“No tree at all,” Hap recovered the bottle and took another swallow. “A flowering vine. It is the seed in the flower which is used. I know little past that.”

The Keeper set the bottle on its knee and kept close and quiet eye on its guest. Wilhelm was his name and he was very large, this much was true. What had driven a creature of the green, growing things into the pale wasteland of Hap's Western Reach? What had driven a creature to pause in the cold? Hap had seen a creature or two in it's travels which had chosen to do the same, to stop. They often were found half curled into a snow bank when the wind brushed the bodies into sight. They usually seemed to have fallen naturally into sleep. Now and again, particularly with the predators, they were grimacing, teeth bared, eyes frozen half open, as if they snarled against the cold that they had curled under.

Such questions would do no good, Hap sensed. It did not seem as if those creatures had known the reason behind binding themselves to snow. No more would this Wilhelm with his thick skin and thicker face. Every expression was carved from rock, flowing into the next expression and again rock. Without the air thrumming into the bellows like chest, Hap would have assumed him dead whenever he lapsed into rest.

Krell's pup made a pipping sound which incited the Keeper to stand with the tiny thing. It set the bottle on the floor besides Wilhelm's silent head, then returned the pup to its mother. A small slide on the wall was touched and the light dimmed so that it was almost gone and in the quiet of the thick walled Light House, the Keeper left the main room to its occupant and trudged up the stairs to the cooled second floor. With a few creaks of floorboards, the Keeper divested itself of the last of it's light clothing and curled its tiny body under a thick fur throw. With a snuffle, not unlike a puppy, Hap's large eyes closed and it buried its small face into a lightly muscled arm. The days, the nights, they were without passing in the darkness of the Reach and so sleep occurred as it was necessary while the stars kept time. In the “morning” there would be work enough to do, but truthfully, Hap had returned from a long journey, had put itself on the task of caring for a visitor too far from life to allow the Keeper to do more than nap. With Wilhelm's increased strength, his willingness to have a conversation, Hap's inner care-taker had decided it was now acceptable to rest.

Rest the Keeper did. Krell, during her master's sleep, moved her pups onto the skin one at a time. The actions did nothing to wake the tiny creature and below, in the dark, the visitor was finally left to his own devices, what little he could do with them.

With the light almost vanished, Wilhelm’s sight returned, though he was not immediately aware of it, as he had fallen back into memory dreams while Hap considered him. He was only vaguely aware of his diminutive host’s motions and absence. It was the slow quiet that woke him, the outside world, with its whining wind scurling about the walls was suddenly loud and seemingly violent, but he recognised the haunting sound as the wind’s usual envy and felt no concern within the heavy stone. It could not reach him here. Instead, it was the steady movement, in and out of the room, of the mother dog with her pups that roused him sufficiently to notice all these things.

He was, at the least, glad to be divested of the worry of inadvertently crushing one of the pups, but Krell’s movements did little to ease his worry about her sharp teeth and his current inability to escape them. But just as suddenly as she came, she vanished, and there was no more warmth at his side. No more tiny squirming life. Just darkness. The thin absence of light, his mother. And air rushing in and out of his lungs.

With his belly as full as it wanted to be, a strong swallow of fermented seed lulling his mind and relaxing his body, his exhaustion had finally ceased being exhaustion. Now, although certainly still far more tired than otherwise, and with no greater reserves of energy, he found that without the incentive of too bright light enticing them to close, his eyes had less difficulty remaining open. Wilhelm blinked twice and slid his third eyelids back cautiously, to discover anew the place where he’d been brought. Now, he could see the details. The fine bunches of herbs, with their distinguishing leaf shapes and seeds, the bulbous roots that might have been tubers or bulbs. Some he recognised vaguely, as though they had been pulled from his memories without reference to the actual plant he remembered. Some he could not name at all.

The rafters were thick with them, and after assessing each bundle he could make out, the troll turned his attention to the ceiling itself. To the wooden joins and settings, the supports that held up the structure around him. A strange thing indeed, to see the same handiwork as the humans he knew, but above ground and large enough to fit him, even now he was fully grown. That he could not stand erect within the building was of no account, he should not have even been able to fit through the door, had this been a human house. He had tried it, once or twice. But more astonishing was this notion of light held within stone. Light that did not come from fire, but from the home of light itself. Beneath the ground…

He had understood very little of Hap’s explanations concerning this place. And now he reached out a shaking hand to tap a horny nail against the metal grating keeping the light within. Or maybe it was without… He could not have said. The grate was a concept he’d never encountered before. And his brain was not capable of absorbing the idea just then. In the end, having exhausted his capacity to take in his surroundings for the moment, the troll closed his eyes again, let his head drift sideways, and fell into the dark and his dreams as the wind continued to wail outside.

It swept nimble, cunning fingers along every crevice and sought out any hint of weakness between the stones. It faded in disappointment when finding nothing, before redoubling its efforts until its own surge of motion carried it away, beyond the wall, across the snow and into the night. Past sled tracks slowly filling in and dusting the top of deep divets that had one been a different trail, crossing over the sled runners and going no further. It ruffled the clean white fur of a little fox, digging at one such depression where its nose told it blood had been spilled. It tangled and tore between the dead branches of grasping trees and howled against the vast lift in the earth that forced it to go where it did not want to go. And when it wrapped around the furclad forms of human and dog huddled around twin fires, they knew little of its journey, and only brushed aside its companionable stroking of their hair to resettle the strands in place. Only the dogs whined as they pointed their muzzles into it, uncertain of the world it had passed through.

The wind, in turn, brought a wash of cool air into a world that was not expecting frost for another month, at the least. The humid air quickly stifled the wind’s moan and kept the creeping crystals at bay, marking out a strange half circle covered in fog through which a troll and his, as yet unknown, hunters had wandered.

Bartrum sniffed and twisted, bending at the waist and to the side, he lay a finger along one nostril and blew mightily. He did this three times in a row, switching to the other nostril just after. Wiping a thumb under his nose, he leaned back into the fire that his commander had set them to build. With a grumble at the cold, he hitched the cloak about his shoulders and stared at the flames. It was damned cold and they were in for a longer hunt than he had initially signed up for.

"Shoulda found this gate long afore now," he grumbled for the tenth time in that last day. "With guards, nothin' woulda gotten through."

Not one of the others responded. They'd long since tired of his complaints. There had been conversations about the truth of what he was saying, if the gate had been there before, or if it had come to be since the last census. Surely the Church hadn't known or there would have been a warming hut on the other side and guards. But then again, how could anything have survived being in these frozen wastes? What charter would they have to sign and with what country this time in order to ensure their prey could be declared and returned to their home?

What prey was it in the end? Another faun? Those goat legged bastards were tough but not tough enough for these lands. It would be a relief to find one frozen in a bank instead of having to fight one down to the ground. The bites of those creatures tended toward festering, another of Bertram's complaints when he was on a real tear about his choice of employment. Fauns were plentiful and curious enough in the Green Wold. Their nastiness was merely a consequence of the world they lived in where all of the trophies were of an ill disposition. Green Wold was by far, the least favorite of Bertram's where the greatest challenge were the fearsome trolls which traveled the lands, were dumb as oxen, and ten times more dangerous than even the great lizards of Hinteryare.

To be fair, only Ol' Bill had come across one while with the Church. The rest were subjected to his stories.

Bartrum glowered at the wind, cursing it in silence, and turned his face away into it when one of the younger recruits began to sing, a hound or two choosing to join in when the boy's off-key voice sounded more like their squawking than the love song it was meant to be. The cold would cut that sort of silly behavior out of the boy soon enough. That, or their commander. He smirked and waited for the usual outburst to such drivel.

“Oy, Dreefus!” The shout was the only warning, and it came too late to be of any true use. The yelp that followed was echoed by laughter from the rest of the men, used to the display of temper whenever the poor recruit tried to lighten the mood. Given the boy’s apparently never-ending optimism, it was a regular sight. Their leader hopping after the flung boot in mad bounds, red-faced and swearing, was worth the few minutes of wanton warbling.

And as both men endured the amusement of their peers and subordinates, Commander Loric Rundall, or Lurch as he was known colloquially, grabbed his boot out of Dreefus’ hands and gave the lad a cuff for good measure before sending him off to get his crutches so he wouldn’t have to hop back. The cold bit fiercely at the lungs, and such exertion in the bitter air was bad for one’s health, he was sure of it, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made. He’d saved the ears of everyone else, put on a good show, and quieted the distraction before the dogs got too excited.

Rough bluster and heavy hands were an ever present part of Rundall’s daily rituals, as was his permanent scowl. Yet while he didn’t smile, and certainly didn’t approve of insubordination, he didn’t mind making himself part of the entertainment. A leader who couldn’t take a good joke was a poor one, but so were those who let their men laugh at them. So, he sent a glare at anyone paused in their work for good measure, but didn’t expect he’d have to do much more. Of the 20 currently men beneath him, of which only ten were present (the other half of the unit having been left to set up a guard post on the warmer side of the gate), eight were veterans of several hunts, at least one of those beneath his command prior to this excursion. They’d gotten to know each other; they were unlikely to think less of him for making a spectacle. One of the younger men was on his second hunt and Dreefus, poor sod, was learning again and again that having only one leg didn’t stop his commander from moving quickly.

The boy, to be fair, was somewhat slow-witted. Not stupid, no, the Church was not sympathetic to stupidity, rather, he saw the world differently than the rest of them and got his wires crossed sometimes. Not always useful on a dangerous mission, but he had the makings of a Gatefinder and could see some details even the sharpest among them missed. Lucky, some said. Blessed, the Church called it, and Rundall did, too. Though he often added nuisance under his breath. Singing! In this weather, and when they didn’t know where or what their quarry was yet. Coming from the Green Wold, all the rest of them knew it was likely to be dangerous. But there Dreefus was, singing like a… well, not a lark, maybe a rooster. Had the enthusiasm down, anyway.

Well, the boy needed experience in the field if he was going to learn, and even with his missing leg bearing witness to his mistakes, no one could say Commander Loric Rundall didn’t know what he was doing. 30 odd years and still mostly all in one piece was a good run. He was used to training the greenhorns. Not so well accustomed to training up the Gatefinders though, and as the youth, still a boy, really, came scurrying back with a face fit to guilt the dead and Rundall’s crutches hugged to his chest, the man sighed into his beard, grimacing at the ice collecting there.

“Thank yeh, lad, now git on t’th’fire ‘fore yehr froze the rest th’way if yeh’ve fed th’lot naow.” He might need reminding of the basics more than most, but the kid still listened well enough, and looked after the dogs better than their mothers had when they were young. He might be needing to rethink his training strategies with this one, but old habits died hard.

As he set the crutches under his arms and swung back to the chair he’d been using before the fuss, he raised his voice to carry over to the fire. “Eh Bart, ifen yehr finished there, Ah’d like a word.”

Bartrum was a large man, with ham like hands and most of his fingers. His nose had that ruddy taste to it that let every man know he could hold his liquor and his lips were ruddy and thick as well, seen through the thick brown brush that was his beard and mustache. He could have been a handsome man, were he younger, leaner, and with an eye for regular bathing.

Unlike most of the hunters, he hadn't grown up in the shadow of the Church, being instead from a small farming town through a northern gate in a land the Church liked to call the Shadow. The men and the unlikely woman who traveled into the Church's lands from the Shadow were larger than Green Wold men. They were hardy and rarely questioned overly much when told to harm or even kill. They made excellent acquisitions men, fanatic inquisitors, and had a piercing eye for death when it came their way. It made them likely to be utilized in the darker parts of the Church. Many was the man who after meeting with a Shadow man, found himself willing to do any and all to ensure he was safely in the bosom of the Church's care.

Rarely, however, did they have lightness of feet. Bartrum had been known for his efficiency in execution of the heretic, his turn of the blade. Never did his axe hit twice and all the heads rolled, rather than dangled as they did with some of the less adept of the art. When he was asked, he made mention of the neck bones in a sheep and the Church magistrate went pale before offering the man a new position under Commander Rundall.

He had been young then and Rundall had had two legs. Still, the Commander wasn't easily won over and being one of the Shadows hadn't set well between them. It was the work of many years of prooving his ability that led them to the place they were now.

So when his Commander called for him, Bart lumbered over. Where the Commander could maneuver with crutch or without, as agilely as a dancer, Bart had the ease of a bear – slow, ponderous, and when given reason, quick as a cat turn on his prey which he would run down like a freight train.

He brushed his hands over his wrap and sucked on his teeth as he sat down on the log alongside the chair Lurch had set up for himself. “Aye?” he spit into the fire and his spit sizzled on a red char. “Ser,” he added for good measure.

After tucking his boot back in his belt—it was the right one, with no foot to cover—Rundall sighed and lowered himself into the chair he’d brought. It was his one luxury, apart from the whiskey he occasionally shared with his men, and he appreciated the measly comfort of its fabric seat. Now Dreefus was finished causing a fuss, he could get back to scowling at the crutches he couldn’t entirely trust anymore. Not with ice and snow everywhere. He was eyeing the smooth ends, toying with the notion of nails and spikes and mostly not actually thinking it was a good idea. Split the wood, more likely, but it was still tempting.

“Haaa, should haves, could haves.” He’d always known he should have ordered some studded caps or something for traction. Wasn’t as though he’d never seen a winter before. Just never got around to doing it. Blacksmiths were expensive, even for loyal hunters with the Church’s backing. Discounts only got you so far, and honestly… the pay wasn’t much to write home about. Didn’t have to be, most of the hunters took up the job because they didn’t belong anywhere else. Some more so than others…

His eyes lifted from his crutches to fall on the bear beside him with roughly the same idle disappointment and resignation. They’d gotten used to each other, over the years, enough so that Rundall no longer considered the effort of paperwork worth getting rid of the man. Oh, he still had complaints, but he was more amused by the slow show of respect than troubled by it. Still, he couldn’t help sighing as he reached into his bag to pull out his best substitute for studded boots: stuffed leather and caltrops. Tying the makeshift pieces around the ends of his crutches, he couldn’t help wondering why it was he felt easier with this gruff wreck than that poor, harmless kid sitting over by the other fire and looking even more miserable now he had to eat the hard tack he’d been handed for dinner.

“Doan laik this empty space. Karis did th’sweep, but ain’t fer sure there’s nothing. Tahk ‘er an’ Werric an’ one’a th’dogs. Go wide ‘round and look int’that track she found. Then get yehr bearin’s with distance on that dead lotta trees there… Ain’t sure it’s so close s’it looks.” Rundall gave the orders without much need for small talk, and he didn’t feel the least bit sorry about sending any of them off into the cold away from the fires, either. They needed to learn more about this world, look for signs it was lived in or even more dangerous than the dark and cold of long winter threatened. And though Karis hadn’t found anything untoward, she hadn’t been as thorough as she could be. Though, apparently it hadn’t been hard to find the trail of the beast that must have come through the portal. Given as it didn’t continue on the other side. But, some time ago, apparently. He’d have called the tracks divots himself, and not thought anything of them they’d been blown over so well, but that’s why Karis was the tracker, not him.

Bart was unsurprised that Lurch sent them out again. It was bloody cold and Karis could suck a man's tit for how much she'd give or take any of them, being one of the only females in their crew and as like to gut a man as she was to spit in his eye. That said, she was a damn fine tracker.

“Ser,” he nodded and lumbered back to the fire where he shot out, “K'ris, Werrick – you grab y'self onea dem dogs. Th' bitch thar, yeh?” He pointed at a black nosed brown bitch with her tail between her legs and a snarl on her face when another got too close to her space. She was smaller than the rest so she'd not tire out when she walked in their trail as much as the wider males who would have more snow up against them. Her slender frame worked best in snow.

He strapped on the walking frames which they'd found kept them atop the untouched snow better. With an entire group trouping through, by the time every one had passed, they'd leave a road of snow and ice behind. At times, the snow would be hard even, but one only needed to get into the lee of a snow break of trees or some other type and they'd end up to their waist in snow.

Werrick growled out something that Bartrum ignored. Every man should have opportunity to grumble, so long as it didn't stop him from doing as he was told. Karis, however, was up and forward of their place as if she were the dog on the line. A quick whistle and a name he didn't bother to know as he didn't give a shit about the dogs, and the bitch was after her.

“Boss wants us ta check th' tracks ag'in. Gonna gauge them trees, too,” he gestured to the stand of white bone dry trees in the distance. It was dark, darker than it had been in the other gates he'd been through, so he was thinking that they were further light away than he'd been before. There came a point of time where everything was just cold and black and he didn't expect life to continue when he couldn't feel his nose half the time.

“Demmed fool errand,” he groused himself as he stood, shook himself, and began to lumber after where she'd gone, silently pointing to the place where she'd found the tracks. She wasn't a talker, that one.

Werrick came alongside, adjusting his jacket to get furs up around his ears. “Holy piss, Bart,” he snapped. “Wha's th' Lurch askin' us fer this ag'in? Chance's we'll find it jes' a hundred paces from 'ere, all froze an' as impossible t'move as a mountain. Wha's th' church need'em fer anyway?”

Bart shook his head. He had been hunting these things, or them things like it, for over a decade and still couldn't have told Werrick any answer that would have made sense.

“Mebbee they wanna cool down them saint's rooms. Keep them bodies frum being all rot,” he snorted.

“Hah!” Werrick laughed as he stopped by Karis. They peered down at the snow. “Don' see nuthin', Karis.”

“Where'd 'e go?” Bart asked, rather than inquiring if Karis could do her job correctly. He'd learned that the hard way.

“Straight thet away. Cain’t tell yore north from yore south these odd skies.” Karis pointed again, though away from herself this time, drawing a line off towards the horizon that… wasn’t far off from the trees they were supposed to be using as their marker. Well, it was closer than it wasn’t, with so much wide open space to choose from.

She was used to her companions—speaking generously—having no eye for detail. That Dreefus might have managed, except that he was forever stepping on the tracks she was trying to trace, and she’d long since handed him over to Ol’ Bill to alleviate her frustration. She’d never had much maternal instinct. A lame duck was more likely to garner her sympathy. And then she’d happily make a meal of it. “Ahm seein’ big feet an’ long strides, so isn’t them goats. S’bigger’n ‘em. Cain’t tell much else these old tracks, ceptin’ it’s two footed. Best be getting’ our’n feet for’ard then fore youse two freeze ‘em balls off. C’mon Cat.”

With that observation on their complaints out of the way, Karis turned her attention back to following the trail. Sticking to one side of it, she set off breaking her own trail rather than ruin the tracks more, with the dog following behind her, nose turning into the wind. Unlike the other two, she didn’t have much trouble leaving the fires behind. She’d grown up where winters were fierce and summers were short, and while she didn’t enjoy the cold, she’d rather it and understanding her surroundings than being warm and ignorant and in danger. Of course, there was always the chance it was so cold and dark nothing lived here, but then where’d those trees come from? And she’d heard of even more desolate worlds from a few other trackers sharing notes. If those had trouble on them, why not this one?

Anyway, they had a critter to track and a small bit of world to explore. And it was cold. No way she’d stand around chatting any longer than necessary.

Watching them head out, short, vigourous woman in the lead, Bartrum’s heavy frame obscuring more than half of her from his view, Rundall considered the possibilities of them finding anything. Given the weather and the area, it seemed about half again as likely that they’d find nothing, but following tracks ought to lead somewhere, and if it wasn’t to a frozen stiff making its own snowdrift, then it would be to clues about the world they’d found. He’d already racked his brain trying to remember which worlds he’d heard of that came with ice and snow like this, but honestly… Those weren’t much to go on. Plenty of worlds had winter, or poles, or mountains. And they hadn’t even been around long enough to know for sure this wasn’t just night time. So, yes, he wanted to find the creature that had slipped through the portal. According to Church doctrine, mixing worlds in too carefree a manner had consequences. Of course, they were doing it too, but everything they did was regulated. Regimented. Under their jurisdiction. Made them rich off trade, he knew.

But ensuring there wasn’t any trouble caused by a new portal was only half their mission. He didn’t think many of the others had been around new portals before, but it at least explained why he’d been saddled with poor Dreefus. Rules were, when any Hunting squad found a portal, they had to make a report. And it ought to be worth reading. Rundall never liked doing things half-assed. Sure, he could’ve turned straight around and handed off responsibility, but he liked having answers to questions. Pity, then, that he mostly couldn’t find them for himself. Karis was the best tracker he’d met yet, and Bartrum could keep her safe no questions asked. Werric was for extra security and another set of eyes. But if he could have, he’d have been the third one taking the rear.

When he was younger, Rundall had been an advocate of leading by example. After all, if the nearest authority was willing to do the job, then the men couldn’t complain. They still would, that went without saying, but they’d be less inclined to resentment. In the army, all their grumbling would have been a deplorable breach in discipline. But he wasn’t in the army anymore. Wasn’t so young. Wasn’t so eager. And he wasn’t always capable of leading from the front either. Be a liability, if he got in on any action these days. And he’d only slow everyone down if he went on scouting missions. Still, he was perfectly capable of fetching his own meals. So, when he saw two of the men coming towards him with more than their own share, he couldn’t help frowning.

The people under him were a ragtag lot, from all walks of life. Most Hunters were. But they all had one thing in common: they’d needed the Church as much as the Church needed them. Few of them were in it for the merit of doing good work. Few cared to put in more effort than was demanded of them. Serving their leader wasn’t on the list of necessary actions. So, he eyed the plate with reasonable suspicion when the first fellow held it out, and didn’t immediately take it. “What’s’it yehr askin’ fer then, Pinter? Ain’t switchin’ ye’s out ‘fore the warm side ‘til time’s up, that’s what this is.”

He'd made a roster, set a schedule, and didn’t care if they were cold. So was he. If they’d had more trackers, he’d have put more of them to use going off in different directions. As it was, he could understand being a bit frustrated with waiting around in the cold, but he wanted the extra force in case any natives noticed them. Or something tried getting through the portal.

While the trio made their way into the windless sweep of dark blue white, snow and unmapped stars overhead, Werric huffed and panted, keeping his collar up near his nose by holding it tightly there using one hand, then the other, sure to warm the opposite during shift breaks. The pale haired man was a mess of furs and leathers and other than the sliver of moon face that shone out, he seemed a dark blotch on an otherwise pristine landscape.

“So's Ol' Bill goes an' he sez, there's this desert what has rocks, way th' hell out in th' sands. A man gets caught 'cuz he figgers he kin get ta onna dem afore the sun come up agin an' bake'm like a buttered 'tater. Thing is, ever'thing's so big, th' sand an' th' rocks, an' th sky – what was gon' be five kilometers, is fifteen.” He snuffled and wiped his nose, leaving a silver streak on the back of a thick mitten.

Karis was focused on the ground before her and Bart had an ear for the white around but he grunted anyhow. It seemed only right to let Werric lose some worry in talking. He had bluster, but he wasn't going to get much worse if you let him chatter at you like a squirrel up a tree. The bitch, trotting along close at Karis' heels so that Bart was surprised she didn't step on the backs Karis' walking frames. Now and again, her dark ears would swivel back to the sound behind her as Werric talked about the desert and things that weren't pertaining none at all to the situation they were finding themselves in.

The trees got no closer. But the path Karis was following, seemed to be going straight. Bart fancied he could see it, even, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The fires behind became a line of glint, then a small sliver as they crossed over a hill so shallow that it wasn't until they could see no fires that they realized they'd gotten to the other side. It looked like everything was clear all the way to the horizon.

They trudged, the sounds of Werric's voice dying down as he struggled to talk and keep up, the dog panted, and Bart and Karis moved silently, as if they were a part of the world they had burst in on. It reminded him of some things and didn't remind him of others. He'd thought at first that Dreefus saying this was a light world, meant that there would be close by stars real soon. They'd gone into another “light” world, Dreefus had called it, and it was so full of life and amazing goods; gems and foodstufffs, dogs and slaves, and plenty of artistry. This was the polar opposite of that, dark, nothing growing, and empty as the grave.

Pinter pulled on the wispy goatee at his chin and chewed on his lower lip, then turned and spit some of the tobacco juice out into the snow aside of the fire, where it wouldn't be stepped in. When Lurch didn't make any attempt to take the plate, he grinned a yellow pond water grin. “Ain't askin' ta switch yet, Lurch,” he said amiably. He offered the plate again. He had a plate in his other hand and alongside him, Jude gripped his own in hands too small to be as steady as they were often. In every group there were thieves, declared or otherwise, to help grease along the take-overs when they had to happen. It was good to be friends with a man like Jude.

“May I?” he gestured to the log near his leader and not telling Jude what to do, he straddled it and moved Lurch's pack so he could sit facing the man. He sniffed back the cold then smiled, handsome smile or so he'd come to think of it. “Colder'n a wolf bitch inna snow storm,” he said conversationally. “But ya think we'll be findin' sommat wif a thing'r two on it? Like thet hairy shit we killed last month. Noone saw how it had them silver beads in its hair. It were weird, like it were tryin' ta be a whore's pet, puttin' a jewel'r two onna thing thet ugly's like puttin' a gold collar onna damn rat.” He was careful not to show his judgement over the fact there were some loots which Lurch was careful not to put into the pile later. No doubt they went toward pay offs or some such to the church itself, for what Pinter couldn't say.

Keeping his face carefully neutral, Pinter spit again, leaning lazy like to one side, “A man could use another set'a hands or even two,” he nodded to where Jude stood, his plate huddled up to his chin so he could stay warm in the bitter cold and still eat his food, “ta ensure them things always got ta where they needed ta be.” He smiled winsomely, hopefully. Lurch was as like to reach out and cuff him, though Pinter was new to the whole being on Lurch's team, he was sure that some conversations were delicate enough to keep a man's fists about himself.

Again – hopefully. “Jes gon' say thets what'n we're here fer, ta help.”

Karis couldn’t say she minded chatter. Well, provided she wasn’t expected to pay attention to it or partake in the conversation more than necessary. She wasn’t keen on wasting air. But the sound of another voice could be a comforting thing in the dark space of the unfamiliar. And Werric may not have been the best fighter amongst them, or the best anything overly useful, even if he wasn’t the worst either, but he was a good talker. Letting his voice turn into background noise was more pleasant than having to listen to Bart, or Dreefus warbling along with the dogs.

She had absolutely no idea what he was saying though, occasionally tuning in on words about rocks and size and heat. So, she mostly assumed he was half-assedly complaining about their current situation, and left it at that. For her own part, she was finding it something of a wonder that this path was as straight as it seemed, every check back on their own tail, seeing the darker shadow of the trail they’d forded beside the one she was following proved it.

Thing was, that fact alone made her suspicious of this creature they were following. While it was true that walking straight was often the best way to get out of being lost if sitting still didn’t cut it, creatures weren’t often troubled by the idea of lost. They meandered, they explored, they hunkered down and tested their surroundings. But there weren’t any signs of pause or curiousity. Of being uncertain… A look behind showed the dark horizon. A look ahead offered much the same… But if she measured the length of this stranger’s stride, it was much taller than she was. Could it see something she couldn’t? Or did it know where it was going. Scent? Sound? The dog gave no indication of anything attracting her attention other than Werric. And even he was getting tired of talking, she noticed now.

So… Where was it going? “Werric, way this trail goes, isn’t close by. No harm yore headin’ beck lettin’ Lurch know. Might be we’s got us a chase. Nothin’ shows it’s froze itself or movin’ slow. Still might, only, take us a while t’catch up. Best he knows sooner’n later. Bart’n me’ll keep on t’the trees like he asked ‘fore comin’ beck our’n selves.”

If they were better shelter than they looked, it might be smarter not to get too close, but even with the dark obscuring her vision, Karis wasn’t so sure the critter’d have stopped there, either. Looked like some damned spindly ass trunks.

“Suit yehrself.” Commander Loric Rundall wasn’t much used to being anyone’s company. Not that he was bad at it, just that he’d held positions of somewhat higher authority than the average person for much of his life and being chummy with your underlings was less than well advised. But that didn’t mean he was averse to the notion of hearing his men out. Even if he was still suspicious of that plate. He took it anyway; his stomach wouldn’t let him not.

Provided he wasn’t being bribed with his own rations for favouritism, he was more inclined to play nice and listen. He was still unfamiliar with Pinter. Knew his name and face, could pick his voice out of a crowd because he made it a goal to know his men every mission he went on, but wasn’t sure on much else. For all he knew, maybe the man only wanted a bit of friendly conversation. Get to know each other… A man could hope, but he’d been living with Hunters too long to expect much would come of it.

And, there it was. Materialism. Rundall held in a sigh as he filled his mouth and chewed stoically. Man smiled like that, should have known better than to be optimistic. Pinter should have known better than to bring up this subject, too. A man’s greed was what got folks into trouble. Curiousity and hopefulness was fine. Wondering was perfectly safe, most times. Expressing one’s thoughts to the commander was even something he asked for, on occasion. Multiple opinions offered more solutions. It wasn’t until Pinter took that extra step—which Rundall had, unfortunately, been expecting—that he couldn’t help himself.

Leaning back, he turned from the smiling Pinter to the still quiet Jude, whom he knew a little better, and raised an eyebrow. “Ye’s all thet bored, eh Jude?”

If they hadn’t been looking for some entertainment, someone would have warned him off this attempt. Or maybe they just didn’t like him. Granted, Jude was probably here on the offchance it actually worked, but that was, he hoped, a secondary consideration. Well, may as well get it over and done with.

The man’s expression hadn’t changed much, but he gave no other warning before turning back around and slamming his plate into that fading smile with the same enduring scowl. Forceful enough to knock the surprised man off his seat. “What d’yeh think yeh signed up fer, t’set about lollygaggin’?” He growled the words as he followed through, rising from his chair to lean on the log and glare down at the dazed fellow. “Ah’ve plenny hands already do as they’re told when they’re told.”

A snort escaped him, and Rundall sank back so he could aim a light kick at the leg remaining within reach. He hadn’t been trying to hurt Pinter, just shock him into thinking straight. Next time he wanted to get anywhere near the group’s valuables, he’d be a bit more subtle about it. Rundall didn’t much mind a little light-fingered sifting, provided it was done competently. He wanted nothing to do with it and had the right to turning a blind eye. Getting a little over-zealous, though, and being so blatant, that irked him. “Ah laik a man what volunteers though. Git yehrself a pick and make yehrself helpful an’all diggin’ us a shithole. Doan think Ahm lettin’ yeh off, Jude. Ye kin ‘elp our eager lad after getting’ me another plate.”

While he knew it wasn’t entirely fair, especially not in this frozen landscape, that was the point. It wasn’t fair that the Church wanted bribes or taxes on anything their Hunters collected. Mostly legal. Just in an underhanded sort of way. But while he didn’t always like it, and he knew how it disgruntled most, Rundall also understood it from a higher perspective. They weren’t just taking what they hadn’t earned, they were policing the items that exchanged hands. Policing the trade between worlds. That’s why the punishments were so harsh if you were caught hoarding the spoils. If you hadn’t reported everything. They didn’t care if it was simple trinkets or sophisticated artefacts. Because slip up on one, and you’d lose track of the other. And much as he occasionally found himself annoyed by all the bureaucracy, he’d had firsthand experience of the chaos that came without restraint when two worlds met. His own country had been devastated before the Church found them and brought everyone under its wing.

He didn’t want to be responsible for that happening anywhere else. So, he was strict about that particular law. As well as the policy requiring every Hunter to be certified fit three months before missions. No one went to another world without immunization and they were immediately removed from the roster the second they fell sick. Experience, and history, told him to trust the science he’d been briefed on. Though he didn’t fully understand it, he was happy to oblige if it meant averting disaster. Pinter, unfortunately, got the brunt of it. Had his previous leader been blind or simply foolish?

“No, ser,” thin Jude shook his shaggy head, the furs about his ruff curled and stiff with cold and frozen water vapor. He was a man with ear hairs and grey at his temple, for all his youthful appearance. His knobby hands had long fingers which were lighter than the more social Pinter and he often hid behind the prettier man – clinging to the acceptance of his odd self in conjunction of the more capable thief. Still, under it all he was a watcher and he had seen the danger flash before them in Commander Rundall's dark eyes, like fire on a far hill. Then, like the fire hitting a pine, the commander flared. Pinter grunted at the plate into his face, falling off the log into the packed snow behind him. The smaller man made a soft curse and Jude swiftly went to help him stand.

Pinter, suddenly silent as Jude, stood to attention and allowed for the remonstration. There was blood at his nose and across his lips, diced potato on his coatfront, and he did nothing to wipe any of it away. His own gaze glittered but his own fires had banked, successfully brought to heel by a single, well timed blow of a man who was far more wise than either of them. At his side, Jude gave a stiff bow and left to do as bid, leaving Pinter to bow stiffly after. “Ser,” the blatant thief allowed, bent to get his own plate and pick up the Commander's.

Across the fire, it was quiet and like a group of hounds, the rest of the company watched the interaction, not truly understanding the meat of the issue, but well aware that something of import had happened. When Pinter went to get a pick and, slinging it over his shoulder and wiping his face with his sleeve, stalked toward the privy line, there was a run of sniggers down the line. Lurch was a fair master well enough, provided you didn't genuinely piss him off. Then he could be spiteful. This was of the kind variety. Pinter and Jude were reprimanded but not ousted, which was well enough for everyone else.

Pinter gone into the shadows, Jude was quick about getting more food and setting it onto a new plate, new biscuit, new serving of meat, new of all, returning with it presently and offering it to the commander then going to sit in with the rest of the group which had, as soon as Pinter had begun to work on a new latrine, begun to chatter and game and sing and joke with one another all over again. Like a child who had lost his stronger sibling, he looked a bit lost as he bopped about the camp attempting to find a card game to take part in or a joke that he would not be the butt of. In due time, he settled at the second fire near a large shouldered man named Karl who often took in the more unaware ones for a time simply out of the goodness of his Church born heart.

No one else bothered the commander, uncertain of their welcome now. He wasn't a bad man, but he wasn't the most friendly of them either and men quickly learned, in much the same way as Pinter had, to leave him to his devices if at all possible.

Beyond the campfire, in the great white darkness, the troupe of three paused for a moment. The sky distant trees were backlit by the starlit sky and strangely, the snow managed to be the darkest thing in the world, while simultaneously glowing all around. The three huddled, then one went on while another huddled in on itself and tramped back the way they had come. A breath, then the one in the center turned and followed the first on again. Far beyond them, the giant, skeletal trees reached up into the sky and sleeping branches turned to stone from the ages raked fingers across the stars and glowed unearthly white agianst snow and stars, nothing giving any more light than the stars themselves, yet all reflecting their light back to them.

Cat, the bitch, shook herself and followed her mistress, her breath leaving ice on the many small whiskers on her muzzle. Thirsty in the cold, she paused and snatched some snow then trotted back on the woman's heels while the great man behind her huffed and bellowed, his great chest trying to get the air in that his large body needed. He was far too big, really, to not have to break trail a second time after the woman's more slender self had cut into new snow over the old trail. The bitch could scent the otherness under the snow where something had passed days before. She had scented a bear behind at one time, but the bear track was even older and had crossed then went on its own way. There, deep under feet and feet of snow there was life here. Her keen ears caught small minute animal stirrings of miniature life forces warmth and filled with purpose. The humans missed the many tells that they were not alone, but the dog did not. She sneezed once then followed again, not yet time for her part in their hunt. Now, it was the woman's eyes which led them.

Bart had opened his coat to let the cold hair in to cool down his heaving chest. Karis was a slender shadow ahead and no matter how long they'd walked in the dark, his eyes could only catch snippets of the dog's presence, her more slender, delicate frame lost in the trail's shadows. Ahead of them, the trees remained far away. It was, it seemed to him, almost as if Werric's prattling about how things were always further away than they seemed was true here in the steady trudging. For no matter how long they walked, the trees did not seem to grow any faster than a hill or a mountain in the distance would. He frowned at the quiet around them. They had been walking for some time after Karis sending Werric on his way. Not that Bart had been against the decision for the man was starting to wear on Bart's ears. She and Bart had that in common. Still..

“Think 'e's right?” he rubbed his chest with a meaty hand. “Seems they's not getting' closer. Bigger'n they seem at first?” he asked her opinion for if there was magic in the air that kept their path from gaining on a copse that should have been reached long before, the woman would know of it. Her keen tracking wasn't just recognizing where something had passed, but – of greater importance – how it had passed.

As if his voice had been all that was needed to call more out of the silence, there was a sudden coughing grunt to their side. An instinctive drive to survive honed by years, Bart dropped to a knee and whipped out the long sticked gun from his back, facing into the distance where, despite muffling effects of snow, he could hear something large lumbering their direction. It wasn't visible, he realized a moment after, not because it wasn't large enough to see. Rather, it was white as snow itself. It barrelled toward them. There was a brief moment he wasn't sure where its head was and wasn't sure where he should shoot. Then, the bitch sounded a yelping howl of anger and fear and the huge creature skidded to a snowy half and shoved itself to its back feet, rising over them.

Bear. He recognized it as bear, though it was larger than any bear he'd ever seen. White as snow with black claws on its huge paws, it roared at them and the bitch squawled back at it, her high pitched yelping obviously confusing it. Bart held fire, squinting against the darkness to try and make out an eye. The skull of the beast was likely thick enough that only a particular shot would take it down. Where had it come from, anyhow? His mind wandered in that long eternity of emergency when more thoughts and moments could live between one breath and the next. If it turned, they'd be better off not antagonizing it if it were like bears in other worlds. If not, he had to be ready.