Vanguard, Chapter 2: Ramund

It was dawn. The light of the sun spread out over the sky like a sheet of red-tinted gold, ready to push back the solemn darkness of night. The torches of Camp Vanguard had been extinguished by gusts throughout the night, but the dawn was here to save them from the darkness. Like an evaporating pool of black water, the dark-blue color of night slowly retreated behind the horizon, endlessly continuing its dance with day, each one taking their turn to rule over the sky. This time, light was winning.

Most people of Camp Vanguard were still asleep. It was quiet, here in these countless tents, and the center of the camp was still too. Between the hollow whistling of the winds that passed by, the noise of drunken snoring could be heard from the adjacent tents. Poor soldiers sleeping their hangovers away, after a slurred night of sorrow-drowning. But there were some people here who awoke before any others—-those whose eyes open in tact with the sun dawning over the red horizon.

One of those people, was Ramund. He was already up, clothed, and ready for the day. He was in his tent-—which, by the way, was slightly larger than all the others, since it had to fit a larger man—-and he was sitting down, in his bed, holding something. It was a little box of sorts. It was decorated with all kinds of runic symbols, and crafted of fine mahogany. He could smell its richness, and couldn't help but smile. His old, yet steadfast eyes looked down upon the box, and his gaze seemed to soften. In the silence, he looked upon the box with odd, gentle adoration. He held it carefully, as if he was holding a child, doing his very best not to hurt it in his powerful hands. He knew that he could be rather graceless at times, maybe even clumsy, but this. This was too important to be butterfingered with. He glanced towards the open curtains of his tent, as if wary if someone were to step inside. His long, grey beard swung and yanked every time he looked, turning his head at the slightest noise. But there was no one. No one was up at this hour. Who would peek anyway? He calmed down, his large shoulders dropping in a slow exhaling, before he looked back at the box. And then he opened it.

Like a wave through his body, he felt the joy, as the box suddenly began to jingle a gentle tune; a melody of kinder days; an anthem of tranquility. His smile grew wider, his teeth revealed, but he really couldn't help it. He didn't want to help it either. This joy was so important to him—there wasn't much to find here, so this was nearly all he had. He looked, and saw how the box not only played this sweet tune to him, but it danced. Or rather: the small porcelain figure inside it danced.

It was a girl. A young girl, early in her teens, and clad in a small blue dress, her porcelain arms and legs posed in a ballet stance as she slowly turned around, spinning to the sound of the music box. He sat there, this gentle giant, and felt like all the evil faded away. All the demons, all the death, all the endless bloodshed-—a forgettable past; nothing more. His mind was elsewhere; far away... home. Home where the snow covered every inch of the ground. Home where the horizon was jagged in the countless peaks of mountains. Home where the people were merry, joyful, dancing to drinking songs in the lodges. Home... so far away.

He didn't dare touch the porcelain figure. He dreaded what could happen if his large clumsy fingers got close. It could crack. It could lose a limb. It could snap in half! He wanted to touch, but he dreaded the consequences. Instead, he just observed, and spoke lowly to it, as if it was real.

“You must be so beautiful today...” He whispered “...And your mother so proud.”

Footsteps! Ramund's heart leaped into his throat as he heard two pair of feet in the sand outside. He quickly shut the music box, killing the tune and hiding away the porcelain dancer. He scooted over his bed and stuffed it into a little drawer at his own desk—and just in time.

“Morning, Ramund.”

It was Duncan. He stuck his head in, showing his scar-riddled nose and his shaggy black hair, and cast a slow gaze towards Ramund. Duncan, on the other hand, was definitely no morning person. His eyes hung like wizard's sleeves, and his face was pale like a corpse. His hair, as if it wasn't shaggy enough, seemed completely ravaged by a bad night's sleep, and his voice was little but a hallow moan. And he was clad in his armor, it seemed.

Tattered grey plate, sand-blasted by the unwelcoming weather of these regions, but clearly of human craftsmanship. The symbols of Hrumalz, the god of war, was engraved upon his chest plate and his knee-guards, and a long cape hung from his pauldrons-—this one red, however, while Ramund's was ebony black. But he wasn't alone.

Another head stuck inside. Ramund's eyebrows slowly raised as he saw this unfamiliar face, these unfamiliar eyes, this unfamiliar smile. It was a rather young man-—maybe early in his twenties. He stood behind Duncan and peeked over his shoulder at Ramund. His hair was neatly combed and cut, his features smooth and untouched. Clearly, he was one of the rookies, but he still had a glimmer of hope in his eyes. A lingering anticipation of glory and victory, even in face of the enemy Duncan had shown to them last evening. He was clad in his armor too, ready for battle. Maybe... just maybe. Maybe this one wouldn't break so easily. Maybe this one would remain strong for once.

“Morning, Duncan.” Ramund said, giving him a smile and a nod, before casting his gaze towards the rookie “And to you, recruit.”

Duncan thumbed lazily over his shoulder, his arm jumping awkwardly like a marionette puppet's limb “New guy. The general put him on our squad, so I figured I'd introduce him to the rest of the bunch: you.” He then glanced over his shoulder, lazy eyes staring numbly at the recruit “Care to introduce yourself, rookie?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir!” the recruit exclaimed with surprising enthusiasm as he jumped forward, into Ramund's tent and extended a quick hand to him “Angus Maximilian Junior, sir!” He said, his wide smile lingering.

Ramund couldn't help but feel a certain sense of relief, seeing how excited this new rookie was. He had seen what horrors lied beyond the safety of the camp, and yet, he seemed so... fresh. With a smile of his own, Ramund slowly stood up and accepted Angus' hand, shaking it firmly “A pleasure to meet you, Angus. I am Ramund Bjornson, your sergeant. I suspect we'll be seeing each other out on the field soon enough, no?”
“Oh, I sure hope so!” Angus said “Actually, there was something about-—“

“Yeah, about that...” Duncan butted in, putting a hand on Angus' shoulder while looking at Ramund “We've already got a job from the general. Dog tag duty. A patrol out on the field was ambushed by some demons-—poor fools didn't stand a chance. So, tough as it is, our rookie here's first job on the front is to take care of those who didn't make it. Charming, huh?” Duncan droned and uttered a sarcastic chuckle, clapping Angus twice on the shoulder as he turned around “So get in your armor, Ramund. Maybe I can wake up meanwhile.”

Ramund looked at Angus, who had his eyebrow perked in wonder, but Ramund drew his attention with a soft hand on his shoulder “Worry not.” Ramund said, looking into Angus eyes and smiling “Duncan's just not a morning person; he gets grumpy at this hour. I'm sure you'll do fine for dog tag duty, Angus. It's easy, safe, and quick. Just grab their dog tags and move on. Don't look in their eyes if you can avoid it. Okay?” Ramund said, his smile lingering, but his voice seemed to carry a few hints of worry. He really didn't want this rookie's spirit to be broken on the first mission. It was always when they came face to face with death that they began to crumble. Ramund sighed quietly to himself. Why did it have to be dog tag duty? Poor rookie.

Angus smiled widely, and performed a proud salute “Yes sir!” he said, slight jest in his voice.

Ramund smiled. He nodded approvingly, and patted him on the shoulder, just like Duncan did.
“You'll do well, friend.”

That statement was about to be put to the test, here, in the desert. The desolate wasteland, away from Camp Vanguard, away from the last trickles of civilization. Out here, was nothing. Nothing but crisp, sun-blasted earth and passing dust devils. And the silence. The hollow, eerie silence that was only broken by the moans of passing winds and their own footsteps.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Their plated boots crushed the flakes of brittle earth that seemed to peel itself in the unrelenting heat of the sun. Nothing could live here. Nothing mortal, at least.
Ramund, being a man of the north, particularly hated this part. The quiet, drawn-out walks between Camp Vanguard and the wastelands around. Camp Vanguard was out of sight by now, tucked away beneath the dry horizon, just like everything else. Now, here in the approximate middle of nowhere, all they had left to guide them was a compass. A compass in Duncan's hands; their life thread between here and Camp Vanguard. Loose it... and the future could seem quite grim.

The rookie seemed to do surprisingly well, though. Ramund looked at him, silently, not having exchanged a single word for an hour or two by now, and saw how he was sweating. But everyone was doing that. Still, the young man seemed to keep a positive disposition on everything, much to his joyful surprise. He just kept walking-—marching, even—-across this arid desolation, as if he was actually looking forward to his first duty in the ranks. Most of those who had come from the fresh hills and running rivers of The Fairlands, which Angus clearly was, would have broken long ago. Duncan was from The Fairlands too. Ramund had been told the beautiful tales of the lush groves, the green hills, the trickling creeks and rivers, and the wine. Ramund seemed to remember Duncan putting a lot of emphasis on the wine—-it must have been quite something. But Fairlands wine was little but a vague dream here, where the soldiers were only given the stale remains of what the people back home didn't drink. Ramund sighed. He cast away those thoughts, and focused on the task ahead.

“It shouldn't be far.” Duncan spoke, finally saying something after that hour of painful silence “The patrol should've been hit right around here. Shout up if you see any dead b—“

He interrupted himself. And they all knew why. Ramund cringed, face twitching in disgust, as he smelled it. That horrid, rotten smell of decomposing bodies that had lied too long in the sun. The wind carried this foul stench and lead it right up their nostrils. The rookie wretched at the smell and immediately covered up his nose, desperately trying to escape the smell. But there was no escape. The stench was everywhere... and so were the bodies.

They began to appear all around them. They hadn't noticed them before, since dust devils had covered them in a layer of camouflaging sand. They blended nicely in to the arid ground below, but the smell blew their cover. There they were, almost a dozen of them... dead.

“...Nevermind.” Duncan said as he looked around at the filthy remnants of his fallen companions. They reeked of death and rot, but there were no flies around them. Not even flies could live in a place like this.

“Well then...” Ramund said, his hand covering his nose to “Dig down, friends. I suspect you have the list, Duncan?” He asked, tossing a glance to Duncan.

“I do.” He said, raising a small notebook with a list of names on. It was a list of all those who had been killed. There were fourteen of them.
“So let's get started. The faster we can get this over with, the better.” Duncan grumbled and slowly wandered off to one of the nearby bodies. Meanwhile, Ramund turned to Angus and spoke.

“Remember what I told you.” He said, looking into his eyes “Just take the dog tags, shout the name, and move on. Understood?”

“Yes sir!” Angus replied, performing a salute, and even flashing a little smile. Ramund looked at him with admiration, and smiled too. How did this young man do it? How was his spirit still intact? Ramund still couldn't figure out what made this man so stronger than the others, but it truly was commendable. With a silent thumbs-up, Ramund turned away and began to dirty job.

He kneeled down before one of them. It was a man-—a high elf, actually. Not too many of those seemed to show up these days, but there were some now and then. This one, clad in his armor, seemed to have lost one of his elongated ears, and his green eyes stared so blankly and hollowly into thin air. Dust had began to creep over his body, getting in his open eyes, in his mouth, in his ears. And he reeked. He reeked so bad, and Ramund saw how the sand below him had been painted red by the blood from a large gash in his ribcage. The blood had stained long ago, become a frozen example of what war will do to a man. But he still had his dog tag around his neck. So did he, himself, actually. Ramund's dog tag was usually stuffed in a cabinet when he wasn't on field duty, but otherwise he kept it safely around his neck. His too had a few trophies of war on it-—framed with the smaller teeth of demons, and with his named engraved in the middle. Ramund hoped that, when the day finally came, that those who collected his dog tag wouldn't remove the trophies... if that day ever came, of course.

Ramund quickly tore the dog tag from the dead elf's neck. He looked at it, read it, and spoke it out loud to Duncan.

“Lyas Everglade!”

A short pause followed, before Duncan shouted back: “Noted!”

“Jennifer Fitchet!” Angus suddenly shouted from the side-line, followed again by Duncan, shouting “Noted!”

Ramund cast a glance towards Angus. He was kneeled down too, Miss Fitchet's dog tag in his hands. Clearly, he didn't do as Ramund had asked him, and was deeply staring into the eyes of this dead woman. She was missing a leg, torn off by demons, leaving little but a patch of red sand where the leg once was. Angus looked into her blank, dead eyes, and he sighed. But he didn't cry. Didn't weep. Didn't break. Instead, he just folded his hands together, Fitchet's dog tag squeezed between his palms, and began to say a prayer. Ramund looked at this, and let out a small, rather pleasantly surprised “...Huh.”

He then moved on. He said a little prayer to Mister Everglade too, but the northern ways of bidding someone a safe transcendence to the afterlife really wasn't much but a pat on the shoulder and a smile. But as he moved on to his next dead comrade, that smile immediately faltered. His heart skipped a beat and lodged itself in his throat as he saw what lay before him. This one wasn't a soldier!
And it wasn't it dead!

“DUNCAN!” Ramund bellowed over his shoulder as he dropped down on his knees before the body before him, and quickly brushed off the gathering dust. He heard the moans, young and whimpering, and it felt like time stopped briefly as he saw the face. Her face.

It was a little girl. A young one, maybe in her early teens, clad in a dark brown poncho that covered her entire body. Eyes, gentle green and glimmering with tears, looked up at Ramund with plead. Her skin was tanned, brown, scorched by the sun through many generations of living in the wastelands. And she was bleeding. Bleeding, breathing heavily and gasping for the life that seemed to slip through her little fingers. Her eyes were riddled with fear and confusion, and tears were rolling down her paling cheeks. She didn't move, no resistance at all, as she was probably too drained and weak to do anything at this point, save breathe and struggle for her fading life. Her poncho was reddened at her stomach, and Ramund took no seconds of hesitation before moving the poncho away to see the wound.

It was bad. Really bad. A gruesome gash of a demon's claw had plastered itself across her side, and she was loosing blood. Ramund could hear Duncan jogging up to him, but he had to do something now, or the girl would die. Taking a deep breath, Ramund closed his eyes and let his large hand gently fall upon the girl's wound.

Ramund didn't do this often, not considering himself all that good at it, but he wasn't left with much choice here. With his eyes closed, he felt his mind expand, close out all other senses, as if he was dropping into a trance. A trance that let him scrape his nails against the membrane that separated this world from that of spirits. A trance that drew him into a few seconds of ascendance, as if he had become a new kind of being. And in those seconds, he muttered strange words, words of northern tongue that neither Duncan, Angus, or the little girl could understand. But with every word he spoke, every odd twist of his tongue, a small light began to pulse underneath his large hand. He spoke as quickly as he could, as strongly as he could, but he couldn't maintain the trance for long. Only a second or two passed before he was kicked out of ascendance, and thrown right back into this world. But those seconds seemed to be just enough, he realized, as he raised his hand.

“Shit!” Duncan exclaimed as he looked over Ramund's shoulder at the girl “A native! Is she dead? Wounded?”

“Yes, but...” Ramund said, raising his hand and revealing the wound that had been severely lessened “...Not as it bad as it was. Still, we need to get her to the medic; and quick!”

Angus looked ever so confused all of a sudden, observing the scenario before him with perplexed wonder, seeing as Ramund picked up the girl and held her in his arms and turned homewards.

“Hey rookie: change of plans!” Duncan said, turning to Angus “This dog tag mission just turned into a rescue mission. Come along, and pick up your pace!” He said, beckoning to Angus before running after Ramund, who was already rushing back with the girl in his arms. His steps were like thunder, the girl still caught in complete disorientation, just like Angus. But Angus quickly snapped out of it, his heart beating quickly in his chest, as he hurried after his sergeant and captain.

The girl was dying. It was clear to see. In Ramund's arms, he could see how the life seeped out of her like a leaking water pouch. Her eyes stared into thin air, gazing unblinkingly at the sun and the sky around it, and Ramund simply had to stop and check if she was still alive. He, quite literally, had the life of this young girl in his hands, and he wasn't sure how to deal with it. He wanted to help, but his shamanistic powers couldn't save her. Right! The medic! He shook his head and kept running, tirelessly, his eyes set upon the horizon where Camp Vanguard soon would appear.

There it was! Flags of men swayed in the distance, their tents reaching high and their banners flying higher. Ramund felt his mighty heart pound like a blacksmith's hammer in his chest, and the fatigue gnaw in his thighs, but he couldn't stop now. Every second he tarried, this little girl stepped closer to death's door. For all in the world, this girl had to live!

“Is she alive?!” Duncan shouted from the sideline, rushing to keep up with his sergeant, Angus shortly behind him.

“Yes!” Ramund responded, his voice shaking with anxiety and exhaustion “She is, but not for long. Oh spirits please spare the life of this girl...” Ramund muttered lowly to himself, looking down at the girl who seemed to grow more and more distant. But it didn't take long before they came rushing down the gridded paths of Camp Vanguard.

“Coming through! Stand aside! I COMMAND you to stand aside!” Duncan shouted as he pushed aside soldier after soldier, plowing through the gathering masses in the center of Camp Vanguard, with Ramund right at his heels. Ramund looked ever so worried, Angus even more so, until they finally arrived at a tent in the back of the center. It was larger than the others and had a two large symbols of Lyrras, the god of life, painted on its facade. Without a further thought, Duncan hurled away the curtains of the entrance and rushed inside, Ramund and Angus at his heels.

“Whoa whoa, hey, don't come rushing in like that!”
The medic immediately stood up from his seat and raised his white-gloved hands defensively “Whatever the hurry is, I'm sure it isn't worth the risk of destroying my equipment.”

Duncan was the first to meet the glass-filtered gaze of their medic. He was a tall man, a rather gangly one at that, and his sharp-tongued voice was oddly muffled through the mask on his face. It was the traditional head wear of any deployed field medic: the rather unnerving bird's face strapped to the medic's own face, its crooked beak sticking out where his nose was, and two large circles of glass for his eyes. The medic's frizzy blond hair stuck up from behind the mask, completely messy and ravaged like permanent morning hair. This mask had an extra pair of holes, however, for this particular medic's elongated ears to stick through. He was a high elf, after all.

“Oh, I'm pretty damn sure it is, Lex.” Duncan said, pearls of sweat trickling down his cheek as Ramund entered the medic's tent, the little girl in his arms.

“...Oh.” The medic, Lex, said “Alright, alright, put her on my table.”

Despite that he urged Duncan to be careful, he himself immediately just swept off five or six odd devices from the laboratory table, sending them crashing down in a pile of questionable devices and scrap metal that had begun accumulating at the feet of the table. There were many other piles lying here and there, devices gathered over the years, many of them probably so malfunctioning they would slice a man's arm off while they were meant to make toast. Many other devices, some larger than others, decorated the walls of the tents with their... weirdness. Mechanical arms, spare metal prosthetics, and bone saws with a worrying amount of rust on.

“Let's see, let's see...” Lex muttered behind his medic's mask as he threw on his white lab coat and tightened the white glows around his hands. His nimble fingers tingled a little over the little girl's body, and peeked under her poncho to diagnose the wound.

Meanwhile, Angus was looking at Lex with furrowed eyebrows, worry in his eyes.
“Is this really our medic?” He asked, leaning in towards Ramund “He seems rather... questionable.”

“Don't worry.” Ramund said in his deep, rumbling voice “He's been in Camp Vanguard longer than both Duncan or I, and has plenty of experience with this kind of thing. Not once have I heard of a man on Lex's table that he couldn't save. Well... maybe except for the time when—“

“Lexxylzar Hawksoul Umbernight Woodward.” Lex suddenly burst out, shaking Angus' hand with both of his as if he appeared before him out of nowhere “But call me Lex-—everyone else does.”

“LEX!!” Duncan shouted from the side-line.

“See what I mean?”

“Could you please get back to work on the little girl? She's dying, for Lyrras' sake!”

“Yes yes, I'm sorry, just trying to be polite and introduce myself.” He said, before ascending a few steps and standing on the other side of his table. A few mutters escaped his mouth, muffled through the mask, before he pulled forth a large lamp that he hovered over the little girl. With a little button on top, he lit it, letting its pale white electric light illuminate the girl's figure.

“So, Duncan...” Lex said as he slowly turned the gasping girl over to look to her wounds “Attacking little girls now, are we?”

Duncan snapped. He snarled and reached forward, grasping Lex by the collars, staring into the large circular glasses of his mask “Don't you ever accuse me of such, hear me?! I will degrade you to latrine-duty if you—-“

“Duncan.” Ramund interrupted, laying a hand on Duncan's shoulder “Let the man do his work.”

Duncan looked back at Ramund, eyes blazing with anger, but it was not directed towards anyone in specific. He let go of Lex with a toss of his hand and grunted angrily.

“I need some air. She'd better not be dead when I walk back in, Lex.” Duncan muttered fiercely as he pushed away the curtains of the medic's tent and stepped outside.

“Hey when's the last time I ever-—oh whatever.” Lex complained and waved his hand dismissively before looking back down at the girl. Her skin was growing paler, her gasps weaker and quieter, but Lex seemed to be completely calm. Or maybe the bird mask was just hiding his distress. His sharp green eyes stared intensely down upon the girl as his nimble fingers checked her, diagnosed her. There were a few unnerving stains of blood on his lab coat and on his dark trousers, which gave a rather interesting contrast between black and white in his figure. And he was wearing a pair of hard shoes of dark leather, which seemed to click with every step he took.

“Well, she's not mortally wounded, so that's something.” Lex spoke from within his mask as he turned around and began rummaging around in one of his numerous drawers “But she's lost a lot of blood, and her wound isn't healed yet. However, the scar patterns indicate that she has received rapid healing recently. Was that your doing, Ramund?” He asked, not even casting a glance over his shoulder at Ramund.

“It was, yes.” Ramund answered “But as you may know, my knowledge of shamanism is limited. I'm not sure if I could heal her fully—-if correctly at all, so I figured I would bring her to you instead.”

“A wise choice, my cumbersome companion.” Lex said, raising a punctual finger over his shoulder “Always leave these kinds of things to the professionals. If you've scraped your knee, come to me—-I'll have my bone saw ready in moments.” He said before turning around, now with a small green vial in his hands and a chuckle in his voice “I jest, I jest. Don't ever think about bothering me with a scraped knee.”

Ramund tossed a small glance at Angus that seemed to say 'this is what we have to deal with', and Angus couldn't help a low chuckle himself.

Meanwhile, Lex began to uncork the green vial in his hands. And when he did, it came off with a wet pop, and some green steam seemed to emit from it. An odd smell of herbs seemed to spill from the vial too and fill up the entire tent. Angus cringed slightly and held his nose as he looked at the green vial with worry in his eyes. Still, without a moment's hesitation, Lex scooped up the insides-—some kind of green balm, it seemed—-and began to apply it to the girl's wounds. Right as Lex's balm-smothered fingers touched her wound, she uttered a low, rather constricted gasp, her eyes going wide. Her body twitched a little, but seemed to relax, once the wound was completely covered in Lex's balm. He checked a final time for more wounds before putting the cork back on his vial, and looking at Ramund and Angus.

“All done.” He said as he put back the vial. Ramund seemed a bit befuddled, and cocked his head.

“All done? But you just smothered some herbs on her wound. What good will that do?”

“Plenty!” Lex said, raising a finger before letting it fall to a gesture at the girl “Look.”

Ramund looked back at the girl, and saw how she seemed far more relaxed all of a sudden. In fact, she seemed to have fallen asleep. Her breath was normal, and her skin was even beginning to regain some color. Casting a curious glance at her wound, Ramund saw how the bleeding had stopped completely, covered in this strange membrane of green balm. Whatever this was, which Ramund truly had no idea about, it was effective. Leave it to the doctors to work miracles, he thought.

“Well I can't say I'm not impressed.” Ramund said, nodding his head a few times at Lex “You truly do know your art, Lex.” He said with a little smile.

“The pleasure's all mine, friend.” Lex said and performed a short, hand-folded bow before Ramund “I'll keep the girl for a little while more until she wakes up. That's alright with you, I assume?”

“She's safer in your hands than mine, friend.” Ramund said, raising his own pair of hands as if to illustrate a point “I will come and check on the poor child again soon. Take care, Lex.”

“Taking care is part of my job, Ramund.” Lex said jestingly and Ramund could spot a sly wink through those glass goggles of his. Playing along, Ramund winked as well, before taking his leave.

As he stepped outside, he saw exactly what he suspected he would find. Duncan. He saw him sitting there, on a bench outside Lex's tent, his head in his sweating hands. He seemed his mind and heart was tearing him apart from inside. Usually Duncan wasn't like this-—at least not in Ramund's eyes—-, but he must have taken this quite harshly. Which was reasonable enough. That little girl almost died, after all. With a little sigh, Ramund sat down beside him.

Thump!

Duncan slowly looked up at Ramund, and showed the despair that reveled in his eyes. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, as the legend goes, then Duncan's soul was truly bleeding badly. Their gazes met and held for a few seconds, before Duncan let out a long, frustrated sigh.

“A little girl, Ramund.” Duncan said, staring down into the arid ground below, voice shivering like a camel in the mountains “She almost died, for Lyrras' sake! She had no part in this war. Why did she have to suffer? What could she ever have done wrong to deserve such a grim fate? This war is between us and the demons-—the natives have nothing to do with this, yet they are the ones who suffer the worst!” Duncan exclaimed and angrily thumped his clenched fist down upon his knee “They are the ones caught in the line of fire from both sides, and that desk-dwelling prick, Lucius Deum, doesn't give a shit. 'Necessary casualties'-—yes, thank you, we've heard that one before. Necessary my ass.”

Ramund exhaled slowly and folded his hands, looking at Duncan with those large, gentle eyes of his “She didn't die, Duncan. Don't tear yourself up about it. You had nothing to do with this. In fact: you helped save the poor girl. Without us, she would have been dead by now—her remains becoming one with the wasteland out there.” Ramund said and bobbed his head towards the endless wastes of nothingness beyond the tents.

Duncan's gaze shifted, flickered nervously as his fingers fidgeted with each other. He licked his lips, trying to think of something to say, before raising his hands in surrender “Yeah, you're right. Not our call. I won't tear myself up. Won't tear myself up—-not my call.” Duncan repeated anxiously to himself. He clearly couldn't get the thought of that little girl out of his head, often casting a nervous glance towards the closed entrance to Lex's tent. Ramund noticed these glances and offered Duncan a comforting smile, patting him twice on the back.

“But don't worry about her from now on. She's in Lex's hands, and although they may be shifty and weird, they get the job done. You know Lex. Best medic you can get, albeit a bit... questionable. Still: she'll live for sure.”

Duncan looked up at Ramund. Once more their eyes met, and Duncan seemed torn between despair and acceptance. Still, it seemed the odds fell in the favors of acceptance as he let his shoulders drop in a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Again: you're right. See, you always manage to keep your spirits up here...” Duncan said and raised his hand well above his head “While my spirits tend to be like... here.” He said and held it at chest height “While, of course, the recruits tend to plummet down here.” He said and immediately let his hand drop down to his feet. He then looked back at Ramund and shrugged his shoulders “By all logical means, you should be captain, not me. You're unbreakable, Ramund-—both physically and spiritually!” He said and gave Ramund a firm punch in the chest to illustrate his point. Naturally, there was just a hallow thump, and Ramund responded with little but a low chuckle and a smile.

“Duncan, I may have the body, I may have the spirit, but you have the mind and heart.” Ramund said and looked into Duncan's eyes with sincerity in his own “Those two things are vital for a leader to have. Spirit might be too, but physical strength has no point in how well you lead a squad. That is why you are the captain, and not me. You live up for two of the criteria, while I only lead up for one. Hence the reason I'm a sergeant, I guess.” Ramund said and glanced down at the sergeant's badge that hung from his chest plate.

This time, Duncan smiled too “That's a firm point you have there. Gods know what will happen if I get spirit too; I might end up tossing that Dark Elf snake off his throne and become general instead of him.” Duncan said, standing up. He seemed to imagine himself as captain, but then quickly dismiss the thought.

“Nah. This system is too corrupt. We're all marionette puppets for a puppeteer on his throne back in the valleys, up north. I'd never become general if I didn't somehow kiss the ass of Lucius Deum himself, like our current general probably has.” Duncan muttered, arms folded and with a slow sneer on his lips. He cast a final glance at the entrance of Lex's tent, before quickly marching over to Ramund and giving him a pat on the shoulder.
“You're my remedy, Ramund.” Duncan said with the flash of a smile “Gods know how far down my spirits would've been without you to drag me back up. Thanks, chum. You have a good one, okay?” He said, winking once at Ramund, before quelling his facial expression with a more serious and professional one. A second of silence passed by, before Duncan performed a stiff salute before Ramund.

“Good work on the field today, Sergeant. I'll be seeing you for our evening rations, I suppose?”

Ramund quickly, although rather casually, performed his usual hand-to-forehead salute and smiled “I suppose we will, captain.”

“Good. 'Till then, chum.” Duncan said and spun around, waving farewell a final time, before heading off into the maze of Camp Vanguard. Ramund watched as his companion disappeared in between the tents, before standing up and making his way home too. Looking around, it seemed Angus had dashed off as well.

By the time Ramund had returned to his tent, the first thing he did was throw himself on his bed. It creaked and groaned, complaining loudly, but it was built specifically with extra metal frames to be able to take that kind of treatment from a man his size. He felt the softness underneath him, the thick layer of mattresses softening his fall to a completely stop. At least that was one thing The Crusade had got right: the beds. Funny how booze and beds were the only things that came in either quantity or quality here. It was as if Lucius Deum was expecting his deployed soldiers to sleep and drink their service away.

Ramund sat up in his bed. He unstrapped his pauldrons, his chest plate, his greaves, and let them all fall like peeling the bark off a tree. He shrugged his shoulders a little and felt the weight off his shoulders, relieved. His revealed arms, large and powerful as expected, were littered in either scars or tattoos. Tattoos of winding symbols, foreign runes of northern origin. None of the people here could read the runes, but Ramund could. And there was one, this one on his shoulder, that meant particularly much to him.
It meant 'home'.