Three nights of waiting had produced nothing. Nothing but people asking where she had been. With each passing day they were buying her 'I'm just not feeling well' excuse less and less. Which meant that if nothing happened tonight, she was going to have to abandon the whole experiment, lest she get reported and picked up by some Imperial patrol. If that were to happen, she likely was going to spend the rest of her days out in a spot like this.
That is, a rather abandoned spot of the desert, that was a solid kilometer from town. Sat next to a rather large rock, she had built herself a small fire, and was now waiting for the fourth night in a row. Waiting, in the middle of the desert, with a sack of canned food. Canned food being the best that she could come up with in terms of an 'offering'. Why she had decided to dedicate so much time to an urban legend, even she wasn't entirely sure.
When she began to doubt the possibility, she ran over the entire tale again in her head. Once it was fresh in her mind, it was hard to not jump at every gust of wind, lest they be a vengeful spirit who had come to answer her call. At one point she had caught a glimpse of some white sheet flying off into the setting sun, but the next day had revealed it to be something that had escaped from someone's clothesline.
After an hour or two, her head was leaned back against the rock, staring up at the dark night sky. Clouds must have passed overhead as the sun set, as she could see neither stars nor moons. Just an empty black abyss. Like staring into a mine shaft. Another hour passed and she found herself in that realm between consciousness and sleep. Tossing and turning by her lonesome. Or at least, she had been alone.
The slightest shift of the sands, and light tinkling of cans was enough to bring her back to waking. Blinking and rubbing her eyes, at first she still considered herself alone. Once she determined that she had not in fact dreamed up the noises, she was forced to deal with the possibility that someone or something had crept out here and was now raiding through her potential offering.
Standing, she paced around the area. A frown found its way onto her face as she found nothing in the general vicinity of her little camp. Not on the rock, not near the rock, not off in the distance. She paced about the rock, not finding anything there either. It was once she circled back around the rock was when she finally found her quarry.
There, hovering near the fire, was a figure, clad in black. Black cloth covered her body, as opposed to the foretold white, and it was more pulled to her flesh, like something between a tunic or armor. It was not, as she had expected, some flowing robe or cloak. Stretched across her back was a long staff, of a silvery metal that had been polished to a shine. Most of her head was covered in a black hood of the same material, attached to the back of her coat, which framed her pale face into something she could only describe as menacing.
It was the face that made her ran cold. That pale, motionless face. A splotch of white against a black background, which had a pair of distant yellow eyes set within it. Small gray marks, scars as best as she could tell, marked her face here and there. Vague purple lines were layered into her skin, giving the impression that she was staring at a painting more than she was staring at a person. Not that she believed entirely that she was staring at a person.
To keep with her ominous appearance, the figure's arm rose in one slow, fluid motion, her fingers twisting to beckon Iroe forward. With an audible gulp, Iroe did as instructed, stopping in front of the fire. A shorter distance made her feel even less safe now than she had before, not least because now the rock was at her back.
"You called," the woman finally said, after they had stood there in silence. Her voice was a flat, cold tone. She spoke as though stating fact, without any room for question.
Taking in a breath, Iroe nodded slowly. With shaking hands, she bent down, picking up the sack full of cans and awkwardly holding it out, "I did."
Those yellow eyes stared down at the bag for a moment, before the head they were attached to gave a short nod. A pale hand motioned for the bag to be set down again, and that same cold tone spoke, though there might have been an edge of sympathy to it, "You wish the Imperials on your world punished."
Again she stated it as fact. A fact that Iroe certainly couldn't deny. While she had heard of far worse stories of Imperial occupation of worlds, that didn't mean she wanted the damned things to stay on her own world. "I do," she managed to say, steadying her voice, "I want them gone."
The figure gave another nod, closing her eyes to consider Iroe's words. After enough contemplation, she opened her eyes, "Return to your town. Leave your offering. Do not think of this encounter again." With that, she turned, making off past Iroe, until she was out of sight beyond the rock.
Seconds past, long enough for her to gain the courage to move from the spot she had been directed to. When she did, Iroe slowly peered around the rock, looking out into the night, finding only the lights of the settlement in the distance. Her stomach churned, wondering what exactly such a bargain she had just bought her way into.
Monday, January 16, 2017
Ghosts (Part 2)
The Golden Vein was easily the finest cantina on all of Veros. Its management made such a claim with no sense of uncertainty. They didn't need to. Because the Golden Vein was the only cantina on all of Veros.
There was a dark humor to the claim, one that ran through the rest of the settlement. The general store made a similar statement, as it had no competition. Elsewhere such things as the spaceport or the mine itself housed equally dark claims, if not worse. The former had 'We're surprised you didn't leave sooner' resting above its entrance, while the latter's motto was shamelessly, 'Off the deep end'. Most had taken the mine's motto a bit personally. Especially since it came a few months after a terrible accident flooded a number of caverns.
Those born on world were accustomed to it, and thus were an off-putting presence for visitors. Their dry senses of humor, and morbid sensibilities weren't exactly a tourist magnet. Anyone who happened to make their way to Veros were there for one reason. Minerals.
A boom decades prior had brought people from all across the galaxy, with people arriving and leaving as soon as they hit their respective gold mine. After they had enough to live off of for the rest of their lives, they left. Mostly because there was no way they were going to stick around to be near the people. As a result, there were more abandoned mine shafts around the lone settlement than there were people living there, each and everyone of them left after having been cleared out. In more recent years, people had stopped coming, though it wasn't because there wasn't anything left to find. It was because of the Empire.
As soon as they stepped in, setting up in the more abandoned areas of town, people stopped coming. When the people stopped coming, it became far more appealing for most people to take up the Imperial offer of coming to work for them, in the mines. The pay wasn't great, but for the people who had made their lives on Veros, they didn't have any particular option. Sure, a few people who could saddled up and left. The rest had to deal with their new way of living.
For most, that meant dealing with long hours, poor conditions, and then drinking away any memory of it. The management of the Golden Vein weren't exactly complaining, even if they weren't entirely pleased with the situation. Between the soldiers and the citizens, business was booming in a way they couldn't have even hoped for. And tonight was no different.
Tonight, just like any other night, the main room of the bar was lined with people. Even with the settlement's meager population, it had had its fair share of drunks about town. A dire lack of any other alternative had lead plenty of others to the bottle. In a way, it was a community within a community, complete with neighborhoods.
Most of the remaining business owners were stationed in the back corner, having claimed a few booths. Along the walls were the day shifters, just coming in. They filled up most of the tables as well, and a bit of the bar space. The rest of the bar space was filled up with third shifters, who were waiting to relieve their second shifter brethren. Staff mingled among them, waiters and waitresses speeding here and there to keep everyone as satisfied as possible. Elsewhere, in a newer addition to the building, there was a similar set of Imperial soldiers. It hadn't taken long for people to learn that it was best for everyone to drink on their own, so the Golden Vein had gotten a bit of an upgrade.
It also meant that people were free to sit and complain as they pleased. The possibility of some Imperial surveillance device didn't escape anyone. But so long as they weren't plotting some act of terrorism, no one seemed to care. Even open threats hadn't earned anyone more than a slap on the wrist. Truly, the line seemed to stop firmly at 'actively plotting to blow something up', as one set of would-be rebels found out the hard way.
Stationed behind the bar, in the prime position to survey the entire scene, was a rather large, yellow Twi'lek. His head tails reaching well down his back, he stood head and shoulders above everyone else in the room, and was wide enough to fill a doorway. As he was fond of telling anyone who happened to be new to town, his name was Uro'bek, but most people in the area simply shortened it to 'Bek'. Not that he had had anyone new to tell that to for some time.
At present, everything was calm enough that he could take to scrubbing a few glasses clean. Priming them for when their time of need would arrive. A moment of calm, before a storm of orders hit him. Surveying his domain, he made note of who was likely to require something first. Nelson in the corner was running low. Bernard off in the back hadn't gotten a refill in something like twenty minutes. And the business booth was bound to need a top off at any moment.
The sound of swinging doors caught his attention. Turning, he brought up a large hand, still clutching his cleaning cloth, to greet the newcomer. Iroe, a miner's daughter, who had turned out to be a miner of her own. Her skin was pale as marble, but the girl's hair was as blonde as though she spent her every waking moment in the sun. She had gotten that particular feature from her mother. On top of that, she had inherited her mother's attitude, as well. That is to say, a rather snide one.
Bek didn't even hesitate to fill up a glass, knowing full well what the woman would order before she even opened her mouth to the waitress. Her pa had ordered it for years here, and had managed to get her hooked on the stuff. Not that neither her pa or her ma were around to appreciate such rough results to their upbringing. Life expectancy had never been high out here, and they hadn't been the ones to escape the statistics.
One of the waitresses came by, quickly taking the mug with a silent nod of gratitude, which he returned. After the exchanging of gestures, she swiftly returned to the table, where Iroe gave a similar nod of appreciation. Turning, she lifted the mug to Bek, before turning back to her companions to start chugging from the thing.
Rush soon fell after, only to be followed by another lull. Another rush came after that, followed by a lull, and the cycle repeated itself for hours, until the third shifters left, only to be replaced by the second shifters. Soon after, most of the day crew was gone, to catch a bit of shut eye before they were due to clock in. Not long after, the only people left were a few seconds who didn't want to go home, and Iroe's little group.
The bartender was taking a moment of short respite. He only had an hour or two left before he could kick them out, and go home to sleep for a few hours. Then it was going to just be a repeat of the current day, and almost every one before that. Sleep, wake up, putter around, work, repeat. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to eavesdrop on the conversation in the room. Though eavesdrop probably wasn't the best word. It wasn't like people were trying to be private at the moment.
"Hear what happened a few parsecs over?" someone was saying. One of the men at Iroe's table. Tall, with dark skin. He knew the voice, and the face, even if he didn't know the gent's name to heart.
"Nah," Iroe said, even managing to add a slight slur to a single word, "Wha happened?"
"Ghost a kriffin' Nemara happened," another man muttered. A red, bushy mustache to his face, and an old blue beanie on his head. Richard. Bek opened his eyes, resting more on the bar to get a better look at the conversation. The second shifters still sitting at the bar had turned by this point to listen as well.
"The hell's 'at?" came another slurred sentence from Iroe, who was lazily leaned against the table. She was squinting at Richard, waiting for some story to go with the random turn of phrase.
Richard happily obliged. "Imp outpos' got hit," he said, his words not so much slurred as filtered through an accent, "Bunch'a folks dead, nuttin' there to say who did it." Iroe just grinned at him, apparently amused with what she could only assume was a tall tale. "Happened a few other places too. Same thing, Imp post gets hit, anybody who sees anything says jus' a lady in white seen there. An' not no regular lookin' lady neither. Ghost."
Iroe rolled her eyes, "Tha's tha' stupiesht thing I've ever heard."
The taller man nodded, "Heard the same stories."
A drunken laugh managed to escape Iroe, "Okay, an' wha' the hell's a 'Nemara'?"
"Planet," one of the second shifters added. The trio blinked, looking to him, before the two men nodded, "Planet a few systems off."
"Got hit by Imps, everybody considered dead. 'Cludin' a woman know to hang around in white," Richard added, looking back to Iroe.
She let out a snort, "Sho what yer sayin' is that some ghost a some dead lady's goin' around killin' a bunch-a Imps?"
"Aye," added the second shifter, "An' they say you can get 'er to come, with the right kinda offerin'."
Iroe's eyes lit up as the prospect bounced around in her brain, "Can get some ghost lady to come kill yer Imps? Where the hell do I sign up?"
"Have to leave a sign, and an offering outside of town," the tall man said again, "Least that's how the story goes. Can take a few nights."
"Then you can find 'er?" Iroe said, taking mental notes of that.
"She'll find you," Richard said, a bit of faux darkness in his voice. After a moment of silence between them, he let out a laugh, which was quickly followed by the others joining in.
Bek let out a short sigh of relief, moving to find a glass to clean. The remaining people talked among themselves for a time, but the topic never strayed to something so heretical as the conversation prior. Nothing that could potentially get some of them killed, that is to say. Eventually they all began filing out, one by one, with Iroe being the last of the tree. As she made her way out of the bar, he frowned, turning his head as he heard her mutter to himself.
She had stopped, slumped against the doorframe to regain her footing. Once she had done so, she continued making for the outside, stumbling somewhat. Even still, he could hear her mutter to herself "I can probably manage an offering."
There was a dark humor to the claim, one that ran through the rest of the settlement. The general store made a similar statement, as it had no competition. Elsewhere such things as the spaceport or the mine itself housed equally dark claims, if not worse. The former had 'We're surprised you didn't leave sooner' resting above its entrance, while the latter's motto was shamelessly, 'Off the deep end'. Most had taken the mine's motto a bit personally. Especially since it came a few months after a terrible accident flooded a number of caverns.
Those born on world were accustomed to it, and thus were an off-putting presence for visitors. Their dry senses of humor, and morbid sensibilities weren't exactly a tourist magnet. Anyone who happened to make their way to Veros were there for one reason. Minerals.
A boom decades prior had brought people from all across the galaxy, with people arriving and leaving as soon as they hit their respective gold mine. After they had enough to live off of for the rest of their lives, they left. Mostly because there was no way they were going to stick around to be near the people. As a result, there were more abandoned mine shafts around the lone settlement than there were people living there, each and everyone of them left after having been cleared out. In more recent years, people had stopped coming, though it wasn't because there wasn't anything left to find. It was because of the Empire.
As soon as they stepped in, setting up in the more abandoned areas of town, people stopped coming. When the people stopped coming, it became far more appealing for most people to take up the Imperial offer of coming to work for them, in the mines. The pay wasn't great, but for the people who had made their lives on Veros, they didn't have any particular option. Sure, a few people who could saddled up and left. The rest had to deal with their new way of living.
For most, that meant dealing with long hours, poor conditions, and then drinking away any memory of it. The management of the Golden Vein weren't exactly complaining, even if they weren't entirely pleased with the situation. Between the soldiers and the citizens, business was booming in a way they couldn't have even hoped for. And tonight was no different.
Tonight, just like any other night, the main room of the bar was lined with people. Even with the settlement's meager population, it had had its fair share of drunks about town. A dire lack of any other alternative had lead plenty of others to the bottle. In a way, it was a community within a community, complete with neighborhoods.
Most of the remaining business owners were stationed in the back corner, having claimed a few booths. Along the walls were the day shifters, just coming in. They filled up most of the tables as well, and a bit of the bar space. The rest of the bar space was filled up with third shifters, who were waiting to relieve their second shifter brethren. Staff mingled among them, waiters and waitresses speeding here and there to keep everyone as satisfied as possible. Elsewhere, in a newer addition to the building, there was a similar set of Imperial soldiers. It hadn't taken long for people to learn that it was best for everyone to drink on their own, so the Golden Vein had gotten a bit of an upgrade.
It also meant that people were free to sit and complain as they pleased. The possibility of some Imperial surveillance device didn't escape anyone. But so long as they weren't plotting some act of terrorism, no one seemed to care. Even open threats hadn't earned anyone more than a slap on the wrist. Truly, the line seemed to stop firmly at 'actively plotting to blow something up', as one set of would-be rebels found out the hard way.
Stationed behind the bar, in the prime position to survey the entire scene, was a rather large, yellow Twi'lek. His head tails reaching well down his back, he stood head and shoulders above everyone else in the room, and was wide enough to fill a doorway. As he was fond of telling anyone who happened to be new to town, his name was Uro'bek, but most people in the area simply shortened it to 'Bek'. Not that he had had anyone new to tell that to for some time.
At present, everything was calm enough that he could take to scrubbing a few glasses clean. Priming them for when their time of need would arrive. A moment of calm, before a storm of orders hit him. Surveying his domain, he made note of who was likely to require something first. Nelson in the corner was running low. Bernard off in the back hadn't gotten a refill in something like twenty minutes. And the business booth was bound to need a top off at any moment.
The sound of swinging doors caught his attention. Turning, he brought up a large hand, still clutching his cleaning cloth, to greet the newcomer. Iroe, a miner's daughter, who had turned out to be a miner of her own. Her skin was pale as marble, but the girl's hair was as blonde as though she spent her every waking moment in the sun. She had gotten that particular feature from her mother. On top of that, she had inherited her mother's attitude, as well. That is to say, a rather snide one.
Bek didn't even hesitate to fill up a glass, knowing full well what the woman would order before she even opened her mouth to the waitress. Her pa had ordered it for years here, and had managed to get her hooked on the stuff. Not that neither her pa or her ma were around to appreciate such rough results to their upbringing. Life expectancy had never been high out here, and they hadn't been the ones to escape the statistics.
One of the waitresses came by, quickly taking the mug with a silent nod of gratitude, which he returned. After the exchanging of gestures, she swiftly returned to the table, where Iroe gave a similar nod of appreciation. Turning, she lifted the mug to Bek, before turning back to her companions to start chugging from the thing.
Rush soon fell after, only to be followed by another lull. Another rush came after that, followed by a lull, and the cycle repeated itself for hours, until the third shifters left, only to be replaced by the second shifters. Soon after, most of the day crew was gone, to catch a bit of shut eye before they were due to clock in. Not long after, the only people left were a few seconds who didn't want to go home, and Iroe's little group.
The bartender was taking a moment of short respite. He only had an hour or two left before he could kick them out, and go home to sleep for a few hours. Then it was going to just be a repeat of the current day, and almost every one before that. Sleep, wake up, putter around, work, repeat. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to eavesdrop on the conversation in the room. Though eavesdrop probably wasn't the best word. It wasn't like people were trying to be private at the moment.
"Hear what happened a few parsecs over?" someone was saying. One of the men at Iroe's table. Tall, with dark skin. He knew the voice, and the face, even if he didn't know the gent's name to heart.
"Nah," Iroe said, even managing to add a slight slur to a single word, "Wha happened?"
"Ghost a kriffin' Nemara happened," another man muttered. A red, bushy mustache to his face, and an old blue beanie on his head. Richard. Bek opened his eyes, resting more on the bar to get a better look at the conversation. The second shifters still sitting at the bar had turned by this point to listen as well.
"The hell's 'at?" came another slurred sentence from Iroe, who was lazily leaned against the table. She was squinting at Richard, waiting for some story to go with the random turn of phrase.
Richard happily obliged. "Imp outpos' got hit," he said, his words not so much slurred as filtered through an accent, "Bunch'a folks dead, nuttin' there to say who did it." Iroe just grinned at him, apparently amused with what she could only assume was a tall tale. "Happened a few other places too. Same thing, Imp post gets hit, anybody who sees anything says jus' a lady in white seen there. An' not no regular lookin' lady neither. Ghost."
Iroe rolled her eyes, "Tha's tha' stupiesht thing I've ever heard."
The taller man nodded, "Heard the same stories."
A drunken laugh managed to escape Iroe, "Okay, an' wha' the hell's a 'Nemara'?"
"Planet," one of the second shifters added. The trio blinked, looking to him, before the two men nodded, "Planet a few systems off."
"Got hit by Imps, everybody considered dead. 'Cludin' a woman know to hang around in white," Richard added, looking back to Iroe.
She let out a snort, "Sho what yer sayin' is that some ghost a some dead lady's goin' around killin' a bunch-a Imps?"
"Aye," added the second shifter, "An' they say you can get 'er to come, with the right kinda offerin'."
Iroe's eyes lit up as the prospect bounced around in her brain, "Can get some ghost lady to come kill yer Imps? Where the hell do I sign up?"
"Have to leave a sign, and an offering outside of town," the tall man said again, "Least that's how the story goes. Can take a few nights."
"Then you can find 'er?" Iroe said, taking mental notes of that.
"She'll find you," Richard said, a bit of faux darkness in his voice. After a moment of silence between them, he let out a laugh, which was quickly followed by the others joining in.
Bek let out a short sigh of relief, moving to find a glass to clean. The remaining people talked among themselves for a time, but the topic never strayed to something so heretical as the conversation prior. Nothing that could potentially get some of them killed, that is to say. Eventually they all began filing out, one by one, with Iroe being the last of the tree. As she made her way out of the bar, he frowned, turning his head as he heard her mutter to himself.
She had stopped, slumped against the doorframe to regain her footing. Once she had done so, she continued making for the outside, stumbling somewhat. Even still, he could hear her mutter to herself "I can probably manage an offering."
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Ghosts (Part 1)
Patrolling a dusty planet along the Outer Rim had become too familiar to him. Given how many tours he had done out here, that should have been a surprise to absolutely no one. Last time he had bothered to check, he was on the eighth or ninth tour, all within a span of two or three years. Three or four months out on the rim, followed by a month or two back in the Core Worlds, and then shipped back out.
After so many trips, things mostly just blended together. One dirty planet, filled with a bunch of shady aliens was just as bad as the others. He didn't bother picking up too much of the lingo of a place, considering he was going to leave a few weeks after he got it all memorized. Most of the time he didn't even bother memorizing too many names. Outside of whoever he was bunking with, as well as his COs, there wasn't much reason to try and remember each and every face, when they were going to be scattered across the galaxy in a few months. So to him, most of the outpost's residents were nothing more than a few numbers. In a few weeks time, he would leave. A few weeks after that, he would return to the Rim, to a planet with a different name, and be surrounded by different numbers.
Tonight's assignment put him on one of the guard towers. Situated at the front of the outpost, that meant he and one other lucky gent got a grand view of the pale red mountains in the distance, set against a setting yellow sun. He did have to admit that it was a pretty nice view. Someone should put it on a poster or something. Actually, someone probably had. It was probably in a gift shop in the settlement up the road, and extremely overpriced.
Across the gap between his tower and the other, he saw his counterpart leaning against the railing. It was hard to tell behind the white helmet, but he could only assume that they were just as bored as he was. Turning back to stare off in the distance, he squinted, peering at some distant hill. He could have swore something had passed in front of the setting sun, but from here he couldn't tell what. Probably some animal, running on home before it got dark. Things around here were deadly after dusk, when the predators came out of their caves.
Nothing else moved, far as he could see. In front of him, that was. Behind him he could hear the constant movement of patrols making their way around. Not that they were going to really find anything. Far as he had seen, Rebel activity out here was low. A few locals who had managed to get a collection of firearms. They were easy to put down.
A short burst of static hit his ears as his comm came to life. Tapping his helmet until it stopped buzzing, he let out a bored response, "NB-345 reporting, please repeat."
"You're off," was the simple reply, from whoever was working the switchboard tonight, "BR's replacing you. Meet at bottom of the ladder and switch duties as usual."
"Roger," he muttered, turning and slowly making his way down the ladder. Looking to his right, he saw his counterpart doing the same.
At the bottom of the ladder he slid his ID card through the appropriate scanner, and stood there, waiting. He continued waiting for what felt like ten minutes. After that long, he gave his helmet another tap, "Central, this Tower-L. Was due off ten minutes ago, replacement has not arrived."
The voice on the other end was the same he had heard earlier, implying that they weren't done with their shift, yet. Their annoyed tone implied that they were just as annoyed with that as he was, "Working on replacing. Can't find BR." There was a muffled yell in the background. Something about running down the replacement list. A few faint beeps later and he got another response, "Sending out NL-434. Give them a few minutes."
"Roger," he said once more, with even less enthusiasm.
Again, he waited. And again, no one came. He frowned, though the gesture was hidden by his helmet. Leaning forward, he looked to see if the other guard tower had been left hanging for this long. No one was standing at the bottom of it, so he could only assume that wasn't the case. Sighing, he allowed to let his rifle hang by the strap that ran over his shoulders, bringing his hand to his helmet once more.
"Central, Tower-L. No replacement, approaching half an hour unmanned."
A pause. Static. No response.
"Central," he said, turning and twisting again to stare up at the other tower. By squinting he could just make out someone at the top, leaning against the railing. "This is Tower-L. Requesting response, seeking replacement."
Nothing.
Frowning, he worked his way around the small metal outcroppings that jutted out from the gate, finding his way over to the other tower. Craning his neck to see up to the top, he raised his voice, "Hey!"
Nothing. Not so much as a wave. The person at the top of the tower refused to even so much as move, remaining at their prior position, slouched against the railing. Annoyed, he circled around to the front of the tower, right under them, raising his voice to shout once more. Still no response. Bringing his foot up, he let it slam against the tower's metal base. The precarious metal structure bobbed for a bit, and the person at the top of it wiggled, falling off of the railing and crumpling against the floor.
No. That couldn't have been right. These things were flimsy, but if they were paying any sort of attention no one was going to get knocked over by it getting a shake. Whoever was at the top only moved closer and closer to the edge. At this point he could only assume one of two things. They were either unconscious, or dead.
Turning from the tower, he crept closer to the base and its barracks, right hand settling on the trigger of his rifle. The other hand went up to his head, trying to make contact with the operator once more, getting the same familiar static.
On the exterior, the barracks appeared normal. Once he had crossed the threshold of the door, which opened with a familiar hiss, any sense of familiarity faded. Against one side of the short hallway that lead into the barrack's living quarters were the bodies of a few troops, and on the other clear burn marks from where their shots had missed their assailant.
His breathing was uneven as he stepped over the bodies, not checking to see if they were alive or not. Stepping out into the living quarters, he let out a short sigh. At first it appeared almost normal. A few people were seated around a table, playing pazaak. He gulped upon approaching them and finding that they were actually slumped over the table, visible wounds on their back.
Something was off. When he took a knee to examine the floor, he could see clearly how someone had dragged them from elsewhere in the room, and purposely positioned them around the table. They had even dealt cards. A chill ran down his spine. The kind that made him think someone was staring at him.
Behind him came the sound of a door opening, though a quick turn didn't reveal much to him about the source of the noise. There wasn't one open, and there wasn't anyone around to open it. Anyone that was alive, or mobile, that is.
Stepping further into the barracks revealed similar scenes. Some hallways were littered with troops, their armor dented from where it had apparently been struck. A few of the bunk rooms had corpses in them too, laid out to look as though they were just going along their normal routines. Like someone setting up a morbid diorama.
The command center wasn't much different. A few bodies scattered here and there, while others sat slouched at their desks. By the way they were laid out, he could only assume that when whoever had done this had passed through here, they had made their way around the room, before entering the barracks. The thought bothered him. It meant that they had come out, the way he had come in. Or hadn't bothered leaving.
Finding the steps that lead up to the communications center, he found a similar scene. The large window that stretched across the front of the room, allowing viewing of the towers at the front of the outpost, was splotched red in a few places, with the place's small staff spread across their terminal. Passing through the desks, he frowned at someone still tweaking the dials at their station. He could only assume it was whoever he was speaking with prior, due to the small list they had pulled up on their screen.
It was a short list. For an outpost that had maybe fifteen or twenty people at most. His brain started sorting through a tally of sorts. There had been about five or so people in the barracks, maybe five downstairs, and five up here. He could only assume that the others were either spread out across the base, wandering around like he was, or already gotten hit, like whoever had been in the tower.
The tower.
Turning, he found the tower as before, narrowing his gaze to see whether or not the body was still there. It wasn't. That wasn't to say nothing was on the tower. There was certainly something standing on the tower. A figure cloaked in white, yellow eyes set deep inside pale skin, all framed by white hair. A familiar chill crept down his spine. The figure was in fact standing there. Except it almost seemed to not actually be there. Like a hologram that was in color, it seemed to flicker or fade, and he could see through it.
Something moved along the window, and it took him a moment to realize it was a reflection. He turned again, only to find the individual from the tower standing at the rear of the room. Except this one was obviously real. She had the same white hair, the same torn white cloak, save now there was a long staff in her hand. He drew his blaster to fire on the approaching woman, but with a flick of her wrist and a small mutter, the weapon was tugged from his hands.
The strap kept it in his reach, but there had been enough time for her to close the gap. Quickly deciding the best course of option was to not engage someone apparently tried for close-quarters, he broke into a sprint around the room, not daring look back to see if she was still tailing him. Passing back into the barracks, he took a quick turn into one of the bunk rooms. He quickly dove into the first spot he could think of to hide, under one of the beds.
Surprisingly, the first thing that crossed his mind wasn't how insane this entire scenario seemed. It was that he had just crammed himself under a bed, like a child. Not that there wasn't a reason he had done so. The bed has a decent elevation, so he was still able to fit under it, helmet and all. On top of that, he managed to move a few of the footlockers to conceal himself, though he still had to hope that none of the noise he made in the process of doing so drew in his attacker.
Long after the door had slid shut behind him, he heard the noise of someone approaching. One by one the other doors in the hall slid open and shut multiple times, as he could only assume someone entered and exited them. Eventually the door closest to him hissed open, and footsteps fell upon the shiny floor. Red boots marched across the room, stopping just out of his sight at the far wall. As they passed he could vaguely see the lowest part of the white shawl. After the woman let out another short, angry mutter, he saw her pass back across the room, the door being forced open.
He waited a few more minutes. To give himself more space between her and him. Once ample time had passed, he pushed the footlockers back to their original positions, crawling back out from under the bunk. Grunting from where his rifle had been pressed into his stomach, he stretched, readying himself to be attacked. It was with extreme caution that he approached the door. It slid open with the familiar noise, and he poked his head out, peering left and right until he was sure that the coast was clear.
Just as he was about to step back out into the hallway, he felt a pressure on his throat. A thin rod was being pressed against it, and he was being pulled back. He released his grip on his rifle as he tried to twist and turn to escape his attacker, but she made a quick kick at his foot, and his leg dropped out from under him.
As his head grew light, his hands flailed up in an attempt to hit her skull, but found no mark. His helmet turned, but not enough to look at her. Vision fading, he tried to keep some focus on his surroundings. The room, the noise of his choking. Anything that wasn't letting the darkness at the edge of his vision overtake him.
Behind him, he heard a short hiss, "You earned this."
There was one quick motion from the woman, a twisting of his head. And the blackness took him.
After so many trips, things mostly just blended together. One dirty planet, filled with a bunch of shady aliens was just as bad as the others. He didn't bother picking up too much of the lingo of a place, considering he was going to leave a few weeks after he got it all memorized. Most of the time he didn't even bother memorizing too many names. Outside of whoever he was bunking with, as well as his COs, there wasn't much reason to try and remember each and every face, when they were going to be scattered across the galaxy in a few months. So to him, most of the outpost's residents were nothing more than a few numbers. In a few weeks time, he would leave. A few weeks after that, he would return to the Rim, to a planet with a different name, and be surrounded by different numbers.
Tonight's assignment put him on one of the guard towers. Situated at the front of the outpost, that meant he and one other lucky gent got a grand view of the pale red mountains in the distance, set against a setting yellow sun. He did have to admit that it was a pretty nice view. Someone should put it on a poster or something. Actually, someone probably had. It was probably in a gift shop in the settlement up the road, and extremely overpriced.
Across the gap between his tower and the other, he saw his counterpart leaning against the railing. It was hard to tell behind the white helmet, but he could only assume that they were just as bored as he was. Turning back to stare off in the distance, he squinted, peering at some distant hill. He could have swore something had passed in front of the setting sun, but from here he couldn't tell what. Probably some animal, running on home before it got dark. Things around here were deadly after dusk, when the predators came out of their caves.
Nothing else moved, far as he could see. In front of him, that was. Behind him he could hear the constant movement of patrols making their way around. Not that they were going to really find anything. Far as he had seen, Rebel activity out here was low. A few locals who had managed to get a collection of firearms. They were easy to put down.
A short burst of static hit his ears as his comm came to life. Tapping his helmet until it stopped buzzing, he let out a bored response, "NB-345 reporting, please repeat."
"You're off," was the simple reply, from whoever was working the switchboard tonight, "BR's replacing you. Meet at bottom of the ladder and switch duties as usual."
"Roger," he muttered, turning and slowly making his way down the ladder. Looking to his right, he saw his counterpart doing the same.
At the bottom of the ladder he slid his ID card through the appropriate scanner, and stood there, waiting. He continued waiting for what felt like ten minutes. After that long, he gave his helmet another tap, "Central, this Tower-L. Was due off ten minutes ago, replacement has not arrived."
The voice on the other end was the same he had heard earlier, implying that they weren't done with their shift, yet. Their annoyed tone implied that they were just as annoyed with that as he was, "Working on replacing. Can't find BR." There was a muffled yell in the background. Something about running down the replacement list. A few faint beeps later and he got another response, "Sending out NL-434. Give them a few minutes."
"Roger," he said once more, with even less enthusiasm.
Again, he waited. And again, no one came. He frowned, though the gesture was hidden by his helmet. Leaning forward, he looked to see if the other guard tower had been left hanging for this long. No one was standing at the bottom of it, so he could only assume that wasn't the case. Sighing, he allowed to let his rifle hang by the strap that ran over his shoulders, bringing his hand to his helmet once more.
"Central, Tower-L. No replacement, approaching half an hour unmanned."
A pause. Static. No response.
"Central," he said, turning and twisting again to stare up at the other tower. By squinting he could just make out someone at the top, leaning against the railing. "This is Tower-L. Requesting response, seeking replacement."
Nothing.
Frowning, he worked his way around the small metal outcroppings that jutted out from the gate, finding his way over to the other tower. Craning his neck to see up to the top, he raised his voice, "Hey!"
Nothing. Not so much as a wave. The person at the top of the tower refused to even so much as move, remaining at their prior position, slouched against the railing. Annoyed, he circled around to the front of the tower, right under them, raising his voice to shout once more. Still no response. Bringing his foot up, he let it slam against the tower's metal base. The precarious metal structure bobbed for a bit, and the person at the top of it wiggled, falling off of the railing and crumpling against the floor.
No. That couldn't have been right. These things were flimsy, but if they were paying any sort of attention no one was going to get knocked over by it getting a shake. Whoever was at the top only moved closer and closer to the edge. At this point he could only assume one of two things. They were either unconscious, or dead.
Turning from the tower, he crept closer to the base and its barracks, right hand settling on the trigger of his rifle. The other hand went up to his head, trying to make contact with the operator once more, getting the same familiar static.
On the exterior, the barracks appeared normal. Once he had crossed the threshold of the door, which opened with a familiar hiss, any sense of familiarity faded. Against one side of the short hallway that lead into the barrack's living quarters were the bodies of a few troops, and on the other clear burn marks from where their shots had missed their assailant.
His breathing was uneven as he stepped over the bodies, not checking to see if they were alive or not. Stepping out into the living quarters, he let out a short sigh. At first it appeared almost normal. A few people were seated around a table, playing pazaak. He gulped upon approaching them and finding that they were actually slumped over the table, visible wounds on their back.
Something was off. When he took a knee to examine the floor, he could see clearly how someone had dragged them from elsewhere in the room, and purposely positioned them around the table. They had even dealt cards. A chill ran down his spine. The kind that made him think someone was staring at him.
Behind him came the sound of a door opening, though a quick turn didn't reveal much to him about the source of the noise. There wasn't one open, and there wasn't anyone around to open it. Anyone that was alive, or mobile, that is.
Stepping further into the barracks revealed similar scenes. Some hallways were littered with troops, their armor dented from where it had apparently been struck. A few of the bunk rooms had corpses in them too, laid out to look as though they were just going along their normal routines. Like someone setting up a morbid diorama.
The command center wasn't much different. A few bodies scattered here and there, while others sat slouched at their desks. By the way they were laid out, he could only assume that when whoever had done this had passed through here, they had made their way around the room, before entering the barracks. The thought bothered him. It meant that they had come out, the way he had come in. Or hadn't bothered leaving.
Finding the steps that lead up to the communications center, he found a similar scene. The large window that stretched across the front of the room, allowing viewing of the towers at the front of the outpost, was splotched red in a few places, with the place's small staff spread across their terminal. Passing through the desks, he frowned at someone still tweaking the dials at their station. He could only assume it was whoever he was speaking with prior, due to the small list they had pulled up on their screen.
It was a short list. For an outpost that had maybe fifteen or twenty people at most. His brain started sorting through a tally of sorts. There had been about five or so people in the barracks, maybe five downstairs, and five up here. He could only assume that the others were either spread out across the base, wandering around like he was, or already gotten hit, like whoever had been in the tower.
The tower.
Turning, he found the tower as before, narrowing his gaze to see whether or not the body was still there. It wasn't. That wasn't to say nothing was on the tower. There was certainly something standing on the tower. A figure cloaked in white, yellow eyes set deep inside pale skin, all framed by white hair. A familiar chill crept down his spine. The figure was in fact standing there. Except it almost seemed to not actually be there. Like a hologram that was in color, it seemed to flicker or fade, and he could see through it.
Something moved along the window, and it took him a moment to realize it was a reflection. He turned again, only to find the individual from the tower standing at the rear of the room. Except this one was obviously real. She had the same white hair, the same torn white cloak, save now there was a long staff in her hand. He drew his blaster to fire on the approaching woman, but with a flick of her wrist and a small mutter, the weapon was tugged from his hands.
The strap kept it in his reach, but there had been enough time for her to close the gap. Quickly deciding the best course of option was to not engage someone apparently tried for close-quarters, he broke into a sprint around the room, not daring look back to see if she was still tailing him. Passing back into the barracks, he took a quick turn into one of the bunk rooms. He quickly dove into the first spot he could think of to hide, under one of the beds.
Surprisingly, the first thing that crossed his mind wasn't how insane this entire scenario seemed. It was that he had just crammed himself under a bed, like a child. Not that there wasn't a reason he had done so. The bed has a decent elevation, so he was still able to fit under it, helmet and all. On top of that, he managed to move a few of the footlockers to conceal himself, though he still had to hope that none of the noise he made in the process of doing so drew in his attacker.
Long after the door had slid shut behind him, he heard the noise of someone approaching. One by one the other doors in the hall slid open and shut multiple times, as he could only assume someone entered and exited them. Eventually the door closest to him hissed open, and footsteps fell upon the shiny floor. Red boots marched across the room, stopping just out of his sight at the far wall. As they passed he could vaguely see the lowest part of the white shawl. After the woman let out another short, angry mutter, he saw her pass back across the room, the door being forced open.
He waited a few more minutes. To give himself more space between her and him. Once ample time had passed, he pushed the footlockers back to their original positions, crawling back out from under the bunk. Grunting from where his rifle had been pressed into his stomach, he stretched, readying himself to be attacked. It was with extreme caution that he approached the door. It slid open with the familiar noise, and he poked his head out, peering left and right until he was sure that the coast was clear.
Just as he was about to step back out into the hallway, he felt a pressure on his throat. A thin rod was being pressed against it, and he was being pulled back. He released his grip on his rifle as he tried to twist and turn to escape his attacker, but she made a quick kick at his foot, and his leg dropped out from under him.
As his head grew light, his hands flailed up in an attempt to hit her skull, but found no mark. His helmet turned, but not enough to look at her. Vision fading, he tried to keep some focus on his surroundings. The room, the noise of his choking. Anything that wasn't letting the darkness at the edge of his vision overtake him.
Behind him, he heard a short hiss, "You earned this."
There was one quick motion from the woman, a twisting of his head. And the blackness took him.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
Wilting Away (Part 3)
They were broken. In all of the wrong ways. This hands held the scratches of someone who constantly itched themselves. She was hungry. They were all hungry. Many of them were starving. All of them were broken. She knew it, knew it more than anything else. When she bothered to pay attention, she knew it. And when she didn't bother, it was still there, niggling at her head.
One of them slammed a fist onto the table to get her attention. She blinked, head turning to the thing as her breathing intensified. Was she panicking? Was now a proper time to panic? Why was she breathing to begin with. It was not necessary, especially since she was not speaking. The dead did not need air, nor did it need them. They did not need air to survive, and even when they breathed it in it would not be released in the proper form to feed the rest of the planet. They existed in apathy of the air. It despised them for it, she knew it.
It was the other one who had found her. The one who was standing firm and tall, her blue skin glistening so bright in her shining armor. Not the one with the scratched hands. This one had a tired look in her eyes. A look hidden beneath pounds of make-up. She didn't want to be here. None of them wanted to be here. But they were here, and they had nothing better to do, so they might as well all play whatever parts they were meant to play.
She wondered if one of them might consider switching roles.
Scratches approached her first, after Pounds took her time slamming her fist into the wooden table. It was a fine table. Old though. It hadn't aged well. So perhaps it should be considered to have been a fine table. At some point in time it had been a fine table, but it was a fine table no longer. It looked pale and sagging. The result of never seeing the outside world, likely since it had been tossed into this room eon ago.
"Would you like to explain your presence in our city, Outlander?" Scratches said. Her voice was hoarse in a way. It held the same scratches to it that her wrists did. She wasn't losing it, though. It sounded as though she had screamed her entire life. Perhaps she had.
Her head turned to consider the other elf. The blue elf to her deep shade of purple. The elf whose white hair stretched well past her shoulders, while her own green hair was pulled back. Or it had been tied back when she had come in. Maybe that had changed. Things could change so easily.
Scratches took her face in hand, jerking it to the side to force her to stare her in the eyes. She stared back, unblinking. She could see her glowing blue eyes reflect off of the elf's skin. She could see how much the elf was disturbed by her. The rotting shade of purple. To think, this may be the closest one of them had been to their kin, or at least kin from outside their city walls.
And their kin was rotting. They were rotting too. She saw it in them. They craved, like she did. They wanted, like she did. She knew they fed off of something else, but it was a hunger all the same. Something that would drive them mad. All of them were going to either die, or live long enough to go mad.
Pounds approached just as her colleague. She stared, bent over, looking her over. Tried to get her attention a few times to no avail. Once she realized it wasn't going to happen, she gave up. They left.
They left here there. To rot. But she knew something they didn't want to admit. They could lock her away, thinking it punishment. But she was barely here anyways.
One of them slammed a fist onto the table to get her attention. She blinked, head turning to the thing as her breathing intensified. Was she panicking? Was now a proper time to panic? Why was she breathing to begin with. It was not necessary, especially since she was not speaking. The dead did not need air, nor did it need them. They did not need air to survive, and even when they breathed it in it would not be released in the proper form to feed the rest of the planet. They existed in apathy of the air. It despised them for it, she knew it.
It was the other one who had found her. The one who was standing firm and tall, her blue skin glistening so bright in her shining armor. Not the one with the scratched hands. This one had a tired look in her eyes. A look hidden beneath pounds of make-up. She didn't want to be here. None of them wanted to be here. But they were here, and they had nothing better to do, so they might as well all play whatever parts they were meant to play.
She wondered if one of them might consider switching roles.
Scratches approached her first, after Pounds took her time slamming her fist into the wooden table. It was a fine table. Old though. It hadn't aged well. So perhaps it should be considered to have been a fine table. At some point in time it had been a fine table, but it was a fine table no longer. It looked pale and sagging. The result of never seeing the outside world, likely since it had been tossed into this room eon ago.
"Would you like to explain your presence in our city, Outlander?" Scratches said. Her voice was hoarse in a way. It held the same scratches to it that her wrists did. She wasn't losing it, though. It sounded as though she had screamed her entire life. Perhaps she had.
Her head turned to consider the other elf. The blue elf to her deep shade of purple. The elf whose white hair stretched well past her shoulders, while her own green hair was pulled back. Or it had been tied back when she had come in. Maybe that had changed. Things could change so easily.
Scratches took her face in hand, jerking it to the side to force her to stare her in the eyes. She stared back, unblinking. She could see her glowing blue eyes reflect off of the elf's skin. She could see how much the elf was disturbed by her. The rotting shade of purple. To think, this may be the closest one of them had been to their kin, or at least kin from outside their city walls.
And their kin was rotting. They were rotting too. She saw it in them. They craved, like she did. They wanted, like she did. She knew they fed off of something else, but it was a hunger all the same. Something that would drive them mad. All of them were going to either die, or live long enough to go mad.
Pounds approached just as her colleague. She stared, bent over, looking her over. Tried to get her attention a few times to no avail. Once she realized it wasn't going to happen, she gave up. They left.
They left here there. To rot. But she knew something they didn't want to admit. They could lock her away, thinking it punishment. But she was barely here anyways.
Wilting Away (Part 2)
Returning to the forests of Val'sharah was easily one of the last things on his to-do list. Or rather, had been one of the last things on his to-do list until a few hours ago. All the same, standing there, looking down one of the roads that lead from Val'sharah into Suramar, he was very much recalling why he had marked the place off.
Having never been one for forests, the place didn't appeal to him to begin with. Forests were certainly not a terrible place, but being surrounded by trees, with numerous animals slinking about wasn't exactly his idea of a perfect spot. Add to that a whole sect of druids running around, and he didn't exactly feel at his most comfortable. Not that there was anything wrong with druids. He could generally find them agreeable, once they moved past believing that he was an abhorrent crime against nature itself. They were at least easier to get along with than people of the Light.
Perhaps he should have found comfort in the fact that they weren't going to be staying in Val'sharah long. Really they had stopped so he could try picking up a scent, of which there was almost none. From there they were going to make their way through Suramar, combing the land over until they found their errant knight. A task that was most assuredly going to be easier said than done. Having done his fair few laps around the area, he couldn't even begin to count all the various nooks and crannies that the elf they were searching for could have crawled into. That didn't even begin to take into account the idea that she could have made her way to the city. And if she happened to be prancing around Suramar City, then they were both in trouble.
Motioning Simmons on, they started making their way down the path, the greens of Val'sharah slowly giving way to the blues and browns of Suramar. Oh yes, Redamous couldn't help but think, if Elena had managed to find her way to Suramar City, they were most certainly screwed. Which made him think that, on principal, she had somehow found her way to Suramar City. Nothing was ever in the habit of going right, especially not with that elf.
She hadn't been right since Northrend, and he hadn't known her long enough to tell if she had been right before then either. Though to be fair, a number of people he associated with couldn't be considered 'right'. He himself probably couldn't even be considered 'right' by at least a few people's notions. Even if he liked to consider himself fairly normal. Normal, as far as undead hulking wolf creatures went, at least.
At points along the path where they caught signs of someone potentially breaking off the trail, they themselves would break off to search the nearby forests, almost always coming up with nothing. Here and there would be broken branches, or heavily stomped ground, but nothing ever lead them to the elf they sought. They did find plenty of other elves, be it Nightfallen in the area seeking out mana, various withered, or even elves from the Alliance or Horde who happened to be in the area. The sane elves they asked for any potential clues in their hunt, only to be met with vague tales.
Things like mentions of a crazed elf heading south, muttering to herself. Only when they went south, whispers turned them back towards the east, where they found out that from there she had circled around to the north again. It had been half a day before they realized that they had been going in a circle, and only ended up back at Shal'aran, where the bulk of the Nightfallen were housed. At Simmons's request, they stopped inside to poke around, at which point they finally struck a lead.
One of the Nightfallen, apparently recently having fled the city, spoke in great detail about an elf matching Elena's description. Apparently a herbalist by trade, he had directed her after having stumbled across her.
"Oh yes," he told them, shaking his head as though apparently in some sense of disbelief that the encounter had ever occurred, "Yammered to herself the entire time. Speaking of local flora. Green haired elf, wild, blue eyes like yourself. Smelled faintly of rot and roses. I directed her to a particular spot near a bridge and a waterfall to the northeast of the city."
Redamous thought Simmons was prepared to hug the man. But he restrained himself, shook his hand, and they departed, setting off once more to draw closer to the city. The one place Red could almost feel Wiltmend had wandered into, and the last place they would have an easy time searching for her.
Having never been one for forests, the place didn't appeal to him to begin with. Forests were certainly not a terrible place, but being surrounded by trees, with numerous animals slinking about wasn't exactly his idea of a perfect spot. Add to that a whole sect of druids running around, and he didn't exactly feel at his most comfortable. Not that there was anything wrong with druids. He could generally find them agreeable, once they moved past believing that he was an abhorrent crime against nature itself. They were at least easier to get along with than people of the Light.
Perhaps he should have found comfort in the fact that they weren't going to be staying in Val'sharah long. Really they had stopped so he could try picking up a scent, of which there was almost none. From there they were going to make their way through Suramar, combing the land over until they found their errant knight. A task that was most assuredly going to be easier said than done. Having done his fair few laps around the area, he couldn't even begin to count all the various nooks and crannies that the elf they were searching for could have crawled into. That didn't even begin to take into account the idea that she could have made her way to the city. And if she happened to be prancing around Suramar City, then they were both in trouble.
Motioning Simmons on, they started making their way down the path, the greens of Val'sharah slowly giving way to the blues and browns of Suramar. Oh yes, Redamous couldn't help but think, if Elena had managed to find her way to Suramar City, they were most certainly screwed. Which made him think that, on principal, she had somehow found her way to Suramar City. Nothing was ever in the habit of going right, especially not with that elf.
She hadn't been right since Northrend, and he hadn't known her long enough to tell if she had been right before then either. Though to be fair, a number of people he associated with couldn't be considered 'right'. He himself probably couldn't even be considered 'right' by at least a few people's notions. Even if he liked to consider himself fairly normal. Normal, as far as undead hulking wolf creatures went, at least.
At points along the path where they caught signs of someone potentially breaking off the trail, they themselves would break off to search the nearby forests, almost always coming up with nothing. Here and there would be broken branches, or heavily stomped ground, but nothing ever lead them to the elf they sought. They did find plenty of other elves, be it Nightfallen in the area seeking out mana, various withered, or even elves from the Alliance or Horde who happened to be in the area. The sane elves they asked for any potential clues in their hunt, only to be met with vague tales.
Things like mentions of a crazed elf heading south, muttering to herself. Only when they went south, whispers turned them back towards the east, where they found out that from there she had circled around to the north again. It had been half a day before they realized that they had been going in a circle, and only ended up back at Shal'aran, where the bulk of the Nightfallen were housed. At Simmons's request, they stopped inside to poke around, at which point they finally struck a lead.
One of the Nightfallen, apparently recently having fled the city, spoke in great detail about an elf matching Elena's description. Apparently a herbalist by trade, he had directed her after having stumbled across her.
"Oh yes," he told them, shaking his head as though apparently in some sense of disbelief that the encounter had ever occurred, "Yammered to herself the entire time. Speaking of local flora. Green haired elf, wild, blue eyes like yourself. Smelled faintly of rot and roses. I directed her to a particular spot near a bridge and a waterfall to the northeast of the city."
Redamous thought Simmons was prepared to hug the man. But he restrained himself, shook his hand, and they departed, setting off once more to draw closer to the city. The one place Red could almost feel Wiltmend had wandered into, and the last place they would have an easy time searching for her.
Monday, January 9, 2017
Wilting Away (Part 1)
A mixture of noises filled the second floor of Acherus. From the patter of feet, both small and large, against the stone, to the sound of hammer striking metal over the anvils, the floor was positively abuzz with life. Down in the pit was the sound of wood splintering as weapons were tested on dummies, or the occasional grunt of a live target as a demon that had been hauled in from the Isles was used instead. It reminded him constantly of how insect colonies were supposed to work.
Because in spite of all the motion, nothing ever seemed to stop. People were zipping this way and that, going here, there, and everywhere. But there were surprisingly few collisions. Sure every now and then a ghoul or geist would make a faulty turn and run straight into someone carrying a large stack of ore or paperwork, but in the last hour that had happened something like twice. All things considered, he believed that to be some sort of record.
What wasn't a record was how long everything seemed to take these days. Just to get a simple piece of armor made he felt he needed to submit the proper forms two to three weeks in advance. Such was the burden of the Blade being active again. The services of the Siegemaster were actually in demand now, a fact that he let slip no one's attention. Not that being in business again was enough to stop Corvus from complaining. Every single task was rife with bickering over the smallest of details, be it the amount of ore needed for smelting, to how long something should cool off.
Elsewhere the other various vendors that haunted these upper halls were just as busy. Making sure that the various members of the numerous legions of the damned were all outfitted with anything they may need on the field was no small task, and last he had heard just to keep them all stocked was a massive undertaking unto itself. One being carried out by numerous alchemists being assisted by double their number in geist. Which, far as he thought, was a recipe for Acherus to soon have a massive hole blown in the side of it.
Not that any complaint he filed was going to get listened to. The Blade was far past listening to most of its officers. Instead they were listening to some 'Deathlord' he had never met, and was unlikely to ever meet. On top of that, far as he'd heard, the new Lich King had entered the picture. Based on the reports he had read, especially in regards to recent happenings at Light's Hope Chapel, nothing from the past few months left him with any positive light on upper management at the moment. If anything, his opinion had hit an all time low, with little sign that it was going to spike back up any time soon.
Closer to the landing, people continued to enter and exit the floor, the teleporter getting more use than it must have had in years. People from the front coming in to recuperate or retrieve something they had left behind. Others seemed to have acquired new weapons, probably picked from the fallen corpses of demons, and were in the process of applying new runes to them to make them viable for combat. Soon as they were done, it was back to the teleporter, probably to find a gryphon back to the front.
Redamous had had plenty of time to observe all of this. Mostly because he had been waiting here for the past two hours, back leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Because despite of all his early planning, what he had requisitioned was still not ready. It wasn't that long ago that he had submitted the form, but by now everything should have been processed. Hell, it should have been processed last week. But no, his head was going to go unprotected for a little while longer while he waited for Corvus to finally get to his order. Because he had known that helmet was bound to get smashed in. That was just something that seemed to tend to happen with his head. So it had gotten crushed, he had come to finally pick up the replacement, except there was no replacement to pick up.
And now he waited. Standing there against the wall. Watching. Or at least he had been, until some rock managed to hit him square in the head. Blinking, he pushed himself from the wall, squinting about the busy floor, until another rock hit him square in the back of the head. Rubbing the now sore spot with a short grunt, the Worgen turned, squinting into a pile of crates. A hand shot out from behind one of them, beckoning him closer. With more than a little anger, the Worgen slowly approached the crates, only for the hand to shoot out from behind them once more, grabbing him by the collar of his armor and tugging him back behind as well.
Entirely prepared for some sort of conflict, the Worgen raised a fist, ready to strike, though he quickly dropped it. He blinked a few times to make sure that he was seeing things correctly. Far as he could tell, yes, he was. Before him stood a familiar man, one Jeremy Simmons. An old brother-in-arms from the unit he had been attached to during his time in Northrend. A unit that had happened upon a rather unfortunate end, due to unforeseen circumstances, from which there had proven to be three survivors. Simmons was one of them, he was another, and the third was one Elena Wiltmend. Elena being nowhere to be seen. Something told him that that was why Simmons happened to be staring him down with a desperate look in his eye.
"Red," was all the other man could seemingly produce word-wise, staring the Worgen down, gathering his thoughts.
"...Simmons," Red said flatly in reply, after a short pause. There wasn't much else he could think to say. He could ask where Elena was, but something told him he was going to get told anyway.
"She's gone," Simmons said, tone hollow. Redamous blinked, bringing a clawed hand up to motion him on, an eyebrow shooting up as though to say "And?" Simmons took in a breath, "She ran off while we were crossing through Val'sharah."
Even if the name didn't immediately stick out to him, it didn't take long for the place to come rushing back to his brain. He knew Val'sharah well enough, on account of having been stuck there near the start of the campaign. Which had involved far too much time spent walking through far too many marshes for his liking. It was a rather large area, but not necessarily one that couldn't be covered. Which meant something worse.
He nodded slowly, actually speaking to ask his question this time, rather than rely on facial gestures, "...And?"
Simmons took in a breath, blue eyes flicking this way and that in panic, "She ran into that Suramar place. Ran off with some elves or something. Haven't been able to find her since."
Red nodded slowly, considering that for a moment. After that moment had passed, he turned, and began walking straight past the crates. Simmons blinked, following along after him, "Where the hell are you going?"
Because in spite of all the motion, nothing ever seemed to stop. People were zipping this way and that, going here, there, and everywhere. But there were surprisingly few collisions. Sure every now and then a ghoul or geist would make a faulty turn and run straight into someone carrying a large stack of ore or paperwork, but in the last hour that had happened something like twice. All things considered, he believed that to be some sort of record.
What wasn't a record was how long everything seemed to take these days. Just to get a simple piece of armor made he felt he needed to submit the proper forms two to three weeks in advance. Such was the burden of the Blade being active again. The services of the Siegemaster were actually in demand now, a fact that he let slip no one's attention. Not that being in business again was enough to stop Corvus from complaining. Every single task was rife with bickering over the smallest of details, be it the amount of ore needed for smelting, to how long something should cool off.
Elsewhere the other various vendors that haunted these upper halls were just as busy. Making sure that the various members of the numerous legions of the damned were all outfitted with anything they may need on the field was no small task, and last he had heard just to keep them all stocked was a massive undertaking unto itself. One being carried out by numerous alchemists being assisted by double their number in geist. Which, far as he thought, was a recipe for Acherus to soon have a massive hole blown in the side of it.
Not that any complaint he filed was going to get listened to. The Blade was far past listening to most of its officers. Instead they were listening to some 'Deathlord' he had never met, and was unlikely to ever meet. On top of that, far as he'd heard, the new Lich King had entered the picture. Based on the reports he had read, especially in regards to recent happenings at Light's Hope Chapel, nothing from the past few months left him with any positive light on upper management at the moment. If anything, his opinion had hit an all time low, with little sign that it was going to spike back up any time soon.
Closer to the landing, people continued to enter and exit the floor, the teleporter getting more use than it must have had in years. People from the front coming in to recuperate or retrieve something they had left behind. Others seemed to have acquired new weapons, probably picked from the fallen corpses of demons, and were in the process of applying new runes to them to make them viable for combat. Soon as they were done, it was back to the teleporter, probably to find a gryphon back to the front.
Redamous had had plenty of time to observe all of this. Mostly because he had been waiting here for the past two hours, back leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Because despite of all his early planning, what he had requisitioned was still not ready. It wasn't that long ago that he had submitted the form, but by now everything should have been processed. Hell, it should have been processed last week. But no, his head was going to go unprotected for a little while longer while he waited for Corvus to finally get to his order. Because he had known that helmet was bound to get smashed in. That was just something that seemed to tend to happen with his head. So it had gotten crushed, he had come to finally pick up the replacement, except there was no replacement to pick up.
And now he waited. Standing there against the wall. Watching. Or at least he had been, until some rock managed to hit him square in the head. Blinking, he pushed himself from the wall, squinting about the busy floor, until another rock hit him square in the back of the head. Rubbing the now sore spot with a short grunt, the Worgen turned, squinting into a pile of crates. A hand shot out from behind one of them, beckoning him closer. With more than a little anger, the Worgen slowly approached the crates, only for the hand to shoot out from behind them once more, grabbing him by the collar of his armor and tugging him back behind as well.
Entirely prepared for some sort of conflict, the Worgen raised a fist, ready to strike, though he quickly dropped it. He blinked a few times to make sure that he was seeing things correctly. Far as he could tell, yes, he was. Before him stood a familiar man, one Jeremy Simmons. An old brother-in-arms from the unit he had been attached to during his time in Northrend. A unit that had happened upon a rather unfortunate end, due to unforeseen circumstances, from which there had proven to be three survivors. Simmons was one of them, he was another, and the third was one Elena Wiltmend. Elena being nowhere to be seen. Something told him that that was why Simmons happened to be staring him down with a desperate look in his eye.
"Red," was all the other man could seemingly produce word-wise, staring the Worgen down, gathering his thoughts.
"...Simmons," Red said flatly in reply, after a short pause. There wasn't much else he could think to say. He could ask where Elena was, but something told him he was going to get told anyway.
"She's gone," Simmons said, tone hollow. Redamous blinked, bringing a clawed hand up to motion him on, an eyebrow shooting up as though to say "And?" Simmons took in a breath, "She ran off while we were crossing through Val'sharah."
Even if the name didn't immediately stick out to him, it didn't take long for the place to come rushing back to his brain. He knew Val'sharah well enough, on account of having been stuck there near the start of the campaign. Which had involved far too much time spent walking through far too many marshes for his liking. It was a rather large area, but not necessarily one that couldn't be covered. Which meant something worse.
He nodded slowly, actually speaking to ask his question this time, rather than rely on facial gestures, "...And?"
Simmons took in a breath, blue eyes flicking this way and that in panic, "She ran into that Suramar place. Ran off with some elves or something. Haven't been able to find her since."
Red nodded slowly, considering that for a moment. After that moment had passed, he turned, and began walking straight past the crates. Simmons blinked, following along after him, "Where the hell are you going?"
Saturday, December 10, 2016
Ophelia
"Given enough time, and enough effort, anything is plausible."
Her mother had told her that. It was practically her favorite turn of phrase. It had been brought up whenever she was growing weary of something. Whether it be training, or studying, or any other difficult pursuit, she had always been reassured that with persistence, she would endure. She hadn't really given it much thought at the time. Even when conquering her latest endeavor, she hadn't given it much of a thought.
But now a-days it feel on her mind more often. She questioned the entire plausibility of it. Surely there were plenty of people who had put in as much time and effort as they had available and still failed. Not that that discounted the saying, really. It just meant that they hadn't had enough time or enough effort to give, and thus failed.
She allowed the quill in her hand to drop, settling down on her desk near her latest written work, hands coming to rub her forehead. It was only a matter of time until that was her. All this time, and all this effort wasn't going to matter for her in the end. Perhaps it was best that she knew that. It was because she knew that she was already preparing people to take up her work in the aftermath of her passing. Time and effort would continue being poured in because the project deserved it. Azeroth deserved it, as did the Legion.
Every day that passed seem to bring that possibility closer. Duskwood had finally caught up with the rest of her schedule, which meant that soon enough over pieces would start falling into place. Some things had been interrupted, true, but most others had progressed accordingly. Or at least as accordingly as such a plan could. Sheer disruption of operations was impossible, especially with something as large a scale as the Broken Isles's campaign. Elsewhere though things were somewhat stabler or weakened, which meant that they were more open to being abused.
For now though there was mostly the matter of dealing with the particular Knights who had decided to bother her. Or at least setting up the process of doing so, should she not be able to do so in her time.
There was a wrapping at the door of her office. A quick flick of her wrist sent one of the ghouls resting in one of the corners of the room stumbling towards the door and slowly pulling it open. Beyond stood another Knight of the Ebon Blade, his lich blue eyes peering out from behind a standard helm. Another flick of her wrist called him forward. He swiftly set a letter on her desk, saluted, and turned to leave without another word. The ghoul closed the door and shuffled back from wince it had come.
Producing a letter opener from a drawer, she slashed at the envelope. Pulling out the letter within her eyes ran down the page as swiftly as possible, mouth curling upward somewhat. It was at least somewhat more than she was expecting. It was also more than enough to work with. She quickly scribbled out a letter of her own, produced an envelope and sealed it with a quick press from a stamp. Another flick of the wrist brought a geist forward as the ghoul shuffled back towards the door. With one glance at the envelope's delivery address, the geist bobbed its lone eye up and down, making for the door which the ghoul jerkily opened and closed, before returning to its corner.
And just like that, things were in motion once again. It brought a smirk to her lips. More time and effort to be poured in. More things to make plausible.
Her mother had told her that. It was practically her favorite turn of phrase. It had been brought up whenever she was growing weary of something. Whether it be training, or studying, or any other difficult pursuit, she had always been reassured that with persistence, she would endure. She hadn't really given it much thought at the time. Even when conquering her latest endeavor, she hadn't given it much of a thought.
But now a-days it feel on her mind more often. She questioned the entire plausibility of it. Surely there were plenty of people who had put in as much time and effort as they had available and still failed. Not that that discounted the saying, really. It just meant that they hadn't had enough time or enough effort to give, and thus failed.
She allowed the quill in her hand to drop, settling down on her desk near her latest written work, hands coming to rub her forehead. It was only a matter of time until that was her. All this time, and all this effort wasn't going to matter for her in the end. Perhaps it was best that she knew that. It was because she knew that she was already preparing people to take up her work in the aftermath of her passing. Time and effort would continue being poured in because the project deserved it. Azeroth deserved it, as did the Legion.
Every day that passed seem to bring that possibility closer. Duskwood had finally caught up with the rest of her schedule, which meant that soon enough over pieces would start falling into place. Some things had been interrupted, true, but most others had progressed accordingly. Or at least as accordingly as such a plan could. Sheer disruption of operations was impossible, especially with something as large a scale as the Broken Isles's campaign. Elsewhere though things were somewhat stabler or weakened, which meant that they were more open to being abused.
For now though there was mostly the matter of dealing with the particular Knights who had decided to bother her. Or at least setting up the process of doing so, should she not be able to do so in her time.
There was a wrapping at the door of her office. A quick flick of her wrist sent one of the ghouls resting in one of the corners of the room stumbling towards the door and slowly pulling it open. Beyond stood another Knight of the Ebon Blade, his lich blue eyes peering out from behind a standard helm. Another flick of her wrist called him forward. He swiftly set a letter on her desk, saluted, and turned to leave without another word. The ghoul closed the door and shuffled back from wince it had come.
Producing a letter opener from a drawer, she slashed at the envelope. Pulling out the letter within her eyes ran down the page as swiftly as possible, mouth curling upward somewhat. It was at least somewhat more than she was expecting. It was also more than enough to work with. She quickly scribbled out a letter of her own, produced an envelope and sealed it with a quick press from a stamp. Another flick of the wrist brought a geist forward as the ghoul shuffled back towards the door. With one glance at the envelope's delivery address, the geist bobbed its lone eye up and down, making for the door which the ghoul jerkily opened and closed, before returning to its corner.
And just like that, things were in motion once again. It brought a smirk to her lips. More time and effort to be poured in. More things to make plausible.
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