Vanguard, Book 2, Chapter 6

The door slammed shut.

“You've got some nerve bringing that... that thing into my house, Mjaln!” Vyacheslav's eyes were alight with fury, the keen pupils narrowed so sharp they seemed like needles locked in swimming gold “Move aside—-she lost her tongue as soon as she began wagging it like that.”

Ramund couldn't for the life of him figure out where Vyacheslav drew that blade from-—all he knew was that it was nowhere to be seen when he had hurled Rose out the door, but one glance back at the Krov lord, and there it was. Vyacheslav's fangs stood bared like the maw of demons, his furry tail raised and his claw-like nails poised to tear out the throat and tongue of a certain young woman, who had just spat him in the face and threatened him by his life.

“Please, Vyacheslav, reconsider!” Ramund intervened, rushing to place his massive body in the doorway of the office, his hands raised defensively “Her mind is not her own-—her words even less!”

“And soon, her entire head won't be either!” Vyacheslav's voice was a ferocious snarl as his fingers clutched around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, that jagged blade of sleek Krov craftsmanship gleaming in the hearth's light, like the ocean would gleam in sunshine “Now move!”

“I cannot do that.” Ramund declared shortly, sternly, not moving a single inch “Rose is very dear to me. Lord or not, I won't let you have this life.”

This time, Vyacheslav snapped his vile stare up at Ramund, who was a fair few heads taller than him. His chiseled face was a wrinkled mess of blood lust, all too fitting for a creature like him “Or what?!” he barked “Don't forget where you are, old man! You accepted my rules the second you set your foot in my house! I have all the right I need to butcher her like the pig she is!”

Ramund knew perfectly well this was a horrible idea, but he also knew that he had no choice. There was no way in hell he was going to let Vyacheslav through—-not to kill Rose, regardless of how foolish she had been. He felt the adrenaline bubble up inside him, throwing him years back to when his strength was his own, and old age was a distant reality. He stared down the Krov lord, eyes narrowed “And I have all the right to defend her. Sit down, Vyacheslav. You are not coming through this door.”

Vyacheslav's fingers clenched so tight around his hilt that Ramund could hear the sound of leather grinding “I didn't want to kill you, Ramund Bjornsson. I hope for your sake that death by my hand qualifies as dying in battle.”

The whistle of steel slicing through air heralded that all diplomacy had been washed away by a flood of rage, lusting for nothing but the punishment of Rose. The blade sang as Vyacheslav slashed forward, Ramund staring it down, time seeming to slow as strife seemed more and more inevitable. The song of the blade was brought to an abrupt halt, however, as Ramund raised to deflect it by the steel of his vambrace.

“This is a fool's errand, Vyacheslav!” Ramund barked as the Krov lord leaped backwards, regaining balance after the deflection of his opening strike “You're a noble man—-handle this in a noble manner!”

“Butchering you won't be noble, I admit.” Vyacheslav growled back, slowly strafing from side to side like a wolf engaged in combat, eyes locked on Ramund “But you're in my way, for a much more just cause. You're obstructing justice, old man.”

“I'm protecting a friend!”

“And dying, while doing so!”

Again, Vyacheslav pounced at Ramund, but he was prepared this time. Or so he thought. Vyacheslav's blade hurled in from the side, just like before, and Ramund brought up his arm to block it again—-but that was not what happened. In a split second, reality seemed to warp, everything going blurry for but half a moment, and when that moment had passed, a burst of pain ran through his right leg. One glance cast downwards, and he saw the brutal gash that had been put in his thigh, where his armor didn't protect. Blood swam and dripped, reddening his clothes.

“That was a warning strike.” Vyacheslav was already back at his safe distance, blade poised and dripping “You cannot defeat me, Ramund Bjornsson. Step aside, and I won't have to put the next one in your neck.”

But did Ramund move? Never. No matter the pain that bit in his thigh, he did not move at all “You should know better than to expect me to move, Vyacheslav. I am Mjaln. If a fight it is, then a fight it shall be.”

Vyacheslav spat, clearly having expected Ramund to look defeat in the eye by now “You're as stupid as you are large, Mjaln. Then at least have the dignity to draw your weapons, and give me a real fight. Even I won't feel good about cutting down an unarmed man.”

“And you won't have to.” Ramund replied, with fists clenched, but axe remaining in his belt “Simply sit down, and we can discuss this like civilized men. That is the least I had expected from a man of high stature like yourself.”

Vyacheslav snorted “And I had expected you not to bring a wild beast into my quarters. It is a pity I'll have to put you down with it.”

What astonished Ramund the most, was the sheer speed of Vyacheslav. Like a viper lashing at its prey, he threw himself at Ramund, blade poised for the kill. Ramund saw in his crazed eyes that he had no intention of letting anyone live this day, not Ramund, not Rose, not any fool who dared stand in his way. But as Vyacheslav's blade came crashing down on Ramund's chest, that will was denied in the course of a split second.

There was no blood. No fractured ribs, no heart split in half by the barbed kiss of Vyacheslav's sword. For a moment, there was only silence, as realization crept into the skull of the Krov lord, who now stared at nothing but a hilt in his hand, and a cloud of steam coiling around the fully intact body of Ramund. His snarling was brought to an end as he looked down at the hilt in his hand, seeing how the blade had disappeared completely-—nearly. For if he just looked around at the cloud of steam, he would see what had become of his elegant sword.

“You've been declawed, Vyacheslav. Sit. Down.” Ramund's hand roiled with shamanistic magic, his eyes aflame with its deep blue color. The fingers on his outstretched hand dripped with otherworldly energies, and was bathed in what remained of Vyacheslav's sword. Never had Ramund chanted so fast. The word had rushed so swiftly from his mouth, he had feared to stumble over the letters and end up with no spell in his hand, but plenty of steel in his chest. Yet here he stood.
The hilt clanged as it hit the floor, Vyacheslav dropping it in a mix of shock and contempt. He stared down at the pitiful remains of what had once been such a beautiful sword, now reduced to a useless stump, and a great puff of steam. Ramund moved forward, his clenched fist bustling with even more magic as he stepped out of the cloud, staring down at Vyacheslav with eyes wrought in blue flame. Ramund had never expected to see fear in the eyes of this man. But judging by the way he staggered backwards and stumbled into his chair, he could not deny what he saw.

“You... demon!” Vyacheslav stuttered as he stared up at Ramund, into those eyes that burned like the gates of hell themselves “What are you?!”

Ramund stood before Vyacheslav, letting the silence sink into him, letting him realize that he had lost this fight. It was only when Ramund saw that realization in his eyes, that he put on a smile “Not all that good at shamanism, truth be told.” the fires in his eyes went out like candles by an open window, as he slouched into the chair opposite of Vyacheslav, trying to catch his breath.
“The eye thing?” Ramund said, gesturing vaguely at his own eyes “Intimidation tactics, nothing more. If you were to touch them, you would find that they do not even burn.”

Vyacheslav blinked, eyes wide “But... but you turned my sword into steam, just like that.”

Ramund looked over his shoulder at the cloud that had gathered in the ceiling, and gave a little nod “That... I cannot deny. I would be pleased to compensate for it, if need be. It was a very nice blade, indeed.”

“I'll be damned it was!” Ramund could tell how infuriated Vyacheslav was that he had lost control of his emotions, even for a second-—for a man who put so much emphasis on dominance and intimidation, showing fear was nothing short of hierarchical suicide “You... you...”

“...Will apologize?” Ramund gave a nod as he sunk back in the chair “That I will. You have my deepest apologies. Now... do you wish to continue our little tussle, or can we agree to discuss this like grown men?”

Vyacheslav's pale face jittered and twitched in sheer dishonored fury. Words eluded him, Ramund could tell, all he managed to say being a deeply insulted huff.

Ramund smiled, half of politeness, half of victory “You can be calm. I will speak no word about what happened here, this day. I know the intricate ways of this game you noblemen play, your... masquerade, for say. If the other houses knew that an old stranger Mjaln had vaporized your sword and made you look dread in the eyes, you would be-—“

“—-Dead.” Vyacheslav finished, the word spat out like venom “Politically. Maybe even literally, if some of those piglets found the ambition to go that far. They've already taken my son... I fail to see why they'd shy at taking my life as well.”

Ramund's gaze fell to the ground for a second, at the mention of that “Ah yes... about that.”

Vyacheslav's pupils narrowed, his nose wrinkling further “More... secrets?”

Ramund shook his head “Not secrets. Suspicions, rather. I'm no wind-reader, but my senses tell me that there's more to this plot than what the world knows. Such is, after all, the way of the game, is it not?”

Vyacheslav, although still anxious and upset about what had just happened, clearly tried his best to relax. He leaned back in his own cushioned chair, tail resting on his lap and fingers steepled “You come here, a sergeant of a suicide rebellion and a child of isolated mountains, and you speak as if you know the game of nobility better than the rest of us.” his serpentine tongue slithered out through bared teeth “Not to mention that you dishonor the lord of the house in which you are guested, and claim that he cannot even protect his own son. Ramund Bjornsson, you are by far the most arrogant Mjaln I've yet to meet.”

He rose to his feet, and for a second, Ramund thought that he was going to lunge at him like he had before. But he didn't. Though it was clear Vyacheslav boiled with spite inside, the time for fighting had come and gone. Instead, he turned to his desk, on which his violin lay. He opened one of the drawers, and brought out what seemed like a small stone-—partially round, partially flat. And on the flat side, a pale white rune pulsed with sealed magic.

“We don't go accusing people of such heinous crimes without reason, Bjornsson.” Vyacheslav chucked the stone to Ramund, who caught it mid-air with a single hand “If this is not enough proof that Anton Cercy is the culprit, then you are as thickheaded as you are arrogant.”

Ramund turned his eyes on the stone in his hand, and the intricate rune of magic that was engraved upon it. The curling lines, the sweeping strokes; this was an art of magic that was exactly that: art. Ramund had always admired it for its near-endless capabilities, and even more those who practiced this school of magic. He turned his attention back on Vyacheslav “I heard about this. This is the rune that observed and recorded what happened in Matvey's room, the day he was kidnapped. Is it not?”

“It is.” Vyacheslav sat back down in his chair “Anton Cercy never was a man of magic, and thus hadn't the faintest clue of its presence. It is that mistake that will have him justly executed soon enough.” at the end of that sentence, Vyacheslav snapped his fingers, and the rune in Ramund's hands suddenly came to life.

The elegant strokes and the smooth lines suddenly swarmed, switching places like frantic little worms. The light embedded in the rune flared brightly, and within seconds, all the lines had arranged in a neatly circular position. And then, from the middle of it, a cone of light erupted to create a hologram before Ramund's eyes.

He recognized Matvey with ease. The young Krov boy sat in what had to be his room, a small place with half of a bed visible in the corner of the rune's peripheral vision-—or whatever an observer-rune like this now had instead. He was sitting in the middle of it all, playing with a puzzle, only half-finished. He seemed quite stumped, the young boy's head cupped in his hands, carrying a bothered and dumbfounded frown. However, his attention was quickly torn away, his gaze thrown at the door in the back of the room. The rune carried no sound, but Ramund figured he must have heard something. And heard something he did.

The sound of knocking, perhaps? Matvey looked at the door as it slowly creaked open. The one who stepped inside was clearly not the one who Matvey expected, but nor was it the first time he had seen this man. Tall, gaunt, hardly with any hair left on his head-—this was indeed the face of Anton Cercy, from what Ramund could recall. He was oddly well-dressed, with a rippling silken shirt underneath a silver-woven vest emblazoned with the proud stag of House Cercy. He looked down at Matvey, and said something. The spell's reenactment of the happenings was slightly slurred, and Ramund couldn't read his lips, but he could tell that he was saying something—-and trying to put on his best child-friendly face while doing so.

Matvey looked back up at him, and said something back. Matvey clearly had no suspicions, young and naive as he was, but it was a dread for Ramund to know that this wasn't going to end well. The door had been closed, even locked, which he found rather odd. But it all made sense, when he saw Anton pick out a small handkerchief from his back pocket, as he approached the young boy, keeping him calm with sweet-talk. Ramund hoped so dearly that Matvey would stand up and run, but he knew that was not going to happen. Anton's talk was the honey that lured this little bear into a trap—-and there it sprung! In one swift lunge, Anton snatched Matvey by his shoulder and turned him around, one arm slung around his neck, and the other one stuffing the handkerchief into Matvey's face. Ramund cringed as he saw the young Krov struggle, legs flailing and hands trying to pry Anton's grip off his face. But it was no use. With every passing second, Matvey's struggle grew weaker and weaker, until there was no fight left in him at all. He slouched together, sedated by something Anton must have drenched the handkerchief with. Anton didn't seem to enjoy this particularly much either, but there was no hesitation in his step, as he stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and hauled the unconscious boy over his shoulder. Then, much to Ramund's curiosity, he disappeared out the other end of the rune's vision-—and not the door. And then, with one click of his fingers, Vyacheslav brought the rune back to its dormant state, the hologram swept away by the re-arranging lines and curls.

A silence followed, as Ramund looked down at the pulsing rune. He sighed deeply, disappointment leaving a bad taste on his tongue. He looked back at Vyacheslav “The window, I assume?”

Vyacheslav nodded “That is what we've concluded. The door was still locked, the morning we realized what had happened to my son. Once we got it open, the window was still wide and yawning, and Matvey was nowhere to be seen.”

Ramund's fingers tapped on the coarse stone, upon which the rune had been written “This is... unsettling.” he muttered, as he chucked the stone back to Vyacheslav “I had in all honesty hoped for a better truth than this. How noble men have fallen from grace, it seems.”

Vyacheslav caught the stone mid-air “I like to think that their so-called 'grace' is an invention of their own; propaganda, and nothing more. It's the bleached smiles, the combed hair, the pretty clothes... but underneath, they're monsters like all the rest of us.” he stood from his chair, and put the stone back in his drawer “We Zakadievs just don't believe in hiding it.”

Although the sight of Matvey being kidnapped still made his stomach writhe, Ramund managed a little smile at Vyachslav's direction “I dare say, you're beginning to remind me more and more of the woman you nearly killed.”

Vyacheslav didn't have a response to this, but Ramund could see the disdain on his face. Clearly, he didn't like to be compared to a woman as nihilistic as Rose, but behind that sour frown, Ramund saw that he knew it was true.

“When you step outside, Ramund Bjornsson, know that everything you do, everything you say, will have repercussions.” Vyacheslav's voice was dreary and slow, thick with frustration after seeing that reenactment of his son's kidnapping, despite the fact that he had probably seen it a thousand times before “You, your friends, your little rebellion...” he sat down in his chair, fingers curled to claws at the edge of his armrests “...you're not welcome here. I hope you realize this. You were never welcome here. You bring trouble to an otherwise somewhat stable society, and you cry out prophecies of an impending doom, in the form of an army from hell itself. Have you ever stopped to realize what effect this may have, on the people?” he asked, his hand raised to gesture out the window, where the rain clattered against the glass, and morning shed its humble glow on the grey, gloomy houses. But in the dark overhang that never seemed to leave this lands, the light of the sun was but a fickle hint, a faint glimmer trying to squeeze its way into the world of the living. There were times, when Ramund wondered why it rained.

“Odd of you to sympathize with the people, Vyacheslav.” Ramund retorted, a curious eye set on the Krov “Maybe I've underestimated you. Maybe you're a genuinely pleasant and considerate man, underneath that facade of dreadfulness and domination.” he let a tiny smile grow “Or maybe you just want me to stay my tongue a little more, arrogant and pompous as I am.” there was a hint of mockery in his voice, and by the look on Vyacheslav's face, it did not go unnoticed.

“Well... it wouldn't be the first time a stranger disappeared overnight, all because he didn't know the subtleties and intricacies of higher society.” Vyacheslav mirrored Ramund's smile, but his was adorned with the tip of a fang as well “Listen closely, Ramund Bjornsson. I know what you want. I know you want all the houses of Moonby to join your little entourage of rebels to march north and kick Deum off the throne-—and truth be told, there are few things that would amuse me more, than seeing Deum thrown into the dirt. But going to war against a force as large as The Crusade requires resources, soldiers, war machines—-but most importantly of all: unity.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bells on his horns jingling “And as of now, there could be no greater division between the houses. We know the threat of the incoming demon army, and we shall stand against it to defend our homes-—but when the dust has settled and the demons have been put in the ground, the houses will go back to their bickering, to their plots, to their petty little game of lies and intrigue. The aristocracy of Moonby Sanctuary has always been against the world-nation that Deum is so desperately trying to create... but you'll find that we are far too caught up in our own little charade to care about Deum's stupid ambitions.”

Ramund's nostrils flared, suddenly looking quite insulted “You cannot be serious. Indeed, you might not care about Deum, but know that Deum cares very much about you. You are a thorn in his side, and mark my words, he will do everything in his power to remove you completely, if that is what it takes!”

At this, Vyacheslav curled a smirk on his pale lips “You know he cannot just wake up one morning and feel like opening up another war front. He's going to need the king's approval for that... and from what I recall, King Magnus is a pleasantly reasonable man... and a tenacious one. He may be old, but I predict he'll sit that throne for many more years, to keep Deum in his place.”

Ramund pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in bitter frustration “Vyacheslav, I... did I really come all this way, throw myself into combat against you, just to have you look me in the eye and decline me?”

“I'm not declining you.” Vyacheslav said, sounding oddly truthful “I'm simply saying that you'll need all five houses united, for any of us to even consider it... and as it stands, that is a fairy tale you tell your children to make them laugh. It's a joke, Bjornsson, a drunk man's song. We shall stand up and fight the demons when they come, but when that is all said and done, the best I can do for you in squeeze your hand and wish you the best of luck. For, when you're up against something as powerful as The Crusade, armed only with farmers and fox-men... you're going to need it.”

Ramund could scarcely believe what he was hearing. It was a joke! A jape of fate! His head hurt with all the frustration boiling up inside of him. He couldn't have gone through all of this, just to be fed such stupidity. Such arrogance. Such... truth. The more Ramund thought of it, the less he could deny it. The strength of one house, even one such as Zakadiev, would only prolong a battle that was already doomed to fail. And taking one house away from Moonby, could mean that neither rebels nor nobles would survive the coming storm.

Ramund sighed. The two of them sat in uncomfortable silence, Ramund facing bitter realization, and Vyacheslav clearly knowing he was right. Ramund fiddled with the steel braces of his beard nervously, seeking words but finding only bitter defeat.

“I... I fear you might be right, Vyacheslav.” Ramund confessed, heavily, the words like lead in his throat “Forgive my anger; I see now that it was unfairly spoken.”

“Forgiven.” Vyacheslav declared calmly “As much as I'd like to help, as much as I'd like to see Deum thrown in the dirt, I'm afraid that giving you my forces would mean little but death to them... and death to the rest of us too, most likely. The city would lose a phenomenal piece of its own army, after all!” He said, not without a few shreds of pride here and there.

“I realize.” Ramund admitted, as he slowly stood to his feet again “The Dawn rebellion will be obliterated without the added strength... but I see now that I will not find that strength here.”

Vyacheslav gave a shrug “If you stay to help defend the walls against the demons, some of the houses might be willing to give you a few auxiliaries. But you've arrived in a den of greed and selfishness, Bjornsson. You'll find that thanks is rather scarce in this place.”

Ramund's face was calm, cool, but behind the mask he felt a dreadful hopelessness. Where was he going to find help now? The nobles was the best chance they had. If he couldn't find an equally strong force to help them, they would be crushed. Wiped clean by the hand of holy justice, that they had brought upon themselves. Ramund did not fear death, nor defeat... but he did fear never getting to see Freyja again.

“Your concern is... appreciated.” Ramund gave a slow nod to Vyachesslav “Sadly, concern will not win wars. I pray that we find something that will.”

“As do I.” Vyacheslav stood to his feet, and looked Ramund in the eye “You are a fool, Ramund Bjornson. But you are a goodhearted fool. That's probably not a good thing.” he reached forth and took Ramund's hand, giving him a soft smile and a firm squeeze “Best of luck.”

Ramund looked down at Vyacheslav's hand, and saw exactly what he was doing. Regardless, he accepted the handshake, and the concern that Vyacheslav was trying to show. But looking into his eyes, he knew that was all he was doing: trying. Ramund said nothing, as he turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

It was odd seeing the blushing light of dawn bleed through the black clouds, and hear no birdsong to come with it. He sat there under the shelter of a jutting rock that stood forth from the ground like a massive sword that had impaled the earth from below. He watched the gentle downfall creating ripples in the nearest puddles of these drenched lands, and whispered a prayer of thanks that the rain wasn't worse than it was. In lands like these, it may easily have stood down in oceans at a time, so thick that you could stick your hand out and it would disappear into the curtain of it all. But that was not this rain. This rain let him sit here, where it was somewhat dry, and gaze out over the wet and wavy hillocks, and the endless plains in between. There was some beauty, in all of this, despite the gloom of it all. The way the sunlight seemed like a street of gold in the puddles' reflections, and how the mists in the distance rolled over the wetlands like giant, ghostly sheep. But he missed the birdsong. Perhaps he had just become too used to the lushness of The Fairlands, but he couldn't help but feel that there was something missing. There were very few trees in these lands, and those that were, were old and decrepit things that the locals had aptly named 'witchwoods'. Like many other places, legend and myth engulfed these kinds of things. Word was that these trees were lost souls, ghosts, that had been found by cruel witches, and turned into these ugly things for the witch's sheer amusement. But if anyone believed these myths, he couldn't tell. For myths was likely all they would ever be.

He tried his best to distract himself, with wonders like these. He did the very best he could to live into the world he was in, to breathe in deep and absorb the atmosphere. It wasn't too hard to do, in a place like this, so different and alien from what he was used to. It was all rather strange, actually. Ever since he woke up, he felt that he could find beauty in the smallest things. In everything. Where some may have passed the world by, maybe offered the beautiful plains a glance and a comment once in a while, he felt almost as if his days of unconsciousness had rattled out some hidden sense of appreciation within him. Maybe it was because of that odd dream he had. Maybe it was because of the face he saw in his hands, when he scooped up that piece of the night sky. Or maybe... it was because he knew it was all going to burn.

He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment. He spent a few seconds listening to the whisper of the wind and the endless rustle of the rain. He emptied his head, silencing it all, cutting out the tongue of those evil thoughts that whispered him in the ear like imps. He held his breath, and listened. He listened and forgot everything else, as long as he could. These were the moments he had learned to treasure, where he pushed aside all his pains and worries, and lived in the second. But he knew those thoughts would return; that those imps would grow their tongues back soon enough. One little slip... and into the depths he would go. There were times where he wished that there would just be a noose waiting for him, at the bottom.

He opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? He couldn't tell. He still sat here, under the shelter of the rock, with the rain's song in the background. He felt the pencil in his right hand, and the notebook in his left. It was heavier, than what he could remember. Maybe it was the weight of his past, that made it so. He had been staring down into the paper for a while now, hoping to write something, but all he had managed to do, was doodle. It was a demon's head. He knew all the intricacies of this demonic beast, how many fangs they had, how wide their mouth could open, how far apart those bloodshot eyes were. He remembered so clearly, for they would never let him forget. His drawing was perfect. How couldn't it be?

He snapped, and tore the paper right out of his notebook. Crumbling it together and ripping it apart, he wouldn't let them get back into his head. It was time something got out, rather than in. He brought the pencil to the paper, and began writing.

Duncan's journal, day something-or-rather.

I've lost count. The days have slurred together, and I've got no idea where I am any longer, in this soup that is my life. I sit here and wonder what day of the week it is, but all that the world can tell me, is that it's morning.

But then again. It's a beautiful morning. Pretty landscape, pretty sunrise, and the rain isn't too bad. Perhaps it's a bit silly that I'm sitting here, camping, while precious time is being lost. Wolfe wanted to scout ahead, though, so I stayed back. I remember thinking that he was surely paranoid, convinced that the Crusade would be lurking around every corner, ready to silence him. It seemed strange and wasteful for Deum to use such valuable resources on something as trivial as veterans like us. But then I recalled what I saw in Aegon, before it all went to shit. There wasn't a hint of mercy or sympathy in that hunter's eyes, when he looked into those of that old man, and put a bullet between them. I don't suspect I'll see any either, should I face a similar fate.
All of this has given me some time to think, though. This whole rebellion thing. While I support Ramund in his decision, bringing all these farmers and bakers and milkmen into it just doesn't seem right. None of them are fighters. They just don't want to die, is all, and now we've antagonized them all in face of Deum. He'll slaughter them. He'll slaughter every last one of them. They've got elders and children, and everyone in between can't swing a sword for the life of them. The soldiers out there, out there in The Wastelands, we had it tough. But these people? They're the true victims here. Good for nothing but food for demons, if Deum doesn't systematically execute them first. Where will they run? Where will they hide? They've got hungry demons coming up from the south, and in the north, sits a man who would take all their heads and call it justice.

And that's what bugs me so painfully, about all this. For so long, I've hated how The Crusade puts a sword in whoever has hands, and sends them right out there to die. But what I hate even more than that... is when we start doing the same. I did not sign up for this. I did not sign up for becoming the exact thing I've been trying to stop.

But damn it. What choice do we have?

He closed the book. He sat there and looked at the blank, black leather that bound it, with his name written on the front. There were times like these, where he wondered who would ever get to read these things. Not even Ramund had seen what things had been written on these pages—and that was probably for the best as well. If Ramund saw, if he knew, Duncan feared what his old friend would think of him. He sat there and looked at the blank, black leather. It was heavier than before.

He snapped his stare forwards, as the sound of footsteps sloshing in the mud broke the calm song of rain. He looked to the horses bound close by, and his hand slowly drifted to the handle of his blade. Silently, he drew it from his belt, fingers curled around the leather binds, his heart racing. But as the approaching footsteps brought with them a familiar face, he let his shoulders sink in a relieved sigh.

“Feeling jumpy, are we?” Wolfe's voice was a hard and growling as always, and yet Duncan was glad that it was none other's. His short, greying hair was drenched and flattened by the rain, and the steel that swept down his right arm shimmered like the puddles around them. He sat down into the shelter, and began chewing on a piece of jerky he had saved for later.

“I like to think 'cautious' is a better term.” Duncan muttered quietly, sheathing his sword “You should know all about that kind of thing.”

“I never said it was a bad thing.” Wolfe commented dryly, while chewing “The cautious man survives where a naive one would not. That being said... the road seems clear. No patrols, from what I could tell. Not even a wandering traveler, or a tavern. We really are in one of the forgotten shitholes of this world, aren't we?” his wrinkled lips pulled back to a spiteful, yet oddly jesting smile “If we were killed here... no one would ever know who did it. They'll just think the mist claimed us. That's how these stories usually go, anyway.”

Duncan pulled his sack close, and stuffed his notebook into it “I don't know about 'shithole'. It can be rather pretty, if you take a moment to appreciate it.”

Wolfe swallowed “It's a swamp, Duncan. Just one hour's jog north, and I stumbled on two skeletons and a man who I don't think was entirely dead, just yet. It's a shithole alright.” Wolfe wiped his lips and moved to his horse. He undid the reins that kept it tied to the shelter, and swiftly mounted up “But you're welcome to stay, if you want. Good luck finding food, though. Out here, you're sure to find that man isn't on top of the food chain any longer.”

Duncan scowled a little. He wasn't going to dignify Wolfe with an answer. He stood up and felt how his legs were still rather clumsy after all those days of unconsciousness, but at least he could walk without any help by now. He struggled unto his horse, and clutched the reins.

“Wolves, snakes... chimeras. This place has it all.” Wolfe turned his horse around, and set it strolling down the muddy, uneven road that slithered through the drowned landscape “And in the heart of it, you've got the worst predators of them all.” his lips scowled, and his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Nobles.”