her lips and cast her eyes downward, kicking away splinters as she slung the bag over her shoulder.
"Oi!" A familiar gruffness bellowed from down the walkway. Belo craned her head around to see Garis waving a hooked arm. Tuel wasn't far behind, whistling from an adjacent dock.
"Oi!" She mimicked, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. There was a certain comfort that she had to admit, begrudgingly, in knowing that not all faces left behind were worth forgetting. "You lot done wasting their wages yet?"
Garis deposited his burlap sack in a graceless heap, laughing while Tuel abandoned his own load, cupping his hands round his mouth as he shouted.
"Ten minutes 'till shore leave, then we'll see if we can't find a way to add yours to my winnin's!"
Belo smirked, "Your savin's will be mine in three hands, boy-o!"
The sailors returned to their work while Belo resigned herself to an evening of cards and senseless gambling. Perhaps her luck would be so kind as to turn and earn her a heaping helping of money. The pleasant musings were interrupted by the arrival of an unfamiliar Kerrian man. His greeting alone sang of traitorous intentions. Few men, especially those of the darker variety, dared call on her unless she openly called for it. Still, there were always a few who slipped through the cracks and failed to absorb the obvious.
“I have a proposition for you, sister."
The red flag shot straight up. Kerria had no right to call on her; duty and honor be damned. She wasn't exactly a fruit of the motherland's labor. She was spawn of sweat and blood, offspring of the salt and earth. No well-mannered mannequin would woo her towards the nation's aid, no matter how carefully-trained his accent may be. No one in ma'Deu was that suave. Not Kerrian, either... not here... not at this time of night. It was a bad bluff and Belo had been around long enough to see through his ruse. A slight twitch of the eye betrayed her, but she recollected herself, careful to keep her face blank. She assumed a jaunty pose, hand on her hip as she turned her head down the dock as if disinterested... while she scoured the crate stacks for Garis and Tuel.
"I'm about as Kerrian as you are pregnant, comrade," she lied... somewhat. Truth be told, she was maybe a quarter Kerrian... and yes, born within the borders, but hardly a patriot. "And unless I'm misinterpreting your racism with this 'your people' business, I suggest you let me be." Ancestors. She spat on the dock as she continued deeper into the shipyard, seeking the company of the few friends she possessed rather than the uncertain night in the courtyard. Belo was in no mood for trickery. She didn't need many guesses to figure out what he was after. The answer was written in blood across his forehead.
Played by just an e c h o - -
Quiet feet on the forest floor marked Anatol's arrival. She moved with the grace given to her by her gods. It was a gift she would not see go to waste, just as all that her gods had seen fit to grant her. It was those skills and gifts that she would use to restore her good name in the minds of her people. She had been so faithful, so devout to her gods, until Cas. What was wrong with that girl? Couldn't she just be a normal elf child with a respect for her people and their religion? That was her job here - to find Cas, and set her straight. At the very least, Cas wouldn't be around to shame her anymore after all was said and done.
As the trees cleared away a little, Anatol's eyes narrowed on the two men in suspicion. They were arguing, but once they saw here, their eyes began moving up and down, fixed on her body. She was beautiful, but they were not the gods. She despised men for all their flaws. They were not created as she was, to be an image of perfection.
One of the men approached her, a wide grin on his face, and Anatol's lips curled into a sneer as she held out a hand to take the purse. She checked its contents to ensure everything was in order, and then closed it again, tucking it down the front of her dress, smiling up at the man. The man gaped a little, but his mouth was soon closed as a loud smack filled the air. He was almost a head and a half taller than her had he been standing upright, but the red mark on his left cheek caused him to stand slouched in humility, or at least embarrassment. It didn't take long for the rest of the man's face to turn a shade that hid the mark left by Anatol's hand.
Head held high, she surveyed the man's companion, who was currently doing his best not to look at her. It was funny how they were afraid of such a small woman who was, by their flawed human years, old. Had she been human, her bones would long be dust in the wind, but here she was, alive and well thanks to the great power of the gods she served. "You'll get your woman, human," Anatol said with a hint of disgust present in her voice. She didn't bother to mask her distaste for the pitiful creatures that were so inferior to her own kind. "Now I suggest you stay out of my way, because the next time I have to close that mouth of yours, I'll do it with a blade. Are we clear?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Both men nodded, and Anatol left them, headed toward the docks.
It took only a moment for Anatol to spot her target once she arrived at the docks. The Innate was speaking with a man, and then left, seeming irritated. This should be interesting, Anatol thought, amused. She pretended to mingle with the crowd, watching the Innate from a distance to make sure no one of significance was nearby. The festivities of men were always a bit of a drag, but she had learned to ignore them. Cas was likely here somewhere in the crowd, and Anatol adjusted the hood of her cloak to hide her face. It was a large cloak, which Anatol had selected to hide her ears and hopefully throw suspicion off her as to her race. There was little chance her daughter would ever recognize her in a crowd, but Anatol needed the advantage to remain inconspicuous. If Cas accidentally got close before Anatol was ready to take her daughter with her, things could very well get noisy, which is what she didn't want.
At the moment, Cas was nowhere in sight. Anatol turned her eyes back to the Innate. 'This had better be quick,' she thought to herself. What a hassle to have to do the dirty work for a couple of pig-headed men, but she was nearing a point of desperation to find her daughter and straighten her out. Lengthening her stride, she moved to intercept the white haired young woman. "Hello, Innate," she said, her voice low and barely audible over the crowd. "I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. Her name is Cas Seingalt. Please, follow me. We must speak." It was likely the woman would just run, which would make things interesting, but tedious. This was supposed to be quick. Getting the Innate to the men would come soon enough, but first, Cas. It was about time that Anatol had a mother-daughter conversation with her black mark of a child.
Might consider it? Might consider it? Cas’ teeth ground together, her face turning away in disgust and annoyance. She would have thought that with such painfully short lives, humans would take life more seriously. It was the other way around, it seemed. She sighed.
“Well I don’t feel like finding a new captain every twenty fucking y—” she started, but then stopped when she heard Aleta's faint yelling, realizing Fort’d spoken in the middle of her thoughts.
She blinked and looked up at his hand, her expression carving its way deeper into her face. Dance? The hell did he think he was? Cas scoffed and turned her nose up, her crossed arms tightening their lock around her. She had no desire to cross toes with a human.
Her kind simply didn’t dance in pairs. They entertained their men, not the other way around as it was so often with the humans. She could dance acceptably, certainly—and her mother could mesmerize even elves with the way her feet turned—but she’d only ever done it alone. And always with her mother or one of the other elder elves watching with a judgmental, unimpressed eye. She glanced up at him, her jaw tight.
It hadn’t been a request, had it?
Sighing, Cas reluctantly and with the gentlest of movements, tugged the wig from her head. Brunette hair fell to her shoulders, and she panicked, realizing how mussed it would be. She quickly shifted the wig to one hand, taming her hair between her fingers with the other. Faint snapping sounds reached her ears, and she realized she’d probably caused more than a little damage in her worry. She sighed and shook her hand, letting a broken strand or two fall to the ground, then realized Fort was still next to her.
Hells, she was just making this worse. Gingerly she placed the wig on a table next to them—no one would steal a child’s wig, she told herself—and turned back to him.
Again she turned her chin up, looking at him. She couldn’t bring herself to say no, but maybe she could change his mind. She opened her mouth to tell him he’d only embarrass himself, but then she remembered the bit about pulling in her claws. She was guessing he meant this.
The elf sighed, defeated, and took his hand.
Belo knew better than to except a clean break and was unsurprised by the eerily silent approach of the flaxen-haired woman. She arched a slender brow at the inquirer while internal alarms rang. There was an insistence in her voice that the mixed blood wasn't comfortable with. The fine hair at the back of her neck stood on end, prickling her senses as the scent of danger met her. She made a careful effort not to move suddenly so as not to reveal a weapon, but wished sorely for the will to draw her pistol and bury a slug between the blond's eyes. This stranger knew what she was, knew the power that surged through her veins and showed no trepidation. This was no ordinary mortal. Lesser creatures could not sense the elements by simply looking upon Belo, but they all trembled rightly when they learned of her power. This was unprompted and unwelcome.
"I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. Her name is Cas Seingalt..."
Her stomach turned instantly as the motivation behind this plot became all too clear. Of course, Cas would be involved. That could only mean certain disaster for the Innate. This was elven business: the most treacherous kind and she wanted to wash her hands of it this instant. Belo bore no love for these sadistic creatures that believed themselves deities; false gods walking among the true fruit of creation. If they truly were the ethereal creatures they believed themselves to be, then why not ascend? Why not become more than man rather than dwell with him in nature's muck? They had fallen far below the realm of perfection, damned to an earthly life. Until they learned to accept this, Belo would never call the pointy-eared bastards 'friends.'
Still, she couldn't purposely hand over a member of her own crew, despite how littler she cared for the affection-starved girl. There was a code to abide by and she wouldn't be able to face a mirror from hereafter if she betrayed duty. But the temptation was so sweet. So very bittersweet.
"You've got the wrong bloke. I know no such name," she grumbled, forcing as much honesty in the words as possible. Spot the lie and surrender the game. There was no room for error here and her words rang true, carefully honed and trained to deceive. "I don't particularly care to negotiate with strangers whilst under the employ of another, so you'd do right to let me pass unmolested."
Belo took a confident step forward while her eyes darted in all directions, scanning the dim dock for lackeys. She would have liked to the carry on without being accosted, but the night seemed to be taking her in another direction. She didn't dare turn tail for the Ardent while the Vance had the deck. The captain would have her ass if she led assailants aboard while Fort as ashore. She quickened her pace, courtesy be damned, as she adjusted her cap and made a beeline for the busiest part of the square possible. Garis and Tuel would have to forgive her for the quick escape. They'd be of little help to her now, considering the nature of this inquiring party. It was a whole other game now. Perhaps it was time to inform the captain of this lot. This manner of snooping rarely brought good fortune upon them and Belo did not want to be the harbinger of a tragedy.
It took her no time at all to find the source of all the merriment and her arrival at the festivities was hardly graceful. She was greeted with disdainful looks, but she paid little heed. Her attire probably offended the lot of them since she was still clad in her work boots and slacks, but she pushed through the crowd towards the first familiar face. Aleta's flaming red hair served was a perfect beacon in that moment and she broke her prior protocol as she gripped the medic by the arm.
"Aleta, where's the captain?" her lips moved quickly, words loud enough to be heard and low enough so as to avoid unwanted attention.
The grim demeanor was clear on her face while she scoured the crowd, eyes finally landing on the sickening sight of Fortinbras towering over Cas. Her expression steeled as the dancing commenced, itching to holler obscenities to earn his attention. But she had more common sense to overcome the urge. She couldn't breach the dance... not like this. Too much attention. Too many eyes and far too awkward. Belo had tough skin, but a roomful of gawking upper crusts would shatter her resolve if she had tu endure the starers for too long. It would be akin to that nude dream, where you wander into the worst, missing your trousers.
She could only hope he would see her before the moment escalated into something far worse. Belo waited for his gaze, quietly willing him to look her way as she clenched her teeth. Hopefully he'd catch on. She stuck out like a sore thumb without even trying while the power pulsed and danced along the air in tiny ribbons, the metallic taste too minute to notice as the urging slipped through her and weaved through the dancers. She hadn't even realized what she was doing until the air grew heavy round her. Briefly, a split second... just enough for the intention to pierce through the ruckus and strike her target.
Traitors don’t bleed black apparently. There was no ink on his hands or his knife. His own wound wasn’t stained dark in color. There was only red. A miraculous amount of crimson from just two bodies, two men, everywhere. It still seeped from the gaping hole in the dying man’s side at his feet. Slowly, he still leaked onto the rocky ground beneath them as his heart tried with all its might to continue beating, to keep him alive despite the pain that had forced him long ago to pass out. For some reason, he couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t stop himself from staring at the crawling flow over kidneys and around intestines outward only to cool, coagulate, and turn brown. His own head was becoming light, floaty even, and he had to sit himself down by the body to keep from toppling over onto it. He pressed his hand to his own abdomen to try and slow the rate his own body leaked. His injury was bad; he could feel it as he fought to stay awake. He probably should’ve sought out help for himself. He probably should’ve run back to his captain and feigned innocence in order to stay alive. No. He couldn’t move away from this spot. No matter what happened, even attempted murder, he would not leave his friend alone out here. It was in his nature to forgive, in the very blood that spilled from between his fingers into his lap. There was no hatred towards his comrade, only sorrow. Only remorse. As time moved on and his friend stopped breathing and the blood stopped seeping, he wanted to see his blood turn black. He wished and prayed to be punished by some god that was watching. Smite me, he thought as he turned his gaze on his friend’s face. Strike me down with him. Prove that traitors deserve to die. Don’t condemn him alone.
But nothing happened.
Nothing ever would.
Cain woke with a start, gasping for breath like someone had been holding a pillow to his nose and released him just before asphyxiation. He didn’t even notice his left hand was pressed over his navel protectively until he tried to sit up and the limb refused to move. He forced it to his side and fisted the sheets over his mattress to keep it there. The feel of his scar was still on his finger tips and Cain scowled at himself. He raked his functioning hand down his face and pressed against his eyelids. If there was ever a time in his life where he said “I’m so tired,” these last two months trumped it by twenty-two. For some reason, his mind had decided to listen to him a few weeks into flight and abandoned the bat-shit crazy fantasies he was having about comrades, crew mates, and men. Trouble was, the only alternative his subconscious had ug up was a very old and once very forgotten nightmare of his. It had probably been seven or eight years since he had ever vividly recalled the f*cking memory from its locked and dusty corner. Things had been good when he didn’t remember and now he knew why. The whole f*cking incident was an abyss that swallowed joy and spat up anger, remorse, and archaic bitterness with oneself. It was no appreciated.
Cain set his feet on the floor and let his hand settle on his stomach. How long would that scar be there? He hadn’t taken notice of it in a long time and it felt slightly foreign on his skin, like it wasn’t his and he was simply borrowing it from his old self. Cain shook his head to try and readjust his mood then checked his clock. Almost time for his shift. His last shift before reaching their destination if he had anything to say about it. It was the one thing he’d been looking forward since his sleep had been ruined. Sliding off his bed, Cain wandered off to shower, shave, and take his place at his post. He waved the last night-pilot off and took his seat, changing the settings and picking up speed. Then he settled back and waited. They’d been flying for months and the patience of the crew, not just his, was beginning to wear a bit too thin. More often than usual, conversations would boil down to a petty argument, punches were thrown among the younger lads, and threats were exchanged between the primary crew. Mostly him and Aleta. He’d spent much of the first month torturing the doctor. Looking back, a real pig head had been a good call and was totally worth the wrench to the forehead. The period jokes hadn’t been as appreciated considering the hundreds of tiny holes in his ass cheeks now. It hadn’t been enough of a distraction once the nightmare kicked in and Cain had actually lost the drive to bother her. She probably should’ve thanked his f*cked up past for keeping him occupied. She might have ended up with a few sea birds crucified on her walls.
When they finally arrived, Cain was one of the last ones off the boat. The vast majority of the retirees here had served on the Ardent under one captain or another and those who had served with Cain on board hated his guts. Even some of the older guys didn’t like him because they were from a calmer, more rational time. No one else here would think that burning out the engines or climbing the side of a mountain was the best option in any situation. They also couldn’t pilot as well as he could in turn so things were fair. The disapproving gazes from his superiors were still something he wanted as little time underneath as possible. He was hoping things would be calm, relaxing, and maybe have the possibility of a decent night’s sleep as he set foot on Kerrian ground and took a deep breath of the air.
O how expectations were crushed.
Cain finally caught up with the rest of the crew and a party was already in full swing. Tassa, one of Sam’s children, had turned eighteen and the whole tow, or what seemed to be the whole town, was out celebrating. Cain stood back and watched, trying to catch up on the event and its goings-on. He only managed to find Fort and Aleta in the crowd simply because of their outrageous hair color. Aleta looked psycho and Fort had found a little girl with either a massive crush on him or a mother-complex. Either way, it was weird and Cain didn’t want to watch either of them. He turned his attention to the dance floor an smiled at the music and dances he recognized. He spotted Tassa being twirled about from partner to partner as the songs shifted and couldn’t help but laugh. She was still just a sprat in comparison to him but she was growing well enough. More like her mother and for the better that way. Cain leaned back on a pillar or a wall or something (he couldn’t be bothered to look) and watched. Someone behind him mistook his expression and in a gesture of what they thought to be kindness pushed him into her as she passed by on the slow song. The two stumbled, tried to regain their footing, and stared at each other in shock. When he regained his bearings, Cain submitted to the idea of dancing with her and took the lead. He didn’t miss the blush of her fae as his hand settled on her waist and he pulled her along through the Kerrian waltz.
Tassa finally looked up at him. Cain hid his surprise at what she had managed to do: look up through her lashes and smile both sheepish and flirty. When in Sam’s name had she learned to do that? “I didn’t know you could dance.”
Blatant flattery. Cain had to remind himself of the fifteen year age difference to keep from switching in to charmer mind. Needless to say, it was hard. “What would a man be if he can’t sweep a lady off her feet?” he asked as he picked her up and half-twirled with the song. Tassa laughed. When the song finished, they stepped back from each other. She looked at him expectantly and fidgeted on her feet. Cain couldn’t help but smile. He would be killed if he actually tried something but…what the hell. He took her wrist and wiggled his eyebrows. Funny and not a lot of pressure but an invitation nonetheless. Tassa looked at him like he was nuts for a moment before brightening up and nodding. Cain pulled her along with him, maneuvering through the crowd and eventually escaping. It was much cooler outside of the swarming bodies and Tassa pressed closer to him as he led the way to a grassy area overlooking the ocean.
Laying out on the ground, Tassa settled against his side and they looked up at the sky. She shifted so she could trace circles on his palm. Cain suppressed a sigh.
“Tassa, if I do anything to you, your father will kill me."
“He doesn’t have to know.”
Cain stayed quiet as he contemplated what she was saying. He had very little experience with teenage girls outside of his own teenage years. He didn’t remember them being so into older men. It made him feel younger…and slightly dirty. Cain frowned at himself for even thinking about it. His thoughts were broken when Tassa leaned over and kissed him. He didn't even have time to think about pulling back, not that he could with his head on the ground.
When she pulled away, Cain pushed her back slightly and gave her a skeptical look, "You are a very bad girl. You know that?"
Anatol watched Belo closely. There was something in her eyes, in her voice, that betrayed her words. Of course, Anatol knew full well that this Innate knew who Cas was, but it was unlikely she was going to give up the elf girl. For a moment, Anatol wondered just how close of a friend Cas considered the Innate. As Belo turned away, Anatol frowned. That child of hers just kept moving closer and closer toward the deep end. Anatol had always hoped, at least in part, that a good talk would straighten Cas out, but now it appeared that her daughter would have to die. It was a pity, but it had to be done for the good of the people.
"My apologies. I suppose I was misinformed," Anatol said in reply to Belo. She had to try hard to mask the disgust in her voice. Innates. She hated them, sometimes even more than humans. They had god-like powers, but they weren't gods. Fakes. They were worthless beings to Anatol. She would be happy to hand over this one to the scientists.
The innate left, and Anatol observed her from a distance, doing her best to ignore the crowd. She left the main areas, and took the the shadowed, secluded areas of the docks as she attempted to see where Belo would lead her.
A hand grabbed Anatol's shoulder from behind, and the elf turned to look up at a human man. He looked untidy and he wore a crude smile on his face. "Lost, little lady?" he asked. He was drunk, no doubt. Anatol's eyes narrowed. This was something she didn't want to deal with right now. Pig-headed human men, always in the way of what she was trying to do.
"No, I'm not. I suggest you let me be," Anatol hissed. Drawing her blade may draw attention, though it would make things quick. She wormed her way out of the man's grip as her hand moved to the knife at her waist. Turning, she left again, hoping the man was smart enough not to follow. He wasn't. Anatol turned, furious. "Release me, human fool," she said, and held out the knife.
The man cursed. "Elf!"
Anatol rolled her eyes. "Now, again, leave me be, or this knife goes into you," She held the knife up against his chest. Being short had its disadvantages, she had to admit. Still, the man seemed to get the message, and he turned and went on his way. "Shoulda killed him. Good riddance," Anatol muttered as she stowed the knife.
It took a moment to spot out the Innate once again. This time, she was in the company of a woman with fire red hair. Anatol observed where the innate's gaze was going: Cas, dancing with a human man. Anatol fastened a white-knuckled grip on her sword. She ought to go stick the human male like the pig he was, right then and there. That, however, would draw far too much attention to herself. Instead, Anatol left the scene, anger apparent in her reddening face. She returned to the edge of town, looking for the men she'd seen lurking about. They gave her an odd look, but said nothing. They must have felt the fury coming off of her, and they looked down and remained silent. Anatol spoke to them, giving them instructions. "Grab the innate. Make it quick."
The men at the edge of the woods know exactly what they're up against. They are well-trained military men, once in the service of Queen Nerifai. Now they have cut their teeth in the wild forests of Kerria, guerilla fighters of Martillo. They are tall and broad, even for Kerrians, and clad in dark leathers and cloths.
But as the elf approaches, it is all for naught. They look down, respectfully, for fear of her blade. They are strong, but she is fast, and with centuries more experience than they could even hope for.
"Grab the Innate. Make it quick."
They nod and without a word, move through the trees and retrace her steps. In the firelight they can see the glint of her metal arm, the glow of her Tyrisian hair. They exchange glances, and hand-signs, and within moments are silently padding up to her.
Each of them is strong enough, but all four of them is too much. One clamps a hand over her mouth, another holds her arms behind her back, yet another holds her feet. Together they cart her off, holding her body and face down before the elf.
The fourth and final of them stays behind. With a too-quick movement, the hilt of his sword finds the redhead's cheek, likely knocking her to the ground. He scans the crowd, seeking any who may follow his comrades, ready to buy them enough time even if it means his own death. The Innate is worth it.
Aleta’s cheeks were somewhat flushed as she polished off yet another mug of ale. The brew could certainly make her giddy; however the stuff wasn’t potent enough to make her stumble around like a fool. So it was probably a good thing that it was mainly beer that Old Sam was providing. Had it been something stronger, Aleta would have probably been missing her pants by now and dancing on tables. “You honestly put make-up on him?!” one of the men at the table exclaimed after Aleta had finished discussing the most recent feud between herself at the bonehead pilot. “Thought it was ‘bout time for him to get in touch with his feminine side” Aleta said while grinning like a fiend. Story telling was always entertaining, especially it involved humiliating Cain. Once again, everyone was near tears from all the laughing. Unfortunately Aleta’s mirth was cut short as suddenly someone grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away from the table. “Hey what’s the big idea!” she started to whine until she realized who it was that had snatched her away from her fun. Aleta suddenly wondered if Belo was finally seeking out revenge for her less than pleasant visit to the clinic.
"Aleta, where's the captain?" Belo suddenly spoke. Immediately Aleta could tell that there was a sense of urgency behind the Innates words. With her prior concern erased Aleta just turned to look towards the dance floor. “ He’s out there…dancing” aleta said with a nod in the mans direction. Although it was hardly needed seeing as Belo already seemed to have zeroed in on Fort. He was still dancing around with Cas, who finally decided to shed her ridiculous blonde wig. Green eyes moved away from the graceful pair and moved back to Belo. Her face was like stone, she could tell that the woman’s jaw was clenched. “ What’s goin' on?” Aleta finally asked, her brows knitting together with concern. Seeing the Innate so rigid and serious was troubling, especially seeing as Aleta was used to seeing her drunk and sprawled out on the floor like a lazy cat. However Aleta wouldn’t be getting an answer, because when she went to look at Belo next all she saw was a number of men grabbing her.
“BEL- !? “
Suddenly there was a loud smack, and the surprised doctor’s head flew violently to one side. Brilliant stars of pain exploded behind her eyes like fireworks as something hard connected with her cheek. The force had sent her reeling so the next thing she saw was the ground rapidly rising up to meet her. There was a thud as her head hit the cobblestone floor, that was when all thought suddenly stopped. Darkness encroached on the edges of her vision and her green eyes fluttered as her consciousness began threatening to slip away. People were shouting, but the music continued to play. However all the songs and voices seemed to blur together and Aleta couldn’t understand anything. Her face felt like it was on fire as the pain prickled across her abused skin, and her head was throbbing from the nasty bounce it had taken against the hard ground. And she laid there for what felt like an eternity, the blow had left her understandably disorientated. However…slowly the darkness bordering her vision began to recede and the voices around her became clear once more.
And as the painful haze began to lift the woman on the ground began to stir. Her arms shook as they pushed against the ground, raising her body up and away from the floor.
As her Tongue skimmed the backs of her teeth and the roof of her mouth she almost gagged at the metallic flavor she found residing there. So the ever so lady like red head just spit a couple times to try and rid herself of the taste. Her spit was red, mixed with blood from her more then likely split lip. Her eyes moved away from examining the red droplets that littered the ground on front of her and looked up and around instead. What the hell had happened? Aleta’s dizzy brain took a few seconds to actually focus and remember. Suddenly her eyes snapped open wide, Belo! That’s right, those men had ambushed her. Overcome with worry Aleta shot to her feet…which was a bad idea. She was still reeling from the blow to her head and was instantly struck by a dizzy spell. Suddenly her body began to sway a little too far to the right. Thankfully someone managed to reach out and catch her arm before she could take another nasty tumble.
“Lee!? You al’right?! What the hell is wrong with you man!?! ”
Aleta turned her head to see it was Fenton that was holding her up, his already wrinkled face had worry lines etched deep into his skin. However his eyes weren’t looking at her, but instead at a man holding a sword a few feet away from her. He must have been the bastard who thought it was a good idea to strike her. Aleta quickly shrugged her arm out of Fenton’s grasp, careful not to move to fast. The last thing she needed was to provoke any more feelings of vertigo. “I’m fine!” she curtly answered Fenton before turning her attention to her attacker. Aleta all but snarled at the soldier as her hand went to her tool belt. The fact that he had a sword drawn was the only thing that was keeping her from lunging at him and beating in his skull. However, she did the next best thing she could…she threw whatever she had at him. “What did your bastard friends do with Belo!” she screamed at him, and then…the barrage of wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers began. She was going to give him a hundred bruises to make up for the single one she was going to have on her face.
“Well I don’t feel like finding a new captain every twenty fucking y—” Fort’s smile is implacable. She was cute when she was irate and foul, after all. The business they both claimed was not one which often lent itself toward a long and easy life. Instead, men who heard the call of sky-level had a disturbing tendency to catch strange maladies, be crushed by enormous fish-monsters, plow mile-long, gore-streaked furrows in the ground, or keel when they had a tinge more steel in their gut than any normal man might be expected to endure. And she was worried that a decade from the uncertain last years of Fortinbras Carlyle’s life might go missing, that a paper-wrapped panacea of lho-seed and metholanth might lay him low where everything else in the world might fail. He shook his head and chuckled through his teeth; a slow, sad chuckle as she stepped somewhat unwillingly toward the dance floor.
The tune was slow, an elegiac demi-waltz which had the dancers swaying about the fire like leaves caught in an autumn wind. Fort laid his hand on his gunner’s hip and pulled her into his embrace, walking the hand to the small of her back and offering his other for her to take. When they’d linked properly, Fort proved that a fencer’s grace has gentler applications. He was certainly no elf, but that was a trifling matter. His body moved with a deliberate sort of strength, flowing with the beat and rhythm of the music.
It had been so very long since he had been so close to someone who was not trying to kill him. So long since he had felt the warmth of another living creature without the grim knowledge that one of them would die before their contact was broken. Fort’s smile faded and died, the haze of lho-sticks and good humor parting beneath the realization that the fragile creature in his arms was perhaps the closest thing to a lover he might claim. In that moment he was unsure whether to be elated, revolted, or utterly desolate.
Luckily, he was not given much time to ponder it.
The prickling at the back of his scalp demanded his attention, and he turned. Fort did not believe in intuition in the mystical sense. Occasionally one had to go with their gut. It would save you once in a while, tell you that the innocuous little dingy you salvaged was actually a carefully laid trap by a group of blood-thirsty miscreants with eyes for your shine; or warn you that the bank of clouds in the horizon was replete with ox-eyes, and that today was not a good day to get underway. Rarely did it point you in the exact direction which demanded your attention. Today was the day he might start believing. As the captain jerked his head around, his body going rigid as the steel cable beneath his shroud of skin and silk went taut, he leveled his gaze at the sight of three retreating forms bearing a familiar fourth. “Throne…Belo.” Had he been a moment later, they would have been beyond his sight. As it was, he had just enough time to see his doctor hilt-smashed to the cobbles and her attacker take a defensive stance, flashing his blade, eyes alert.
This, by the Golden Throne, was what happened when he let his guard down. For a moment, he’d let himself get careless, sloppy. He’d underestimated the dangers that lurked, even in so familiar a place. He’d let himself relax, to let go of the weight of the world. He’d even gone so far as to enjoy the company of another living thing. Never again. Fort reached down to take the weight of the world once more, settling it firmly upon his shoulders. He released Cas (had he given the dark parts of his soul their head, he might’ve done it grudgingly), the slow angry burn behind his eyes a characteristic warning sign that things were about to get dangerous.
“Come on, Cas. Work to be done.” The words came soft, a ragged hiss, just loud enough to be heard over the music and the crowd which was beginning to turn toward the spectacle. Fort reached down and tugged at the hilts of his weapons, ensuring that they both rode loosely in their scabbards. With a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the ghost of his father that he’d at least had the foresight to go into town heeled for a battle, he turned and pressed through the crowd until he came to stand behind his besieged doctor, hurling the implements from her toolbelt at her erstwhile assaulter.
Fort’s bolter came to his hand like a fistful of divine retribution. He leveled it at the sub-human creature which had assaulted his doctor. Glancing over his shoulder, he locked eyes with the downed form and the florid mark that was already crossing Aleta's face. The captain's eyes burned with a mixture of concern and a flicker of wrath; a flicker which became a torrent as he turned back toward the doomed Kerrian. The angry snarl which twisted his features gave his archangelic face a cast of wolfish demon which rendered him all the more inhuman as he spat two words which should make any man, in the animal center of his mind, want to turn and flee, scurry up the nearest tree and hurl excrement at the danger until the sun rises and banishes the monsters back into the deep places of the earth.
“Cas. Kneecaps.”
Fort didn’t stop, instead he drew his rapier, fixing his eyes in the direction of the timberline and his wayward pup which had been dragged into its concealing darkness. He gave the blade-wielding Kerrian a wide enough berth to allow for a final charge before Cas collected his knees as he skirted the melee and moved off to do battle with those who would assault his family.
It was the little things that made the elf miss home so dearly. Little things like the unending barrage of strange customs and beliefs that she encountered every day. Little things like the godschild she’d left behind and the shoddy replacements she was left with. Little things like having to play along when she really didn’t know what she was doing. She’d grudgingly accepted Fort’s outstretched hand, not sure what to expect. His odd laughter only made her all the more wary. It was one thing to watch the way his kind danced, another to be guilted into joining in.
She started, torn from her thoughts, at the unexpected hand he placed on her hip and ran to her back. She’d seen the other dancers do so, certainly—even more, to her disgust—but she hadn’t expected to be touched and treated with such disrespect, as if she were that loose herself. Her cheeks burned an indignant shade of red when he pulled her closer and she grudgingly accepted his other hand. Cas couldn’t avoid the dance, but she could at least try to save herself from the degrading touch. She lifted herself, arching her back slightly, but it was little use and with another defeated sigh she gave in and let her body straighten out and settle into his hand again. Hells. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to kid. She made a bad human, and an even worse elf.
Still, none of it was as awful as the actual dancing. There were bound to be problems when you combined a very fast, small creature who didn’t know how to waltz with a slow, large one who did. His feet knew where to step; hers did not. She stepped awkwardly, head down and eyes on his shoes as if she could predict where next they would find themselves. She guessed wrongly twice, and would be nursing her bruised toes and injured ego for the night to come. Although elves weren’t exactly known for their intelligence, dancing came somewhat easily to her though without talent or much interest. Her training kicked in and soon enough her feet were finding their mark.
Cas was the faster, more graceful of the two, but she couldn’t deny that he wasn’t bad. At first she’d hoped that all the spinning would make her sick on his nice shirt, a fine form of vengeance, but the thought passed as she found herself starting to enjoy the twirling. Despite her best efforts, a small smiled clawed its way onto her face, her lips even parting a little as she huffed from the movements. She'd even timidly placed her free hand on his hip, for lack of interest in checking with the other dances to find out where to place it.
Leave it to Belo ruin it.
Fort looked away suddenly, bidden by something unseen and unheard. She followed his gaze, eyes widening as she caught the end of a rather shocking turn of events. Belo was being dragged away—good riddance, she thought—but the sight of some brute hitting Aleta blossomed in her only wrath. Worse so, the elven sort of wrath.
She didn’t waste a any time in obeying Fort, and reached down to free Vega from its bonds. Had he not ordered her, she would have begged him for the chance to gun the bastard down. But for once, their idea of justice matched up perfectly.
“Cas. Kneecaps.”
The order made her waste a second in blinking and staring at him, before the urge to do as he said overcame her. Certainly not what she’d expected him to say, nor what she would have done herself. Mentally she threw her hands up, giving up the prospect of knowing him. First it was don’t shoot children, then it was cause ungodly amounts of pain—even she shuddered at the thought of inflicting it.
There was no hesitation, however. She simply aimed, fired, and winced at his bloodcurdling scream and the shatter of his kneecap. She was sadistic as any one of her dark sisters, certainly—not nearly as much as her mother, though, who enjoyed far too much the torment of their male brethren—but it had limits. Death was painless, or ended any pain inflicted in battle. If ordered, it was the gift and will of a god. If simply for personal reasons, it was still, by extension, for the gods. Pain, injury, blood—these things happened and were fine stress relief. But there was such a thing as too much.
But none of this mattered. The wince had cost her half a second, she did not waste another and her aim found its next target on the collapsed, writhing body's other knee. She frowned in annoyance at his movement, which was costing her yet another half second of Fort taking off without her. It hardened her, and any hint of pity disappeared as the bullet found its mark. She didn’t spare him another glance, leaving Aleta to clean up the mess as she hurried after her captain.
A delightful idea found its way into her odd mind. She had no desire to help Belo for Belo’s sake, but if she got to the men who’d taken her first, took care of them, and saved Belo—oh, the grin that spread across her face! Fort would be pleased. Especially if she spared him any unnecessary effort. With that thought, the elf dropped Vega to keep from being slowed. The dress didn’t help, but these woods were so like the strange and familiar home her mother had taken her to all those years ago. She only managed to dart in front of him and keep a pace only barely faster than his, but any opportunity to impress or please could not be missed. And just ahead, she could see a clearing. Perfect.
Her sprint landed her through the trees and into the clearing, where she stopped in her tracks. She swayed, pushed by both her velocity and the sudden weakness in her knees. Her face paled instantly at the sight of the elf that was far more than her match and would be more than willing to take her head. She couldn't help the stunned, broken-voiced, terrified greeting, not even thinking to speak in elven.
“M-mom?” she uttered, drawing her sword with shaking hands. Fuck.
The music was the most enjoyable part of this party. The strange mixture of classic harmony mixed with a cultural twist was actually pretty pleasant. It was a new experience, but if traveling with the Ardent taught him anything it was that there were plenty of experiences to be lived out in one small lifetime… some of them were more pleasant than others. Rem’s musical background was able to pick up a sour note every now and then, but the singing and whooping covered the mistakes of the band. If it were not for the group of adolescent girls constantly staring at him like starving wolves who had just found a piece of meat he might actually say that the party was not half bad. Part of him wondered why on earth these females would be so upset by him. It was not like he was that strange. His clothing might be bit out of place, but he would not go as far as to call them odd. Whatever the reason for this, they had hardly let him have a moment to himself.
He tried not to let their presence bother him that much, but it was harder than he might have originally thought. With a bit of force he ignored the hushed gasps that would escape their mouths’ every time he repositioned himself. When the slow music started up he could hear the tiny impatient hiss come from behind him. "This is getting ridiculous..." he said furrowing his brows. He had enough problems on his mind to worry how the hell he could have insulted these girls. He would give anything to get his head off this problem. Of course, he should know that life loved giving him just what he asked for, even if it was the last thing that he actually needed.
When the music took an odd turn at the end of the second bridge Rem’s head whipped up. Something was off. The singing? It was much louder than it should be. The screeching was butchering the melody of the waltz. The rest of the song was drowned out by the sound. Chaos started to break out. It was then when he realized that it was not singing, but screaming. It only took a moment to find the source of the noise. A few of the crewmembers were standing off against some sort of solder. Whatever the offensive had been he was paying for it dearly. With the various amount off tools being hurled at him by the doctor you almost had to be sorry for the poor, probably drunk- only a truly wasted man would confront a crewmember from the Ardent- fool.
When the captain released his harpy upon the man it was all over for him. One of the crew could probably take down the man with ease. Two was a completely unfair advantage. Three or more of them was just suicide. If the solder thought that he would be able to leave this scene unharmed then he was completely delusional… or senile.
As the elf fired her pistol he cringed. The loud crack of the gunpowder was nothing compred to the man’s scream. No matter what the man had done, a bullet wound was no laughing matter. As the man lay curled up in pain Rem's memory drifted back to the incident in the dining room a few months ago when that same gun was pointed at him. Thank whatever force was out there that she had not fire. The scientist had been warned plenty times of the elf’s quickness to fire, but had yet to see her pull the trigger at an individual. It was a frightening, but highly engrossing sight. As the captain sped off with a look indicating an aching for blood, Rem could not help but shudder a bit. A primitive part of his brain screamed danger.
This place is not safe. Run.
The scientist had to remind himself that these people were not the enemy. As Rem was successfully able to calm down his nerve he could not help but feel an appreciation that this group of people were his allies, even if they were paid to be so… That and feel a small bit of pity for the fools who chose to make the Ardent enemies. Whatever was going on was going to end badly for somebody tonight.
Rem decided it would be best to help out in whatever way he could. The first thing that popped into his mind was the captain and the elf. This was immediately dismissed. The two were more than capable of taking care of themselves. Besides he would only get in their way. Getting between the blood-lusting duo and their prey was the last thing on his to-do list. Next was Aleta. The mark on her face indicated the cause for the rage. He saw a few people fretting over her, but it seemed like they were busy holding her back than actually tending to her. It would be best to let her get all of her anger out in a few good hits; it much better dealing with a person when they were calm. If throwing a hammer or two got her frustration out then they should let her.
Hoping that the doctor would get her fury out soon Rem took the initiative to prepare her a makeshift ice pack using a napkin and handful of ice. The hit was pretty nasty, but would probably go down if she tended to it right away. Slipping past the man holding Aleta up he handed off the first aid as he asked, "What happened?" It would help to understand what the hell was going on.
She opened her mouth to speak as the captain's body began to shift, answering her wordless call. But a hand muffled the words as it smothered her mouth. Sea green eyes shot open as another set seized her arms. The world disappeared out from under her, like a rug torn away as she was hoisted up off the ground and back into the crowd.
Belo's survival instinct had her thrashing like a fish out of water, every muscle committed to the effort of escaping, but they had taken in her without warning and she'd been given no time to mount a counter offensive. She was their captive, bound by their mercy... or whatever sadistic whims the elf woman instilled within them. They'd effectively disoriented her and the limited light had her wondering whether it was dim sky or cobbled path sweeping past her.
That question was answered very quickly as her face met pavement and she grunted at the impact. At last, the movement stopped, but the pressure of three bodies remained annoyingly insistent. Their advantage waned with every passing second as she recollected her composure. As much as she resented excessive use of will, this was an exception. There was no time to spare for self-loathing. This was about survival and sacrifices had to be made. The air sparked around her as the power awakened. Its effect was instant- no time allowed to gather strength. It simply wasn't necessary.
The boiling rage coupled with the primal need to survive created a potent combination that allowed her to let loose a devastating attack. The force shot out of her, spouting upwards in a geiser of raw power, searing skin and rending limbs from bodies. It was an awe-inspiring display of wing-like spouts, ripping the assailants from her body in the blink of an eye.
When the weight of oppressive hands lifted, she pushed her body up, coming to rest on her knees as she remained oblivious to her surroundings. All that existed in that moment was the damned elf standing before her. She stood slowly, jaw clenched as the rage increased tenfold. Her eyes became molten, her countenance emanating a powerful thirst for vengeance.
"I won't play this game... but I will end it," Her words dripped with emblazoned hate, promising a merciless fight. The air around her seemed to churn, boil, and crackle to life.
She assumed a brawler's stance, fist outstretched behind her. Fingers unfurled as her palm cupped a tiny flame. A flex of will and the wisp of fire flared into a searing orb. All she could taste was copper; her teeth may as well have been forged of metal, but she paid no heed to the tang. The foul demon existed alone in a void, denizen of cruelty. She'd fucked with the wrong mutt.
"M-mom?..."
Cas's voice pushed her over the edge. The utterance was enough to provoke Belo into the blind rage that followed. Of course, this was all some damned craft of Cas' design. Of course, this helion spawned the lustful elf that scuttled through the Ardent.
No, the apple certainly hadn't fallen far from the tree. But one of the two perpetrators had gone too far. She let loose a bloodthirsty cry as she hurled the sphere of fire at the pale haired elf. Rage alone propelled it forward while practice had revealed no such power. It was true flame alright, but nowhere near as potent as the raw energy she'd used to fling the Kerrian lackeys from her fallen from. It was an impressive attack by mundane human standards, but a creature this old and this seasoned to combat may not be so easily impressed.
“Trice-damned Tyr’ian trash!” Asphedalia Hurphine cleared her throat, hoping her husband would realize he’d misspoken. But Boj ma’Deu continued to swear wildly, in on-and-off Kerrian and Tyrisian. When he finally smashed a fist into the control panel of the hulking beast that was the Hammerhand she knew something was up. Or, rather, it was called that if one believed the crude text painted over the far more permanent gilded “Nerifai’s Wind” at the side of the ship. The pair had “borrowed” it from Asphedalia’s father, a powerful and rather unlikable military man.
Boj’s display of anger made her finally look up from the tome she was buried deep in. Her husband was huge, and frightening to some, but more of a teddy bear than a grizzly. He was not one given to anger, especially the destructive type. Something was wrong.
“Boo?” she asked, using his pet name in an attempt to calm him. She swiftly moved from her seat in the pilot’s room, moving to his seat and leaning over to see what was frustrating him. The Kerrian man—one year her junior, at the fine age of twenty-three—held his head in his hands, his eyeglass pressed tight against his eye.
“The landing gear. It’s not working.”
Asphedalia’s eyes widened. They’d been planning to land in Port ma’Deu for his little sister’s birthday, and to help the Martillo transport some dangerous human cargo. Sure, they’d arrive a few hours late, but it was better than nothing. Especially when they were both fleeing for their lives and busy running errands for the Martillo. After all, they were the only ship the group had, and her appearance had its benefits for the tiny organization. They were in high demand. But now, with the ship’s landing gear unexpectedly malfunctioning…she suddenly leaned forward, trying again. Maybe Boj was tired. Maybe he’d forgotten something. But alas, it was no use.
“Fuck.”
“Yea.”
They didn’t have enough gas to last them much longer: they’d been expecting a refuel in ma’Deu. The duo exchanged glances, swallowing together. They’d have to avoid ma’Deu, find the best place to crash, and then figure out what to do from there. It could very well be their last landing. Taking a moment to exchange a hurried, nervous kiss, the pair got to work, each knowing each other’s strengths perfectly. They took turns piloting and one would usually co-pilot, and they fought together, but they both knew Boj had the steady hand in an emergency and Asphedalia had the steady eye.
At least the ship was cutting edge enough to not need a larger crew, so they could spend their last moments together if they needed.
Asphedalia stormed up the steps and onto the deck, shielding her eyes from the wind that slapped her face. They were going fast, too fast. They’d been descending fast, expecting a landing. Now that was working against them. Quickly the exile scanned the landscape before her. She needed a place that wasn’t rocky. It would be hard to find such a spot before gravity won out. Finally, she found it. A little far away, but just between two rocky cliffs. She sped down the stairways, finding a sweating Boj. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she pointed him to the place they’d hope for an easy landing in. He nodded and leaned forward, stepping up the ship’s speed in the hopes of reaching it in time. With any luck, the fuel would last just long enough.
Far below, quite a few of the residents of ma’Deu looked up, noticing the great shadow which covered the moon before passing on.
“What’s that?”
Cain turned around and looked up, following her pointing finger towards the shining moon. He only managed to catch the tail end of whatever it was she might have been talking about as it glided past the face of the moon and practically disappeared against the back-drop night sky. If his eyes hadn’t been as trained as they were there would’ve been no chance in hell he wouldn’t have taken notice of the shadows shape. Distinctly a ship. It was a puny little thing even by the Ardent’s standards but it seemed to be maintaining a heady speed for the angle it was descending at. The pilot may have been crazy enough to try without a gradual let-up of speed, but Cain doubted the man, because only men piloted, was skilled enough to do such a boneheaded move. Unless something was going wrong. “Holy shit,” Cain breathed as he sat up and followed the dark shape until it vanished behind a cloud. Tassa sat up and looked at him, confused. Cain apologized and turned back to her.
“What was it?”
“A ship. A small one.” Cain leaned back on his hands and whistled. “Either the pilot’s a damned stupid goat or they’re trying not to crash.”
Tassa looked scared as her eyes shot open and her hands covered her face. When she spoke, she leaned forward and lifted her palms enough to be heard like she was telling a secret. “How’d you guess that?”
“Eyes of a falcon,” Cain said with a smile. Tassa didn’t look any better afterwards. Both of them could hear it, the weight of something on his joking words. She crawled forward and cupped his scruffy face, looking at him with concern. Cain wanted to punch himself.
“What is it?”
Cain didn’t like where this was headed. For one: he hated talking about wishy-washy things with women. They always got too into things and he did not want to get into these things ever again. He especially didn’t want to be psychoanalyzed by a chick. For two: she was eighteen. If he was going to put her through any possible emotional scarring, it would be banging her brains out on her eighteenth birthday, breaking her heart of any possible fantasies of tying him down, leaving, and possibly dying before she had the chance to get over him in some sky battle of truly magnificent proportions. That would be the extent of the damage he’d do to a young girl. With that, Cain put on a wry smile and pushed her back down. Tassa looked surprised before biting her lip and smiling slightly herself.
“Where were we?”
There was no picking up where they left off. Almost as soon as Tassa’s back touched the grass, Cain heard a distinct swearing from somewhere up the hill. He looked up, hoping to whatever god was watching him then that it was just a bunch of fighting drunks. The god answered in kind with a resounding “F*ck you Cain Nakim. I’m not letting you finish boning an eighteen year old.” Cain put his head down in the crook of Tassa’s neck and groaned in frustration. Why in hell did Belo have to be getting dragged off by two strange men to who knows where? Why in hell did he have to see it? For a moment, Cain actually contemplated leaving her to handle herself and actually continue doing something he wanted. He looked back up to see a frightful bit of thrashing on Belo’s part and to hear another loud swearing from one of the men carting her as his wrist bent awkwardly. She looked like she was in trouble and the guys carrying her did not look drunk or stupid. This probably meant she was in real trouble.
Peachy.
Cain sat up and ruffled his hair, trying to fight down the rather large and unsatisfied demon on his shoulder trying to keep him from helping. Tassa sat up and set her hand on his knee. The demon snickered and pushed harder for him to lay back down. “Cain what’s wrong now?”
“I’ve gotta go,” he grumbled without looking up at her. He heard a gasp and furrowed his eyebrows. He looked up and was startled to see Tassa looking terrified, fidgeting and playing with her discarded skirt.
“Cain, you can’t go.”
“What?”
“You can’t go, Cain. Please, stay here.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Tassa flinched. Cain was starting to get both irritated and incredibly curious with her behavior. This was not a normal reaction to being denied Cain sex. Was she already deluded into believing they were going to get married now? Good god, he needed to break her here and now before she got too hopeful. He hated messy one-night stands.
“Tassa…” he started but she pounced on him, pushing him onto the ground and glaring into his face. She looked like she was about to cry. What the hell?
“You just can’t go. I don’t care if we never see each other again after this point in time because you can’t stand me for crushing your dream life of being a pilot. I’d much rather you have a life in the first place.” Cain’s eyebrows shot up at this comment. What on earth was she talking about now? He wasn’t going to die if he walked away. “Just…don’t go. Stay here, in ma’Deu. Don’t leave with the Ardent tomorrow.”
Cain stared at her and somewhere in his mind, he was seriously considering her offer. The sight of Belo being carted off, however, kept him committed to his current life plan. Pilot until he can’t pilot anymore. Gently, Cain sat up and positioned Tassa beside him. He took her hands in his and kissed her knuckles. “I can’t do that and you know it.”
"Cain!"
He pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt. Tassa stood up and held his wrist, trying to keep him there. Cain looked at her and shook his head. "Tassa, you have the rest of your life to worry over a man. Don't waste your time on my old, deaf ears."
Then he left. He wasn’t in any hurry to figure out where Belo had been taken to; he figured he’d head back to town and see if the other guys knew anything more about what was going on. Belo was an Innate and would be able to handle her own for long enough. And if not, maybe she’d learn to stop drinking so she’d be in better shape when things like this happened. Hopefully, she was just getting arrested or something and it really wasn't anything to worry about. If it turned out badly, the things Tassa said might actually end up bothering him.
Cain worked his way back to the party. The festivities had slowed since he'd left and the people weren't as wild or rambunctious as they had been. The people must have been getting a bit too tipsy and tired but it was easy to move around them and, after side-stepping Tassa’s old man, Cain gradually worked his way over to the only crew members he saw and cared about. Rem had stopped by Aleta’s side shortly after Cain spotted the doctor so Cain wasn’t too far behind in the conversation when he finally got to the two of them. His distaste for the doctor couldn’t be held back even when he could tell she’d been in a bit of a scuffle.
Crossing his arms, Cain looked down at the two and said, “Nice knot you’re sporting. I’m going to assume it has something to do with our magician getting carted out of here like a sack of roots. If you were involved, it probably has something to do with booze and obscenity. Aleta, you should learn to keep your clothes on. No one wants to see that.”
He heard the groaning man afterwards and looked at the ground a short distance away. Only now did it click that the crowd around them wasn’t dancing or full of people enjoying themselves. They looked scared, disgusted even, as they looked at this writhing soldier on the ground. Cain looked at Aleta in silent question before wandering over and kneeling beside the dude. His knees were blasted to pieces. “Holy f*cking hell,” Cain breathed. Even a trained soldier would have trouble handling that much pain in one sitting.
“What's going on?” Cain asked, using his rarely heard stern tone.
Anatol waited impatiently, her foot tapping lightly against the ground. The scientists had assured her that the men would do their job well, but Anatol didn't trust humans, no matter how much experience they had. They were still so young by her standards. Her fingers tapped the hilt of her sword as she stood on the outskirts of town, her oversensitive ears listening for the sounds that indicated the men were returning.
There were muffled sounds of protest not far from where Anatol was. They were returning then. Good. This should be quick. After all, now all they had to do was keep the Innate under control for a minute or two. These so called qualified human men should be able to handle that, right? Anatol's lips curled into a disappointed frown as the men came into view. They were loosing control, and quickly. Four had gone out, and three had returned. Anatol suddenly had the feeling that three was about to become zero as the innate fought back.
Another face came into view, and Anatol's frown turned into smirk as a look of surprise, and almost horror, spread across her daughter's face. "M--mom?" Cas had managed to utter as she drew her sword. She took a step forward as a large commotion ensued. As Anatol had expected, the human men had met their end, and rather messily too. She had to admit, the innate had a certain flair to her. Had she not been an innate, Anatol may have even liked her. Well, not hated her at least. "Like" was something that Anatol just didn't do.
However, Anatol's brief moment of curiosity in the innate was interrupted as a burst of flame was shot at her. Swearing loudly in elvish, Anatol moved to the side, feeling the heat from the flame as it passed by her at a close call. It smoldered into a bush, consuming the leaves and branched of the small plant. The worthless humans - they couldn't even do one thing right. And where were the scientists? This was their job now, as far as Anatol as concerned. She would have preferred not to be bothered with it.
Anatol pulled her own sword free, a relaxed expression on her face. She could handle this, provided the innate stayed out of the way, which Anatol knew wasn't going to happen. Damn those scientists. Where were they? Probably cowering behind a rock somewhere, Anatol figured. Anatol ran forward, straight toward Belo. She thrust the blade forward, lodging it in between the metal and the rest of the innate's body in an attempt to remove the innate's mechanical arm from her body. If she could do that, perhaps the scientists would come out of hiding and do their job. To be honest, Anatol didn't know if it'd work. She moved the blade, severing the arm from Belo's shoulder. Good riddance. To bring such a despicable creature as an innate even lower by mixing their bodies with machines was a great ill in Anatol's eyes. They way she saw it, she was doing Belo a favor.
Turning to Cas, the corner of Anatol's lip turned into a smirk. "Hello, dear," she said coldly. "It's been awhile. You never write anymore." Coming from anyone else, the words may have sounded light hearted like Anatol had intended them to sound, but coming from her, they sounded a bit sharp. Anatol raised her blade. She wasn't going to try and kill her daughter. Yet. Right now, she was just going to leave her mark. Some visible, others not. Anatol swung, aiming toward Cas's cheek, intending to leave a gash from her right ear to her nose. Even a human would be disgraced by such a visible scar. For now, Cas was getting off easy. Then again, Anatol was just starting. Harsh parenting? Not by her standards.
A few sparks from Belo's burst of rage against the soldiers meets a few leaves scattered on the ground and hanging from a nearby tree. Luckily, these cool off enough before reaching the potential kindling. The sparks flare out and die. However, Belo's fireball misses Anatol, heading straight into a bush behind her. The bush flares up, catching fire immediately, and some grass behind it is scorched. It's a small bush, surrounded by mostly rocks and dirt, luckily. That buys the group some time. But any fire is a danger in the middle of the woods, and within [two posts from characters in the clearing] it will have caught something else on fire. It could potentially cause a forest fire. Luckily, the town is close to a raging river which cascades down the Kerrian cliffs and into the sea below. But nevertheless, it may present a real danger to the entire group.
Cas staggered, lips parting in stupid surprise at the rush of flame and heat which first severed limbs then barreled towards her mother. It took her a moment to remember they’d come chasing Belo. She swallowed, eyes following with horror the rending of metal from flesh. Unable to move her feet which had firmly planted themselves in the ground, nor her hand which felt heavy as lead, all the elf could do was watch. And she had watched her mother work so many times before. She knew exactly what she was dealing with. Her mother may not have been the best elven fighter, but she was definitely up there. And she carried with her a cold and cruel rage which at times frightened even the most seasoned of her aunts. Cas couldn’t have been anything but terrified to know that within moments that rage would be directed at her.
It was no use running, though she dearly wanted to. Her knees shook and her feet stayed glued to the ground. Her blade, limp in her hands at her side. It was only when the flash of steel caught her eye that she reacted, training kicking in. Her blade rose to block the slash, but she was too slow, too stunned, too inexperienced. Pain lanced through her cheek and she stumbled back, a broken cry forcing it’s way out her throat. That woke her up.
Cas’ heart was thrumming painfully in her chest, fear washing away shock. Her mother hadn't missed, she never missed, no: she was toying with her. Cas shuddered. Her first thought was how deep the cut had been. She could feel the wet trickle down her cheek, but that didn’t tell her whether it would scar or not. She couldn’t help letting down her guard a little as she reached up to feel the wound, lips parted in horror at the blood. A human would have ignored it. But the elf panicked at the sight of it, another strangled cry let out. She whispered a nearly silent prayer to the gods that there would be no scar and continued her retreat, blade held in front of her and body in a defensive stance.
Where was Fort? She hadn’t been paying attention, and now she couldn’t look to see if he was behind her, or at her side, or somewhere altogether different.
She glanced sideways, trying to glimpse him and perhaps warn him to go back, but she didn’t see him and rethought the idea. It would make him a target, where otherwise her mother would be content to ignore him. If she ignored him, he’d live—and better, so might she. She respected his mastery of the blade and gun, even if he could never be as quick as her. And while Cas couldn’t reach for her pistol, her only advantage, lest she lower her feeble defense, Fort could. Anatol didn’t have the experience with guns as she did with blades, bows, and poisons. And elves were fast, but not fast enough to dodge a bullet. She just hoped that he didn’t spare a moment with his incomprehensible and unpredictable moral code. For all she could guess, he’d pat her on the back instead of sending a bullet into her brain. Cas prayed for the latter. It would save her a lot of trouble for the rest of her life, and no one would get to ask her mother questions afterwards.
Belo cursed the haste that bade her attack without proper aim. The rash explosion caused the rarity of the fireball to go awry, sending it spiraling into the dangerously dry debris that littered the unattended edges of the paved path. The smell of charring leaves wafted through the night air and she cursed loudly at her failure. The flame had drawn considerable effort from her will and she needed more than a pause to recollect her thoughts and prepare for a secondary attack. Time and place forbade her from utilizing all the tools necessary for an optimal offensive. She could possess the force of the universe and twirl it round her fingers... but a lot of good that would do if she didn't even know how to recover without blanching first.
Sight betrayed her as the glint of tempered steel danced along the waning light, caught by a nearby street lamp. Her eyes widened as the inevitable wailed ahead, the future playing out in freeze frames as she watched the blade sear forward as if slicing slowly through a viscous problem. Her own body delayed as she willed herself to move, but time and thought did not come to an agreement and she only managed a half step backwards before life resumed its unforgiving pace. The sword pierce through the flesh between metal and sparked against the thin tubes it grazed, reopening the long-healed wound and sending her stumbling backwards. Her hat toppled away with the impact as the surprise of the contact wrenched a strangled cry from her lips. Belo could hear the high-pitched moaning of the copper as it warped and bent in the onslaught. She could feel her surrogate limb being pried from her shoulder. Skin once cleanly fused to metal tore under the pressure as the elf began to rip the limb away. It was no clean procedure, either.
A clean cut would have been far more welcome than the slow tear that forced her eyes wide open and locked her mouth open in a silent scream. It seemed an agonizingly slow process though the act took no more than a few seconds. Belo heard the loud clang of metal falling upon the cobblestones, but felt no impact of the lost digits. Her vision blurred and brightened and she could see the metal arm clattering to the ground, feeling a vague distance from it that should not have been. That was her adopted arm; a dysfunctional match, but nevertheless, an effective replacement. And there it lie, dead and uncontrolled. A pool of crimson blossomed beneath it, though she could not see the source. Her eyes wandered to the bare shoulder, but could make out very little. The ground grew closer and her knees connected with solid earth. Then the pain exploded, along with her harbored will.
Belo's remaining hand groped at the shoulder. Her palm filled with blood and the sensation of torn skin turned her stomach. Everything was wrong. Bone, blood and flesh overwhelmed her as an ancient injury replayed in present day. The agony filled her lungs with air as the first cry of pain resounded; a baleful sound capable of irking even the most seasoned soldiers of the battlefield. The waves once kept at bay burst free as independent poltergeists, wreaking indiscriminate vengeance. Once invisible magic manifested as corporeal tendrils, burning light lashing out at inanimate objects, plants, and other bystanders not otherwise sworn as her allies. Vicious vines sought the murderous elf, blinding snapping at the air around her in an attempt to strike down the evil that tore her asunder.
White continued to fill her eyes and the screams resounded until the vibration of voice drifted away... and her mind returned to another time.
------
"Ay dios! Ayudame! Ayudame!!" Janar screamed, but he wouldn't touch her. Not even to staunch the bleeding.
Belo groaned as she scrambled to sit upright, caramel skin paling as the blood rushed from her veins and spilled forth. "Ja... Janar. D-don't fuckin' stand there... Do something!!"
"Perdoname por favor!!! Lo siento!" The boy began to cry in earnest, but he still would not touch her, even as she begged for him. Belo screamed in frustration, but he knelt at her feet and pleaded for her forgiveness. Something she would not grant him. Not here. Not ever.
"Damn it, what are you doing?!" She screamed, tears welling in her own eyes as he stumbled from her, blubbering pleas for mercy he as he fled, leaving her in that puddle, sitting beside her own severed arm.
"Come back! Janar! PLEASE DON'T...! Please... no... Don't let me die!" She screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks as unconsciousness prepared to take her.
"I DON'T WANNA DIE!"
------
She gagged upon awakening; mere moments later. She choked on the taste of metal, gagging on the flavor as she struggled to sit up, coming away with her own blood. She'd lost her hat sometime in the process, but could care little. Belo only knew the pain of a severed limb and nausea of blood loss. Power still pulsed around her and began punching holes in the pavement, but not of her own volition. The will moved of its own accord, thrashing as Belo lay on the ground. She placed the remaining palm beneath her, forcing her torso up off the ground despite her body's protests. Smeared with blood and entirely off balance, she managed to sit up, ashen faced and teetering on the threshold of unconsciousness. Still, she tried to make a fist and summon the power that ran amok. It came swiftly and uncontrollably, striking out at the dueling elf while she urged it to avoid Cas' small form. Consciously, it made no sense, but Belo would not be long for the waking world... or any living world for that matter if she kept this up. Every breath tempted fate and the odds were not stacked in her favor.
This was the part where the cavalry came galloping in, right? So where was the bugle blow? Where was the army in waiting? Cas was engaged in the fight and the so called men of the Ardent were nowhere to be seen. Not even the shining chivalry of Cap'n Fort. She even would have been pleased to see Cain's unshaven mug. But no, who was supposed to be the trump card here?
You're looking at her, came a faint, grim voice.
Hope sank fathoms deep, leaving Belo's mind to swim in a sea of incoherency and unbridled will. Pure, beautiful chaos.
“Take that!” a screwdriver went spinning wildly through the air. “I hope you like eating iron!” Aleta just kept on shouting as she whipped another wrench in the mans direction. He tried to fend off the incoming weapons with his sword as well as the broad side of his arm. However the constant barrage made it difficulty to block every tool that came flying at him. Aleta just smirked with each instrument that bounced off the mans body. However her cocky grin was suddenly killed as her hand went to her belt…only to find she had nothing else left to grasp. Green eyes flew to her tool pouch to find it had been completely emptied “ Uh-Oh” was all that she could say. Her attacker must have heard her, because finally he brought the arm that had been protecting his face down and glared at her. She no longer had anything to fling at him….unless of course she started grabbing empty mugs off of the table…which was actually an entirely possible course of action for the good doctor. Although fending off a sword with a mug of ale didn’t seem like it would work out very well in her favor. Well this was just great!
The man just flashed a knowing smile at her, realizing she had nothing else in her belt to hurl at him. At this point it seemed like she was going to be slit open from nose to navel by his sword. However before the man could even take another step forward someone stepped between him and the unarmed doctor, making a human shield. “C-Captain!” Aleta stuttered stupidly as she looked up at him. She locked eyes with Fort momentarily as he glanced over his shoulder at her. And his quick stare made her unconsciously raise her hand to cover her swollen cheek. Although the glance had been fleeting she had still been able to see both the anxiety and rage that lay in those steely eyes of his. Before Aleta could even mutter that she was fine, Fort issued an order that was sure to stir up chaos and nausea in the surrounding crowd. A gunshot drowned out any and all music, and then there was a scream.
Fort had since moved away, running to hunt down Belo’s abductors. Without him, there was nothing shielding her from the nasty sight. Her attackers knee seemed to explode as Cas’ bullet found it’s mark. The man collapsed to the ground, shrieking in agony. The mans body writhed around on the ground in anguish, and Aleta cringed as a second shot blew away his other knee. The crowd that had been nearby thinned as people fled at the sound of the gunfire. However those with weaker stomachs that had been unfortunate enough to witness the gruesome scene ended up upchucking their mutton and brew all over the cobbles. Surely this was not what Old Sam had in mind when he planned this shindig. The man was left twitching around on the ground, playing in a pool of his own blood, and Cas just ran past without so much as a glimpse at her victim, discarding Vega along the way.
Aleta suddenly began to move forward, however she didn;y get very far before suddenly a hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm. “Hey, What’re you –“ Aleta began only to be cut off by Fenton. “The better question is what’re you doin?” Aleta looked back at him and furrowed her brows…”Well that’s a stupid question, I’m going after them!” Fenton just narrowed his eyes “And what are you going to do when you find them? Are you going to throw your boots at the enemy!?” Aleta’s frown deepened at the thought. She would never admit that he was probably right. If she did catch up to them, what could she possibly do to help? All she had to offer was an empty tool belt and a small medical kit. Fenton released her when he saw her shoulder slump slightly, taking it as sign that his words had been heeded. “Don’t worry kid, them three can take care of themselves” he tried to ease her anxiety, although the effort was wasted.
Her hands fell to her sides and she sighed heavily. Suddenly Aleta felt something cold being pressed into her hand. She glanced down to her right and saw the kid standing there; pushing what looked to be a makeshift icepack into her palm.
"What happened?" he asked
Yes, what had exactly happened. Who were those people, why did they want Belo. Nothing made sense to her, all Aleta knew was that she had been in the way, and that everyone had gone after the abducted innate. Aleta lifted the ice pack and pressed it gingerly to her inflamed cheek “Bunch of brutes jumped us and dragged Belo off for some reason…Fort and Cas just went after them”
And just when things couldn’t have seemed worse…Cain decided to disgrace them with his presence. “Nice knot you’re sporting” was the first thing out of his disgusting mouth. Aleta’s jaw just tightened. Right now she was really regretting not saving at least one hammer, that way she would have hade something to smash his face with. “Shuddup” Aleta practically growled. “…or would you like for me to explain to Rem all about your mermaid fetish?” she threatened. Rem wouldn’t have any idea what she was talking about, and Cain probably didn’t remember telling her that during his little drugged up episode in the clinic. However Aleta found the blackmail enjoyable, and befitting punishment for his statement. She was a little touchy about the mark that was going to be adorning her face for the weeks to come.
When Cain’s eyes finally found the soldier on the ground, his eyes changed and all joking came to and end. Aleta lowered the ice pack from her face and looked at him when he asked what was going on. Seemed she was going to be repeating herself again. “Belo and I were attacked. They dragged her off in that direction, Fort and Cas went after her. ” Aleta said, pointing in the direction they had went. “The unfortunate git on the ground is the one that hit me. Cas happily shot out his kneecaps.” A few men were dragging the man away, probably so he would be out of the partygoer’s sights.
The burst of flame and force had taken the Kerrians completely by surprise. They had known she was an Innate. Their employer had at least seen fit to tell them that much. Though even the most deep-seated of superstitions hadn’t hinted at anything so destructive being bound in the body of a mere mortal. Their lives had been forfeit, they realized as they tumbled smoking and broken through the air to scatter about the clearing that was becoming a battlefield by degrees, the moment they had laid eyes upon her.
This was their end, and this woman--this creature--was its herald.
Two of the Kerrians were dead before they ever had the chance to feel the impact of flesh and bone against the sodden loam. Their injuries were enough to make even the most hardened trauma surgeon quail. The one who did not die immediately had enough strength in his shattered form to vomit weakly as he struggled up onto one elbow. His face, the flesh running like molten tallow to reveal gristle and bone beneath, turned to size up the chance of escape, all thoughts of the job paling beside the sudden and primal urge to survive; to get up and get away from this whole vicious cabaret.
One of his hands, a blackened cinder flecked with milky bone reached out to anchor against the soil, a plaintive murmur wheezing dryly in the back of his throat as he made his first effort to move.
The clap of thunder and the roar of a man-made inferno filled the clearing and the luckiest of the Kerrians thrashed, tremored, and died as his head errupted in a viscous torrent of blood and macerated brain matter. The .75 caliber storm of a single bolt pistol round erased the last vestige of life from the mercenary, replacing it with the insensate gore of a freshly butchered animal.
Fort stepped from the treeline, his fine features cast in the dread rictus of an avenging angel, a seraph of brutal justice. His left hand was thrust before him, the lethal silhouette of the Harlon Vengeance gripped in a ready fist; hammer back, finger on the trigger. Five eager projectiles nestled in their steel cocoons, ready to be sped into the body of the beast that had lurched from the night to visit horror upon the crew of the Ardent. In his right, the forty-six inches of ready steel that he’d worn at his hip for nearly a decade; the basket-hilted rapier that had balanced the Carlyle war-harness since time immemorial.
Like a wraith he entered the ring of light and violence.
Eyes like an early autumn squall swept across the gore, snapping about to gather the details. The Kerrians were no longer a problem…three corpses spread about the now burning clearing. Cas had gone stiff, sword in hand but making no move to intercept the threat across the clearing. Belo was bleeding…dismembered by the blonde elf-bitch which was even now turning to offer a fond greeting toward his gunner, though the gentility and warmth did not reach her eyes. Nor did it reach her sword-arm.
Fort, had he had his way of things, would have liked to have taken a moment to rock back on his heels and drink it all in. Run the numbers, analyze the angles, and mash and skew the pieces until the puzzle came into view. But Cas was looking paler than a poleaxed deer as she pulled up a hasty defense from a heavy swordstroke, and Belo was missing her mechanical arm, possibly unconscious, and frightfully close to an elf bearing a sword as though she intended to use it. So Fort didn’t’ ponder. Fort tightened his finger on the Harlon’s trigger, and spoke.
“You’re going to want to take three steps back from my bullet-witch, Point-Ear.” The iron-sights along the top of the Harlon neatly bracketed the form of the blonde elf swordswoman. “There’s a lot of blood and fire in this clearing, and I’m not too opposed to wading through a little more. So much as twitch in a way I find unkind and, I swear by the Golden Throne, I will end you.” Fort came onward, the coming to stand just a double-step on to the left of where Cas stood goggling at her fellow elf. His voice was colored by a quietly seething fury which colored his words in the shades of the darkest thunderheads.
"So three steps back. And then you’re going to want to turn ‘round nice and slow and keep right on walking until you don‘t smell smoke anymore.” Fort’s upper lip curled into a snarl, exposing a glinting row of vaguely pointed teeth. “Do that, and I’ll pretend that you didn’t just slit your own damned throat the moment you laid a hand on my crew.”
After the last of the tools was thrown Aleta finally began to calm down. Her fury was quickly abandoned when one of her friends spoke something to her. Whoever he was, he seemed to be able to say just the thing to get her to stay. Without the man Aleta probably would have charged right after her captain. Instead of her following her original plan, the doctor took the icepack and applied it to her check. It was better for her to stay behind and tend to the bruise. If the captain could safely lead the Ardent from a giant sea monster than this should be a cakewalk. Besides, Rem needed to know what in the world was going on and Aleta was the only coherent crewmember around that witnessed the assault. Once the doctor collected herself she explained,
“Bunch of brutes jumped us and dragged Belo off for some reason…Fort and Cas just went after them”
So, the Innate was somehow tied into this mess. The first thought that came to his mind was a group of radical scientists. This particular community was not known for being the kindest to the magically gifted. Some extremist individuals still enjoyed the practice of cutting up the Innates just to see what made them tick. It was rare to see a scientist wielding any sort of crude weapons, but there were always exceptions to the rules, especially if these men were the types of men he thought they were. These racialists were barbaric, but there was little that anybody seemed to do to stop them. They did their acts of cruelty writing them all off in the name of science. It was horribly disgusting. The thought of loosing his Innate to one of them was unacceptable. The woman was under his paycheck so he would be damned before he saw some other scientist laying his greedy hands on her.
Rem’s train of thought was derailed when the pilot stumbled up spouting some non-encouraging talk. Whatever the pilot meant to do was not helping the situation get any better. Aleta was quick enough to snarl, ”Shuddup …or would you like for me to explain to Rem all about your mermaid fetish?” The scientist’s head cocked to the side making sure he had heard correctly... A mermaid fetish?
There must be an interesting story behind that. He wondered if he should explain that most ‘mermaids’ were simply manatees covered in seaweed. The creatures were not that attractive, but when you have a group of men out at sea for months at a time anything could be considered to be a thing of beauty. It was a bit gross, but there was no reason to go into those details, besides there were other more important things to deal with right now.
It was only when the pilot spotted the bleeding casualty that he seemed to realize the seriousness of the situation. ”Holy f*cking hell! What's going on?” Rem could not help but roll his eyes as Aleta was forced to repeat herself. Once everything was explained he decide it was time to figure out what exactly they should do. He pressed his fingers on his temples as he thought out all the facts in his head.
It was obvious that this was more than a typical bar fight. These attackers had targeted Belo. Why was still unexplained. Next, the captain and Cas were out charging after them. If the assailants were anything like the man with the blown out kneecaps then there should not be that much of a problem, but there was always a chance that there was a higher power assisting the enemy. If that were the case then it would be hard to predict the outcome.
They needed to figure out what was going on and why. Who was doing this? Were there more waiting to ambush the rest of the crew? What did they want? Why was Belo so important to them?
As the injured man was dragged away Rem could only grimace. It would have been nice to be able to interrogate him. They could have found out something from him, but in the man's current state the only thing coming out of his mouth were moans and the occasional curse. A bunch of screams did them little good. The crew would not be able to get the attacker talking for a while.
He hissed in frustration. This was just like trying to play a game of chess in the dark. It was impossible to come with a good strategy without being able to assess the opponent.
Rather than continue to rack his brain for half-assed ideas he turned to the two, ”Well, they are your crewmates... What do you propose we do.” There was little that he could do alone. He could make another bomb, but he doubted that the locals would approve of blowing up half the port to save one individual. The argument held so little weight it was pointless to try to justify the action. The explosion would just add to the chaos and the chances were high that somebody not involved might get hurt. That was one of the main problems with bombs. They did not distinguish allies from enemies. They just went boom. If Rem wanted to be of any help his best bet was letting those who knew what they were doing lead the way.
"I don't think joining into the melee is the best idea. It's pretty obvious I'm not the fighting type, but perhaps there is something else that can be done?" he suggested not really knowing what he would be getting himself into.
Cas Seingalt should have felt grateful for the captain’s very presence, for the smartly raised firearm which, when pointed at her mother, guaranteed the gunner’s continued existence. An existence which she even managed to enjoy occasionally, despite its drawbacks. She should have cried for joy and sung Fort’s praises. And she would have, had her blade not risen the moment she felt her safety was assured. Her gaze met the impromptu mirror, and within seconds it tore a strangled shriek from her lips. Forgotten, with the assurance of her captain’s presence, the blade fell into the grass.
The gash was deep. Even if under Aleta’s miraculous fingers it did not scar—and Cas herself didn’t trust the human as far as one short legged step would take her—there would undoubtedly be stitches. The stitches, she could have lived with, tolerated as a storm which would pass and give way to brighter days and finer faces. But this would scar. Oh, yes, this would scar, and it would take any scrap of hard-earned self-dignity the elf had with it.
The shriek quieted almost as quickly as it had burst out, and with a whimper the gunner gingerly felt at the slippery wet wound. It was as deep—and horrifyingly ugly—as it looked.
The whimper became a mournful wail, and with it came a torrent of tears which were unbidden, unwelcome, but not at all fought back. The cry forced its way out between shaking rouge lips, stalled momentarily by tearful choking. The elf’s face was just as much an ugly sight. The tears were running in rivulets down her cheek, taking painstakingly applied kohl, blood, and beige face powders with them. And the rouge lips trembled fiercely, and her nose was running embarrassingly so, and before long she’d crumpled into a pile in the damp grass and dirt and rocks. She’d pressed her face into her hands, still making no effort to hide her grief.
Grief which was not, for her, entirely irrational. Respect she could win back with a bullet, but not beauty—never with a scar like this. Even her mother would have reacted much the same way, though perhaps with enough self-control to put on a better face in front of her lessers. Even cold, cruel Anatol, who had struck at their mutual weakness. And Anatol never missed.
Her face was everything. Scars in covered places, like the ones she still had on her thighs after her flight from Cann, mattered little. They were shameful, but tolerable. They could be hidden. But this was a pain that could not be bore, a shame that could not be faced, a risk that could not be named. Her value, the value of every one of her aunts, lay in two things: their appearance, and their ability to serve their masters. The latter, already impossible. There was Fort, yes, but following his orders only ever eased the ache, never healed it. But this. This struck at her very worth, her ability to please—even find!—a master, it struck at her most prized possession. Beauty was perfection, and anything less was simply not tolerable.
Anatol sneered as her blade struck true to Cas's cheek. It wasn't a bad cut, but it was still bleeding. Anatol hoped it'd leave a scar; maybe then her daughter would finally learn her lesson. The innate had been subdued it seemed, not that Anatol really cared, but it was good not to have fire shooting at her anymore. The flame that consumed the bush was beginning to spread. It would be a problem soon, but Anatol didn't plan to stay long if she could help it. With any luck, she'd drag her daughter off and the innate would be left to the scientists. If they every decided to show their faces, that was.
The only problem remaining was the human. He had a commanding presence to him, and Anatol could have even considered him ruggedly handsome, save for the human bit. It seemed as though Cas was more than willing to hide behind him. As the man approached her and pulled his gun on Anatol, Cas's blade dropped and she shrieked, no doubt having noted the gash on her cheek. Anatol wondered for a moment about the man. Was Cas looking for a husband in him? A human? Anatol knew that straightening Cas out would take quite a bit of work, but now, it was looking like the task would be even harder, if not impossible. Still, Anatol was determined, for both her and her daughter's sake, to get Cas to behave herself like a normal elf ought to.
The man's words were cold and threatening, and Anatol didn't doubt he was a man of his word. She had no doubt that he would shoot her if she tried to kill him. Guns complicated matters. What happened to the old days of swords? Things had been so much...simpler then. The better man, or in Anatol's case, woman, always won. Guns were cheap pieces of technology that man invented to better kill each other. A coward's weapon, as Anatol saw it. With a gun, men didn't have to look their opponent's in the eye. This man, however, had the cold eyes that didn't match the normal humans'. No, this man was far braver than his brothers, and for that, Anatol could almost admire him.
He'd told her to take a step back, but instead she took a slow, graceful step forward. She was careful to make the motion a small, smooth one, as not to startle him. The last thing she needed was for a bullet to find its way into her heart. That would certainly make restoring her good name in her community quite a bit harder. Not to mention the fact that she'd lose a bit of her beauty. There was just something unattractive about a hole in a woman's chest that made her not so appealing.
"This isn't your fight," Anatol said. She masked the earlier sadist tone in her voice, and adopted a more appealing tone. It was the one she used to get men to give her what she wanted, and right now, she wanted nothing more to leave in peace, just as he had suggested she do. "You see, I'd love to leave, but I can't go alone. It's a family matter." Anatol guessed her attempts to soothe the man's anger against her would be far less effective than if they had been tried on another, but it was well worth a shot. "I came a long way for this little family reunion. Don't try and get in the way, amant." The last word she said in elvish. It seemed that men liked an elf woman. Not all of them, of course, but some of them. Some men just like a different sort of woman, human or otherwise.
"Oh, and I'm sorry about your innate. I would have preferred to have left her out of this, but if you really must know, there are two scientists not far from here who wanted your innate. They put me up to this, and the cowards won't even show their faces," Anatol said. She kept her voice soft and pleading, but not to the point of sounding pitiful. Anatol was anything but. It was a long shot, getting the man to listen, but the only other option was to leave empty handed. Anatol didn't consider that an option.
To say Cain’s skin paled was an understatement. All color simply fled from his face. If he had been holding something, he would have dropped it. Instead, his arms just kind of fell dumbly to his sides as he slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder at the red-headed demon behind him. He’d forgotten all about the soldier sprawled out on the ground beside him and hardly noticed as his arms were lifted and he was dragged away, moaning and swearing. Cain was, for once, entirely focused on one thing: how to mentally attack himself. There were no initial thoughts of “How did she find out?” or “She needs to die.” No, his single thought at that moment was “Good lord man, stop being so gay and things like this wouldn’t happen.” Later, after this whole ordeal was finished and cleaned up, the full reality of the situation he was currently in would smack him across the face and he would feel a whole new rage and terror build up in his throat, but for this moment it was this simple terror, the terror that his manhood was in danger outside of his own mind.
“How the he—” he started to say before he caught a glimpse of the kid from the corner of his eye. He looked a bit confused but otherwise oblivious to the possible meaning behind Aleta’s threat. That meant if the scientist-kid didn’t know, he didn’t need to know. “You know what, I probably should’ve followed after Belo instead of coming back here.” He pushed himself up onto his feet and scratched his chin, thinking. What was the best course of action from this point on? Analyze the situation. He figured neither Aleta nor the short, never-to-hit-puberty scientist had any real battle experience and probably couldn’t hold their own against anything more than a woman…or a monkey. He hardly had any himself after being in a pilot’s position through the vast majority of his military career. He knew a bit from training and working up from being a grunt, but that wasn’t much more than how to kill with a knife and how to shoot a rifle, neither of which he had in his possession. Aleta seemed to be tool-less at the moment, but she could gather up the ones on the ground around them and use those if things got really desperate. Cain moved his hand to the back of his head so he could stare at the ground and piece his options together.
Go after Belo as a group and be of absolutely no use.
Stay right here and either be less useful or more useful by not being in the way.
“Gawdamnit, Fort needs to hire more fighters,” Cain grumbled to himself as he pulled up a chair and sat his ass down. He was complaining aloud to himself and appearing rather insane because of it. “I don’t care how often he says ‘The crew handles themselves just fine’ or ‘Cas is crazy enough for at least four fighters.’ When shit like this happens, he can’t expect the rest of us losers to pick up slack.” Cain fisted his hands and slumped over his knees, “No. This is pig shit. If he goes and gets himself killed, I’m out a job and Mum will just try and get ol’ Jai to hire me as a servant boy.” He swiped his arm through the air and shook his head. “No f*cking way am I working for that kiss-ass.”
Martin wasn’t being very cooperative about the whole thing. He seemed pretty okay with the idea of brushing off responsibility and, with it, participation. Cain wished he had a similar excuse because he really did not want to do anything about this. Not now, not ever. He wanted to avoid as much conflict in his life as possible. Trouble was, no matter how he looked at it, his options weren’t good, but if things went to the dogs in this his options were even worse. That meant they needed to do something.
Hell, he’d let Aleta choose.
Cain stood up again and pointed at the kid first. “For chrissakes Mary, stop being selfish and admit to the fact that the moment you commissioned this crew, you pretty much sold us your immortal and girlish soul.” Then he turned to Aleta, “And you. What do you think we should do?”
The elf wench was moving. Not as he’d asked, but in the wrong damn direction.
It never went smooth. Why did it never go smooth?
Her lips were moving. Words were coming out. A paltry stream of fuzzy logic and tired lines, the sort of things that might’ve worked on any number of soft-skulled twits with a hanging jaw for anything blonde, buxom, and breathing. “This isn’t your fight,” she said. She couldn’t be more wrong. The moment she’d laid a hand on a citizen of his flying nation, the moment she’d wished ill intent upon a single member of his adopted family, she’d dragged Fortinbras Carlyle into the mix.
"You see, I'd love to leave, but I can't go alone. It's a family matter." There at least she and Fort could see eye to eye. The same familial bond kept the heavy Harlon bolt pistol drawn even with the elf’s throat. She expected him to simply holster his weapon and stand aside as after she’d all but butchered his Innate and sent his gunner to the loam, an inconsolable wreck. Could she honestly be serious? What sort of heartless son of a bitch could just turn and walk away and leave his compatriots to the scant mercy of such a creature?
"I came a long way for this little family reunion. Don't try and get in the way, amant." She sashayed closer, every cell of her body utilizing every one of the feminine charms that the mad wizards had so longed for in their creations. She was a creature built for sex and death. Right down to the way she pronounced the final elven syllable, curling her mouth around the word just so. Inhuman. Inscrutable. She was trying her damnedest to cloud his judgment. To make him soft, pliant. Or slow enough to gut on that length of steel which shone in the firelight.
Fort’s own right hand tightened on his rapier, the leather creaking beneath his fist. She was ageless. Flawless. More than likely, tireless. Easily his equal, more likely his better with a blade. And she was getting closer…slowly enough to ensure that he would not shoot on reflex.
The mental calculations and dissection of the elf’s words took less time to mull over than it took to take a steadying breath. A heartbeat, no longer. No further thought was necessary. He’d only needed a fraction of a second to correct his aim.
His finger convulsed on the trigger. The Harlon belched fire and smoke and thunderous death. Its roar split the silence, playing counterpoint to the crackling of the burning clearing, drowning it out in a single violent explosion. The .75 caliber projectile, burning magnesium over glinting tungsten carbide, rocketed forth on spreading sulfur wings, bridging the gap in less than a hundredth of a heartbeat. And it passed close enough by the elf’s right ear to leave a trail of molten heat in its wake, even after the buzzing hum of the projectile’s sonic boom as it broke the sound-barrier flickered and died.
The Harlon realigned on the small hollow beneath the elf’s elegant throat, the divot where her collarbone dipped. Fort’s snarl did not disappear. “Walk, chienne.” His own word of elven was less endearing. But it made his point perfectly.
A conquering smile traced it away across the good doctor’s face as she saw the color drain from Cain’s cheeks. To see him look so utterly aghast and defeated was enough to make her want to squeal with delight. It was as if Aleta was holding his dignity in the palm of her hand and beginning to tighten her grip. And if he crossed her, she could utterly obliterate it. She was drunk with power! In fact she almost felt like standing on a table and shouting ‘victory is mine’ at the top of her lungs. However she resisted said urge, she had stood on enough tables for one night. Now did she feel guilty about this little bit of blackmail? Hell to the no! I mean Aleta was not the only one who thought that the man was an absolute nightmare. The oaf of a pilot was on numerous peoples shit list. Aleta just happened to be the one enemy had had stupidly spilled secrets too, thank you drugs! Besides Aleta felt like he deserved this. The make-up she had painted onto his face still didn’t feel like enough punishment for that stunt he pulled a while back. Aleta still couldn’t get that bad taste out of her mouth. And to make matters worse she had reoccurring nightmares about it! If Cain made an appearance in any of her dreams it was automatically dubbed a nightmare, regardless of the situation or disturbing content that her subconscious decided to throw at her….
Feeling accomplished by Cain’s lack of speech Aleta’s eyes meandered away from moron and moved back to the Rem. The kid looked somewhat puzzled as he looked between the two of them. Hell, he was probably wondering what the hell had just gone down between Aleta and the idiot aeronaut. She’d explain it to him when he was older…or when Cain finally pissed her off enough to actually make her reveal the bastards homoerotic tendencies. But right now, they had bigger things then Cain’s more that questionable sexuality and creep factor to be concerned with. Fort and the others still hadn’t returned. And although they could probably handle themselves, Aleta still couldn’t help but fret. What had those men really wanted with Belo? Gah! She hated to feel useless. All she had to protect herself were needles and her tools. And speaking of which, all of her instruments of repair were still strewn across the cobbles. And it wasn’t like she had money to replace them.
Aleta moved away from Cain and Rem and began to pick up whatever tools she managed to spot. A wrench or two had overshot the man and went flying pretty far. She apparently needed a lot of work on her aim. As she was gathering up her gear she could hear Cain bitching in the background as usual. He blathering on about Fort getting himself killed and said something about being forced to be some sort of servant boy. Please Aleta couldn’t even begin to imagine Cain as a servant boy? Cain would probably die if he actually had to do an honest days work for once in his life. “Would you can it!” Aleta suddenly shouted over her shoulder. “Fort ain’t gonna get himself killed, so stop whining already…geez” Did Aleta really believe that Fort couldn’t die? Well of course not, no one was immortal. However it was easier to hope for the best then drive yourself mad worrying about what could happen. I mean if Fort did die, where would it leave all of them? And what would it say about her if she wasn’t there. She was the doctor, it was her job to make sure no one died on the job….right?
Her tool belt slowly began to fill up once again, and it was then that something caught her eye. There sitting on the ground was Cas’ firearm. That’s right…she had discarded it before running off after Fort. Aleta bent over and picked the gun up off of the ground, letting the weight tug at her hand. It was just then that she heard both the men behind her ask what it was that they should do. The red head glanced over her shoulder back at the both of them. Since when had she become the jolly leader of the useless? Well, Fenton was off with the soldier who was busy bleedin out. So Aleta whirled around, and faced the men with Vega resting back against her shoulder. “Well...I say we go after them!” she announced.
Yes, and Fenton wasn’t here to make a crack about throwing her boots this time. Besides it wasn’t as bad now that there were more of them. There was safety in numbers right? Sure there was! If someone came after her she could just hide behind Cain and use him as a meat shield.
“I just don’t feel right sitting here and doing nothing,” Aleta admitted.
It seemed that this man was doing exactly what Anatol had thought he would: resisted. Why was it that when Anatol absolutely needed a man to fall for her elven charm, they never did? She was tired. Tired of the shame her daughter brought to her name, and tired of trekking across the continent, and beyond, in order to find her daughter and restore her good name. She had been something of an idol, the one the other elven women could look up to with a sense of reverence and awe. Couldn’t these human fools just understand? She didn’t want to get in their way or make trouble for them. She just wanted an end to all the grief her daughter was bringing her.
Anatol raised her chin, staring at the human man’s eyes. The gun. That was the only thing that stood in her way. With a blade she would have him beat, but firearms? They were an evil creation that proved man’s cowardice. “As I said, I’ll leave once I get the chance to speak with my daughter. Alone. Perhaps you don’t understand. I take it you’ve never had kids?” Anatol said. The human man didn’t look like the type to have his little offspring out and about. Perhaps that was why Cas seemed to have taken such a liking to him.
Anatol turned back to Cas. “And you,” she said. “It’s about time we spoke. Haven’t you caused enough trouble? They’re human, Cas, and you don’t belong with them. Now you've ruined your hopes with our people.” Anatol never could understand why her daughter had taken up refuge in a ship full of humans, and worse, with an innate. It was obvious that the innate wasn’t on the friendliest with Cas, and it seemed that even the humans harbored something of distrust for her. So why did she stay? That was the question Anatol figured she’d never find an answer to, at least not an answer she could understand.
Speaking of the innate, Anatol had stopped paying attention to her. Out of the corner of her eye, Anatol saw that the innate had been more than subdued. Anatol had not come here to kill anyone, but if the innate died, she supposed it would be at no loss. Had the elf had her way, the innate would be in far worse shape. But no, the scientists wanted her alive. Alive. Why didn’t anyone ever want them dead? Dead bodies didn’t resist, didn’t fight back. Then again, they didn’t talk either. But Anatol didn’t need them to talk; she just needed them out of her way, like the man in front of her. He needed to be out of the way.
But he wasn't.
Instead, he fired a shot, sending it past her ear. Anatol could feel the heat or the bullet as it passed her, and it took nearly all of her control to resist the urge to flinch, or at least attempt to kill this man. He had the gun, and in a fight, he would most likely win with it. She took a step back, hoping to not further anger him. She didn't keep moving though, but rather stood rooted in place.
The fire that was beginning to spread was starting to worry Anatol now. With the stalemate she’d found herself in, she was going to have to find a way to end it, and soon, before the fire ruined her plan. Damn innate, causing problems long after she’d lost consciousness. At least, that’s what it appeared had happened. “You better see to your innate, you know. Before she gets worse. Let me take Cas, and you can have your innate. I’ll even give you the men that wanted her in that condition there,” Anatol tried to reason. So far, however, reasoning with this man was like reasoning with a wall. A mean, angry, and overprotective wall, but a wall nonetheless. He didn’t move, and it was getting rather annoying.
Fortinbras Carlyle, for the record, had never been terribly good at shooting women. That happy side-effect of a proper moral upbringing and a long-standing love of the fairer sex had come into question numerous times in his motley adventures at the head of his band of madcaps. Women, it seemed did not have the same hang-up. He’d caught a few bullets in his time, and did not care for the experience of lead against flesh. And he’d been stabbed and slashed more times than he could ever hope to remember. That was almost worse.
Women made him go softer than he should be. It was a far cry from Achilles’ heel, but it was a weakness nonetheless. That moment of hesitation guided by some misbegotten call for nobility of character, that noblesse which had no place on the battlefield that had become his life, would, in all likelihood, end in him having one more scar to show for his time at the head of the Ardent. And that was if he was very lucky and all went exceedingly well. At worst, well, he would no longer need to worry about his paltry little weaknesses.
So, to say that Fort was not moved by the elf’s entreaty for a bloodless (from here on out) end to the resolution would be a…
Well, that’s a lie. Fort was unmoved. You see, the moment his family, and more specifically, two-thirds of the female population of his crew was threatened, he lost his ability to discern gender for the purpose of meting out punishment. This elf in front of him, desperately trying to reason with a man who had long since lost the will to make nice, had signed her own death warrant. She’d only gotten the courtesy of a head start before he ran her to ground and made her suffer for her crimes against his family.
“And that’s three.” Fort’s snarl became a humorless smile as his finger tightened on the Harlon’s trigger. Three chances. No more. The bolter roared.
Now for a chemistry lesson. Magnesium is a naturally occurring metal, highly reactive. When heated, it takes flame quite easily, burning a brilliant white and often reaching temperatures of 2500 degrees Celsius. Tungsten carbide is an extremely dense metal made of equal parts tungsten and carbon, three times denser than steel, and only etchable with diamond-hard substance. Now, tungsten carbide has a melting point which is staggeringly close to 2500 degrees Celsius. The good people who developed bolter ammunition decided that the combination was a match made in Hell. Imagine an ounce of drill-bit fodder capped with scorching flare-stuff that, once impacting a target, would bore a hole, fragment in liquid gobbets, and cauterize a hellacious mess, instantly scarring over the damage within a living body. The shock alone might be enough to kill a lesser creature. Now imagine that the projectile was moving twice the speed of sound and with enough force to punch through nearly a foot and a half of lead plating.
One such projectile was on course for Cas’ mother’s right hip. If she did not manage to somehow bend the laws of reality and act in half the time it would take for the weapon’s crack to reach her ears, it would most likely shatter that bony shelf, scattering fragments of bone throughout the joint and the area behind her as gobbets of molten metal seared a raw wound a full three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It would be a nasty, debilitating wound that would hurt more than most might ever even begin to imagine. And that’s the way Fort wanted it. The elf didn’t deserve a clean death. And unless she did something rash, she wouldn’t get one. Fort did not love her chances.
Which is why he wasted no time in holstering the sidearm and moving toward the downed form of his Innate, crouching to gather her bleeding form into his arms. Buttons popped and tore as he removed his shirt, one handed, packing it against the bleeding wound to serve as an improvised bandage to stanch the flow of blood. “Cas, get her arm. We need to get her back to the ship.”
Belo was feather light, her breathing shallow and too infrequent for his liking. Fort had the sneaking suspicion that Aleta would be hard-pressed to salvage this situation with her needle-point. Fort’s eyes swept the clearing, taking stock one last time before he turned back the way he’d come, cradling his wounded Innate against the scarred surface of his chest.
It happened so fast. Cas was still cursing Fort for being an idiot and letting Anatol live, even as she heard bullet meet flesh and bone. At first she didn't move, not at all convinced to end her grieving, even at what had very likely been the end of her mother. But at Fort's order, she gathered herself up, one hand curled around the cut, another reaching out to take Belo's still-attached arm.
And as the pair slowly dragged the Innate away, Cas didn't so much as steal a glance back at her mother. She had far more important things to lay her eyes on, and if Fort had finally fired at the assassin, she'd be dead. Anatol Seingalt was fast, but not that fast. The elf didn't need a second glance to tell her that.
Rather, Cas' eyes were on a far more interesting subject. As Fort removed his shirt and wrapped it around Belo's stump of an arm, the elf's gaze zeroed in on the captain's chest. And as she grudgingly scooped up Belo's false arm, and later Vega, she continued to glance discreetly at it. And, indeed, part of it was out of curiosity and lust. She'd seen her fair share of the nude male form, certainly. First with the elven men, who her aunts had enjoyed ordering around nude and embarassed whenever they were bored. She'd quite enjoyed that. And aboard the Ardent, ah, the little elf had more than exploited her training and time aboard the ship crawling around air ducts and hiding in awkward spots in order to watch her male comrades shower. And the gunner had seen far finer and more swoon-inducing chests (and more) that way. Cain's, most notably, though she'd have to be inebriated as hell to admit it. Fort's, she realized with a frown, wasn't nearly as handsome as Cain's. But no matter. Still the elf stole glances constantly.
But part of it was more than that, though she couldn't put a word to the feeling. Seeing Belo cradled in her captain's arms put another layer of frown to an already grief-twisted face. Belo hadn't gotten it nearly as bad as the gunner. She could get it reattached easily, and be just as foul-smelling and unattractive as she'd always been. But Cas had lost something far more precious. And all thanks to Belo. She'd failed, gotten carted off into the woods when she should have been watching her back. She'd let herself get cut up. But she was the one being carried off. Cas frowned, her hand curling a little more over the gash. What about her?
Suddenly the gunner leaned into Fort, shifting and dragging one leg in a shuffling, false limp, and kept it up for the trip back to the ship. As they passed Aleta, hand still covering her wound, she looked at her helplessly. Of course Fort would have the witch taken care of first. Maybe if she...the gunner lent more false pain to her leg, slowing her gait just slightly and dragging the foot a little louder. Another glance at the bared chest, then at the ship, and as the pair bore the Innate into the infirmary, Cas detached herself from her captain and abandoned the limp. She sat, or fell into rather a nearby seat, her gaze flickering between the pair, Aleta, and anyone who she might be able to bully into finding another doctor for her.
Hand still covering the cut, Cas sulked.
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