Marshal Jake Irons threw back another mug of wine, and burped despite his company. Things were going to shit, once again, on the Eastern Frontier. Wildmen were moving, in numbers the Federation had never before seen. If the Rockhelmian scouts were to be believed, the amassed invaders numbered ten thousand strong.

He had dispatched riders immediately to the member towns to warn them of the threat, but figured Rockhelm had already done so. Still, the roads were dangerous, and Jake was not the kind of man to leave such an important message to the chance of a passing bandit.

“What are our orders, Sir?” asked one of the Marshal’s officers.

Jake released a huge groan. His despair was not fitting of a Marshal, especially in front of enlisted men, but he did not care. For years he had toiled, as had his predecessors, to survive in this desolate, maggot infested Hell hole. Joining the Federation twenty years ago seemed like the right thing to do; it offered security, resources – and more importantly, a much needed supply of human reserves. With the Federation’s aid, he led his men and women to victory in over a dozen engagements with the southern tribes of the Old Kingdom. Through spear thrust, crossbow bolts, blood and sweat, his peoples had triumphed. Outpost 29 would survive another thousand years, it seemed, and his place in the history of his peoples was secured…

But now? Now? Cast it all to the fire. Survival be damned. Outpost 29 had survived this long because it chose to evade outsiders, not merge with them. He had made his home a target for the invaders, and he knew that every one of those painted bastard faces would be searching for his men on the battlefield. They wouldn’t be content with just killing his soldiers either, no, they would come to the Outpost and raise it to the ground. He thanked the wisdom of his ancestors for equipping women to fight; at least they would not be the usual bounty these savages had come to expect from fallen towns.

“Sir?” intruded the officer, again.

“Wine, your orders are to get me some more wine,” replied Jake, stumbling over the words with a drunken tongue.

Hastily, a junior NCO rushed over and refilled his mug. Jake drained the thing instantly, and winced at the bitter taste.Fartown Blues was not his favourite drink, for the reason that it tasted like a whore’s innards, but it was strong. This was good, the Marshal needed something to numb the sense of an impending defeat.

Of course, he could muster his peoples and form the largest army the Outpost had ever produced. With five thousand well trained soldiers at his back, he could destroy the invaders without the help of the other towns, and drive the spear of victory into the savage man’s heartlands; he stopped himself there, what he was suggesting was not realistic. Mustering that many troops took time, and it took supplies – supplies that the Outpost just did not have. To organise things would take weeks, and by then, Rockhelm would be nothing but burnt oak and Independence would have no doubt followed.

No, the only hope for the Federation now was a general muster. His allies could field militias quickly, and their peasant soldiers numbered in the thousands. Together they would have a chance, but the savage man was a deadly adversary. His soldiers were a match for them, and then some; this he knew, in this atleast he was confident. The militias? Roll a dice and hope it lands on a high number, because they were one Hell of a bastard gamble.

How many times had Outpost 29 saved Rockhelm? How many times had they saved Independence, and Tears? Always his soldiers, through discipline and bravery, overcame almost impossible odds in the name of the Federation and the Outpost’s neighbours… whilst others watched from the safety of their bloated dining tables.

“Damn you, Carlos, damn you and your worm infested brain!” cursed Jake aloud, throwing his empty mug against the nearest wall and watching it shatter into fragments. His men looked on non-phased by the drama.

Anthastiln had always sat in the shadows, watching and waiting whilst its fellow member settlements struggled against the tide. River Admiral Carlos wanted them that way, he wanted them weak and ripe for the taking. Jake knew this, but there was nothing he could do. The Merchant Council of Fartown, Jake’s defacto masters, quashed his requests to have Anthastiln withdrawn from the Federation on several occasions.

Jake feared the militias, with only a few hundred of his soldiers, would struggle to defeat this threat. He feared for the Federation’s survival, and for the survival of his peoples. Still, he was a soldier foremost, and his objective was to relieve Rockhelm. This last thought sobered him briefly, and the despair lifted if only for a moment.

“Captain,” Jake snapped “gather the platoons, I want them ready to march in three hours. We make for the Independence rallying point.”

-"Alright listen up! We have received news from Rockhelm and Twenty-nine that we are required in a joint operation. Wildmen have been spotted around Rockhelm borders, several thousands of them, and that we in the militia are to support the outposts troops. This will be a huge operation, much larger than some of you are used to. Stay sharp and make sure to follow your superiors orders, not only because it will keep you alive, but also because this is our chance to show what we are made of. We, the militia, have always been ridiculed by those cocky two-niners. So make sure to show them your A-game and finally we might earn us our well earned respect!"

Captain James stood in front of his subordinates with a stern look on his face. Melody had learned from being in his company that James were quite disappointed in his local militia. Like everyone else in Independence, Melody's colleagues were hardworking and motivated to protect their home. But motivation alone isn't enough to be a working militia. Some were bad at following orders or simply disobeyed orders because they think it's "wrong". Others lack skill in combat, sometimes making them more of a liability than an asset. Lastly there are those that have no teamwork, but there aren't many of those left really for obvious reasons.
Melody sat on a log with Brandon next to her, behind her were the rest of here comrades.

-"We won't disappoint you captain. We'll do our very best out there won't we guys?

Melody got some yes and some sure from her comrades in response. She turned her head to Brandon and was greeted with a smile.

-"Good. You are free to make any necessary preparations for our march to meet up with the platoon. Dismissed!"

Melody and her comrades leaved captain James to take some time to relax before the march. On her way home she followed Brandon for some small chat.

-"So what do you think, have the wildmen finally become civil and formed a professional militia of their own? I find it hard to believe that so many wildmen can be at the same spot without killing each other."

She walked beside Brandon with her fathers sword, calmly resting on her shoulder.
Finally a challenge worthy of my skill! I'll show those twenty-niners that we aren't just small fry, Just watch me father! I'll make you proud!

"A nun? Do you hear that boys? This whore thinks she's a nun!" cackled Carlos, as he carefully inserted a lead ball into the end of his pistol.

"Please Sir, I beg you!" protested Sister Mary; tears streaked down her face, and it was obvious that her trembling stance was the result of more than frayed nerves.

Carlos' entourage burst into uniform laughter. Each one of them a great businessman, each one of them a refined engineer. The River Admiral elected only the most successful into his inner circle. By now, most of them had learned to either laugh or look on passively during his 'entertainment' sessions.

"A whore in a nun's robes, what's the going charge for that crime, Mr. Hepworth?" asked Carlos, struggling to put the question together over his sporadic giggles.

"Death, my Lord," replied a tall and slender old man in a black tailored suit.

"Death it is!" cheered Carlos, as he poked the arming rod down the pistol's ornate barrel.

"Please," sobbed Sister Mary, falling to her knees out of exhaustion from the week's ordeals.

The River Admiral, splendid in his sky-blue, medal laden military uniform, pulled back the pistol's firing hammer with a leather clad thumb and pointed the weapon at the pitiful creature before him. He would be sad, when it was all said and done, for she provided him with one Hell of a wild time - but that was nuns for you. Too much pent up frustration in those ones, he reasoned. In a way he was doing her a favor. No point in wasting your youthful womanly blessings in the depressing grey of a monastery; No! Much better to put those blessings to work and end it all with a bang, literally!

"Mary the Southern Whore," said the River Admiral, his face suddenly stern and his tone solid gravel, "we of Anthastiln's democratic council anno-"

"My lord!"

Carlos spun on the spot and fired. Mary screamed. The blast echoed around the extravagantly decorated chamber, and a large cloud of smoke made its way towards the domed ceiling. At the northern end of the chamber, kneeling between the two giant oaken doors, was a man clutching ferociously at his own throat. A muffled coughing sound made its way towards Carlos and his peers.

"Well don't sit there choking, spit it out man!" called Carlos, already reloading his pistol. His jubilant expression had returned with a vengeance.

The man fell forwards with a sigh and did not stir. A pool of thick blood soon emanated from his neck, and quickly formed a large puddle. Carlos' twisted grin grew more sinister with each passing second. The man was a Rockhelmian messenger, the River Admiral could tell by the ragged clothes he wore and the multiple tattoos that marked his skin. Oh well, another savage no one has to worry about.

Moments later, four men carrying rifles entered the chamber from the same direction as the fallen messenger. Carlos made a mental note to have them all flayed alive for their delay in reacting to the gun shot. For now though, they would prove useful in retrieving the parchment from the blood soaked mess.

"The message, read it!"

One of the armed men reached down to the body and turned it onto its back. After a bit of rummaging around inside the man's bloodied rags, he pulled away with a rolled piece of paper. Opening it, the man cleared his throat and read aloud to his master:

"Tribals on the border. 10,000. General muster. Will not hold for long without help. Ganjar Greymeer the Wise."

Carlos rolled his eyes. This was the reason his justice administering was interrupted?

"Oh very well," Carlos said at last, "assemble the war council. We may need to annex Independence."

Looking at Sister Mary, who had been shocked into traumatic silence, the River Admiral smiled. Perhaps his whore could stay around for another night; his war councils were renowned for generating a great deal of sin, and how better to cleanse his soul than through violating a nun? Made perfect sense in his mind.

"Have her cleaned, fed and dressed. Bring her to me after the council," finished Carlos, dropping his pistol to the floor and walking off towards the War Room at the eastern side of the chamber.

"Several thousand...several thousand...several thousand." Those words rang over and over in Brandon's mind. He found it hard to hear much else of what the Captain said after that, as he became engrossed in his thoughts.

Several thousand. For just two words they carried an enormous amount of meaning. This wasn't going to be just another treck to exterminate some raiding party that, while keeping him away from home more than he'd like, was at least easily dispatched. This was going to be all out war.

As he looked around himself he saw tanners, bakers, blacksmiths, and huntsmen like himself. These weren't soldiers. They were just men and women trying to protect their homes from superior forces. He found it difficult to imagine that any of them, or himself for that matter, stood a chance in an actual campaign.

Finally his eyes fell on Melody, and he managed to shake off the depression and doubt that had started to take hold of him. There were too many people counting on him to be strong to give up before the fighting even started. His little brother that looked up to him like some kind of invincible hero. His little sister that, while he didn't blame her for his being in the militia to start, would likely never forgive herself if he never made it home. Melody, who while she could take care of herself, he still felt like an older protective brother toward. He made a promise to himself at that moment that no matter what happened, he would make sure he and Melody returned home safe. When the girl made eye contact with him he gave her his most confident grin.

Brandon was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the meeting had ended until the others had started getting up. He quickly got to his feet himself, and adjusted the bow and quiver on his back. He had to get home fast, had to make sure he was equiped for this treck, but most importantly he had to see his little siblings.

As he hurried along, and the crowd around him dispersed, he heard Melody quicken her pace to catch up to him. " So, what do you think? Have the Wildmen finally become civil and formed a professional militia of their own? I find it hard to believe that many Wildmen can be together without killing each other."

"Please, the Wild men civilized? I'd sooner believe wild boars were forming a civilization. I find it hard to believe that many can be together without their stench wiping them all out. Hmm... That gives me an idea." Brandon said donning a comediclly serious face, and making a wide gesture with his hands "Picture it. Stench warfare. He struggled to keep his poker face, but it wasn't long before he burst out laughing. He was still struggling with a case of the giggles as he looked over to see Melodies opinion of his "idea".

Silently, he took all the worry and concern, and locked it away until he could put it to productive use later on. He'd become quite adept at that, being a parent at his age and all.

Jake Irons pulled his fur jacket close to his skin. This was an exceptionally bitter summer; rain was more frequent than the sun, and the wonderful blue of the sky was obscured by an ever present fleet of clouds. It would work in the Federation's favour, he hoped, because a besieging army was always at odds when the weather turned sour.

"What are we to do if you, and our standing army, fall in battle?" asked Vice Marshal Claire Hinton. She was older than Jake, with long grey hair tied back to reveal a face of scars and wrinkles in equal amount.

"Mobilise. Leave the Federation to its fate. Protect the Outpost- No, abandon the Outpost, if necessary. Our people must live on, this is what matters," replied Jake, throwing a grizzled frown towards the rows of tents, wooden watch towers and training grounds that made up his home.

"We haven't the weapons or food for a mobilisation, you know that as well as I," Clair said, scowling at him.

"We are soldiers, we do what we must and we live on what we must. Make use of this time I will buy you. Victory is not achieved by sitting around and waiting for defeat, you know this as well as I," he shot back.

The two decorated officers, both of them undeniable masters of combat and battlefield strategy, saluted each other. No more words were said, and no more orders or recommendations exchanged. In some ways, Jake felt Claire was better suited to leading the Outpost, and perhaps if she were a man, she'd have been elected to do so instead. Prejudices remained in places within the Outpost's command structure, and these prejudices every Marshal for the last two hundred years had tried to extinguish, but it was as if they were hardwired into people's brains. The Officer's Council had voted for Jake seven to five, and surprise surprise there happened to be seven men on the council at the time, and five women. It sometimes seemed to Jake that mankind's inability to utilise its population to its full potential was a glaring strategic flaw.

“Sir, the platoons are ready to move,” interrupted Lieutenant James Miller.

Jake turned and looked down upon his four platoons. Each platoon was a hundred strong, and every soldier was a multi-purpose killing machine. Long spears were fastened over their shoulders, and each man carried a winch-loading crossbow – capable of killing a man from 200 yards, and accurate up to 75 yards, they were the deadly pride of the Outpost’s army. They all wore olive green shirts and trousers, and heavy leather helmets that were covered in foliage. Jake was used to leading his men into tense skirmishing, where they always trumped; this would be the first time he had used them in a pitched battle of numbers.
Each soldier also carried a heavy backpack, full of food, camp making equipment, water pouches, bolts and sharpening blocks. This versatility always gave the Outpost’s army an edge over its adversaries, as each soldier was able to traverse any kind of terrain for days on end without the need of resupply. Again, Jake figured this would do little to help the Federation in the coming battle.

Jake walked down to the platoons, and joined the thin line of platoon leaders and their command staff. Before he led his men to their deaths beneath the bone maul of a savage, he’d atleast tell them why.

“Thousands of years ago, in a little coastal pass, three hundred crazy sons of bitches withstood the onslaught of fifty thousand barbarians,” he began “and after something like three days, each and every one of those brave sons of bitches were dead.”

The platoons remained silent, rigid and at attention.

“But those dead brave sons of bitches bought time for their respective peoples to organise a decisive response to their enemy; and organise they did. We are those dead brave sons of bitches, and we march to die so that our people may live.”

Jake stopped and smiled despite himself. His men were so well disciplined, he could put on a woman’s dress and dance around for an hour without getting so much as a sideward glance. He felt pride in commanding the world’s finest, the best men and women he would ever know. They would more than likely die together, but at least they would do it with spear and crossbow in hand. With this in mind, Jake nodded at his Signals Master.

“Forward march!” crowed the Signals Master, and at once the four hundred idle bodies became a lively sea.

The journey to Independence was not a long one, and not very dangerous either. Jake knew that he couldn’t wait too long for Fartown and Anthastiln’s militias to join the muster, and hoped that Independence had at least thrown together its customary few hundred. In three days, they would move towards Rockhelm, even if they had under a thousand men. Fartown was likely to send its forces, as the Merchant Council had a great deal of investments in Rockhelm’s modernising economy, but Anthastiln was a nerve shaker.

Last time the Outpost had requested aid to repel the siege at Tears, the River Admiral had sent fifty men. It was an insult aimed at Jake to remind him of the times he had stopped Carlos from taking Independence over. The Marshal hoped that the seriousness of this invasion would sober the twisted and deranged mind of the River Admiral. But then again, Anthastiln’s reluctance to join the battle would give Jake the evidence he needed to throw them out of the Federation, and then conquer them himself. If he survived the coming battle, of course.

“Hey, Miss Annie...?”

She kept on marching, old worn boots splashing in the puddles made by a Cryin' June. Oh, she knew the owner of the voice, and she recognized the pitch and timidness of the call. Green eyes remained hardened as she watched the backs of the cloaked figures in front of her as their steps splashed begrudgingly through the muddy road. She knew that voice all right and that pitch; it was the voice of someone who was going to get themselves killed.

“Hey, wait up...” the owner of the voice scurried up by her side. The yellow of the cloak the other wore was impressive and brilliant. It was one of those carry-overs from the days past, made of a substance that just would not rot up until this day and age. It was a marvellous item; Desiree was sure that it kept the owner dry, much like the items in Deiree's ruck sack since it was lined on the inside with some of the same material. But as impressive as the raincloak was, the sunshiny hue just made the cloak's owner a big ol' yellow target.

“Whoa... some turn out...” said the big ol' yellow target, “never seen so many a'marchin'! To war no less! You ever been in anything like this, Miss Annie?”

They called her Miss Annie at the Rutherford ranch. Well, actually they did not call her that until the raiders showed up. The Rutherfords staked their claim in Independence outside the city limits. Yes, there was more land to own, but settling way out there was just asking for trouble. People huddled together for protection. And without other people there to huddle with you had to buy your own protection. The Rutherford's had money... probably because they had skimped on buying protection.

Well, they had ballista type of turrets set up on their walls, but the people hired to operate them only knew how to shoot. They must have thought that only dogs were the best foot soldiers.

But raiders got less desperate and much smarter it would seem. They had one of their own manage to get hired on in the ranch. Someone that knew about dogs and how to command them. Someone that knew the capabilities of the ballista lining the walls. Someone that could sabotage one ballista so as to let the other raiders basically walk on in while the dogs sat there wagging tails as if their bestest buds were coming over for dinner.

Any other situation and the muscular woman would have walked away; it was not her fight.

But she was laying low and they were interfering with her orders. In essense they were messing with the Lacroix. That just could not happen. And so she just had to take care of business for her family business. She had to do what she did best.

She Cleaned up for the Rutherfords.

After the last of the raiders were either off the property or taken out, she got back what she wanted. She was able to lay low again. But this time, instead of calling her 'hey, you,' or just 'woman!' they called her 'Miss Annie.' She gave them her middle name and let her be. Her secret was safe with the Rutherfords. And the Rutherfords were safe with her readjustment of their home security systems.

'Miss Annie' just wanted to be left alone, but they still tried to get to her. They were good people at heart and she could not fault them for that, but still, they kept trying to get to know her. She kept pushing them away, keeping them at an arm's length. That was until they found her weakness.

And there she was, babbling away, hobbling to keep up with the urgent pace, dressed up as a big ol' yellow target. Many annoyed glances laced with daggers were shot in their direction.

“Miss Ember-Lee, you talk too much...”

The scowling rain-soaked male faces finally turned away when Ember finally shut her trap.

“Oh, sorry, Miss Annie... just nervous is all... I know you hate it when I blabber on...”

A sideways glance she gave the small blonde teen and green eyes softened when she caught the gaze of big shiny blues. Oh, she was too cute.

“What are you doin' here, little lady?”

“I came to fight along side y'all, of course!” shoulders winced as bubbling giggles grated at the ears of the incumbent warriors.

“Miss Ember...” if it was anyone else, she would have let them get themselves killed. But she would not let Ember get herself killed a month ago and she was not about to let that happen now. “...eldest sons were invited from families to represent. Besides, your daddy sent out enough workers to appease the call...”

“You know why I ran away...” Yes, of course she did, but that was just a cry for attention. This was something else completely. “...I am not a little princess caged in a tower, y'know...”

“ You know you have nothing left to prove...”

“You think you're so tough... you think you don't need anyone...”

“I am so tough. I don't need anyone, thank ya very much, Miss Ember-Lee.”

“You need me, Annie! You do! You said so yourself--”

A strong gloved hand snatched a thin wrist and twisted. “Come with me, little lady...”

Snickers, cat-calls, cheers and whistles followed them as the muscular form of 'Miss Annie' guided the protesting big ol' yellow target away and behind a dilapidated vine covered ancient building. When out of sight and out of earshot, the bigger woman pushed the teen roughly away. Ember went flailing into the mud.

“Go home, little lady... this is no place for you. Go home to the ranch.”

“No!” the blonde picked herself up and marched on over into the brunette's personal space. She stared up, blue eyes glinting with much defiance. “You said you needed me, Annie!”

A lone chestnut eyebrow raised. “I said: 'I need someone like you to keep me from going crazy at the ranch, Ember...”

“Right! You also said: I have control over me! My choices matter in the family! I can marry whoever I want! I was the sweetest thing you ever met! I deserve better than Justin St. Louis!”

“Whoa... slow down there, sister... where are we going with this...? No. No, don't you dare. Don't you say it--”

“I love you, Annie! I won't let you leave me! I just won't!” she threw herself at the bigger woman and squeezed tight around her waist, burying her face into her breast. The bigger woman could only facepalm.

The awkward silence lasted a moment longer then:

“Are you ready, Ember... Are you really ready to love me...?”

Before the blonde teen could reply, 'Miss Annie' took a step back and kneed her in the gut. The wind gusted out from Amber, arms releasing her 'escaping love.' A heartbeat later and the 'escaping love' had her pinned and eating sloppy mud and drinking dirty puddle.

“'This whacha want, little lady?” with a fistful of golden locks, the 'escaping love' slammed the teens face down hard, “you really want to love this?”

Twice more did the blonde violently feast upon mud puddle, then for desert she got a knife at her throat.

Ember responded with choking wails and futile struggles.

“This is me, Ember-Lee Rutherford. This is for real. This is not a little girl's fancy. I ain't no hero. I didn't go after you to save you, little lady. I was horny. I wanted to get at that little piece of you hidden behind your panties. I knew you were looking to get with me. You like what you got?”

A painful wail gushed forth from the teen as she was flipped over and had both arms pinned above her head. With an overpowering knee thrust, her thighs were parted.

“What better way to rebel against daddy than to hump another woman. A servant woman. A servant become saviour at that?! This what you want?!”

“Noooo! Stop! Stop Annie! You're hurting me! Stoooo--”

A backhanded smack with the butt of the knife split open cherry lips and shut the blonde up.

“Well this is what you get if you are ready to love me! You come to the war front, you get caught by the savages, you get this! And not just one time with one of them! You get it for the rest of your pitiful life from all of them whenever they want! Wherever they want! You want to love me?!”

She stood to her near six foot height and dragged the blubbering teen up by the lapels. Dainty feet dangled as she was pulled right up nose-to-nose with the 'escaping love.'

“Tell me this is what you want... Tell me!!! No? Then I just saved your life again....”

She was dropped to the mud, face first once again, crumpled up like a broken dollie. 'Miss Annie' towered over her and watched the wretched thing quiver, blood flowing from swollen pink lip with each sobbing breath.

“Go home, Miss Ember-Lee Rutherford. Go home and forget about me. I'm not coming back to you. Ever. You're only 18. You have your whole life ahead of you. Me? I'm going to All Hells. I am so tough. I don't need anyone. I don't need you. I don't.

Go home, little lady... just let me be.”

Green eyes took in one last sight of the fallen girl then snapped close. The teen was crying softly, crumpled in a heap of brilliant yellow, alone, humiliated and broken-hearted. A deep breath did the large brunette take. The blonde was not the first to end up like this when Desiree Lacroix was done with them. With a sudden turn of her cheek, a spin on a boot heel, she marched away from Ember-Lee Rutherford, not once looking back.

---

She marched double time and caught up with the rest of the bodies making their way to the meeting point. She was steady and steely once again.

The rain fell from the Cryin' June skies and she pulled her cowl tighter around her face and she sighed. Green eyes hid behind thick lashes as she indulged a moment of weakness; into memory she delved knowing full well it would undermine her steel.

“You are the sweetest thing I ever met...”

“Ohhh... Annie... you're just saying that...”

Damn that giggle. It was well before the dawn of a new work day and again she held the naked body of the lovely daughter of Mr. Douglas Rutherford tightly against her own nude form and stroked those golden locks while sweeping green eyes held endless blue ones.

“No, I'm not, Em...”

“Oh, riiiight... I've heard all that before, Anne... prove it, missy...”

Damn those legs. It was almost time for her to leave and again she felt the slender ankle gently trace her own ankle all the way up to her knee.

“Ember-Lee... I don't give anything to no one. 'Cept family. I only give to the ones I care about. That's it...”

“Riiiight... sooooo... what are ya' gonna' give me then...?!”

“Mon nom vrai, ma cherie... Je m'appelle Desiree. Je sais ce n'est pas une grande chose, mais... ca c'est la chose meilleure que je peux te donner...”

“Whooooaa... what did you just say? That was sooooooo hot!!! Say it again, Annie..! Say it again...!”

“I'm leaving. Now. Sun's almost up. A new work day. Another day where we don't know each other, Ems...”

“No...! Wait..! You have to tell me what it means...!”

“It means--”

---

“--you are the sweetest thing...” said the blonde teen with hushed awe and a hint of adoration.

Ember-Lee stumbled away from the spot 'Annie' had left her. Covered in mud, dripping with tears, she reached into her trouser pocket to grab a kerchief to clean herself up some before she went back home to face her daddy. Her large blue eyes became even larger when she saw what she had pulled out of her pocket; it was a black kerchief. It was not her own for she never owned such a dark thing. Ever. That and the embroidery was not familiar to her.

She broke down again and cried with the June rain as she clutched the dark linen to her cheeks so tight, so tight as if she would never let it go.

“...you are the sweetest thing I ever met...” she said between hiccuping sobs.

Stitched along the edge of the black kerchief was the name: Desiree Anne Simone-Lacroix.

“...you don't give nothing to no one...” a small giggle bubble up between sobs like golden rays breaking through the grey skies of a Cryin' June.

“...'cept the ones you care about...”

Swollen bloody lips of a blonde teen pressed with more than just mere affection upon that black linen with which was stitched the greatest gift she ever received.

“Good bye, 'Miss Annie...'”

---

“Good bye, Miss Ember-Lee...”

Green eyes snapped open and the wistful smile departed in time with the steel returning to those green eyes. Strong, steely and steady.

Desiree, shrugged her rucksack strap over her shoulder into a more comfortable position. The womanly gait with which she carried through the muddied road changed into that of someone-- something much, much more deadly.

If there was a Lacroix that saw her before she saw them, they would know exactly who was walking in the midst of men. She was Une Laveuse now. No more laying low.

It was time for her to do what she did best.

"Milord, if we don't send men, that cunt down in 29 will have us thrown out of the Federation. You know this is what he wants," said Mr. Hepworth, in a voice full of gravel.

"I know that, don't you think I know that?" replied the River Admiral, rubbing the side of his head with a his leather-clad hands.

"Then why all the obsession over that shitty little town?"

"Because, that 'shitty little town' is worth gold to us. Just think, with their forges and experts, we could double production. We'd be the jewel of the Federation, and those fat fucking merchants could go suck the end of a blunderbuss!" snapped the River Admiral.

Mr. Hepworth remained silent after this. One could only push the Admiral so far, before he was on receiving end of a lead ball. Sipping from the gentle rim of his brandy glass, the aging engineer sat back in his leather chair and gave the floor to one of his competitors.

"Mr. River Admiral, Sir, If I may..." stepped in Doctor Fringe Raven.

The Doctor was a heavy set fellow, with a large greying beard tuned to a sharp point, and a clean shaven head. He was Anthastiln's chief gun powder specialist, and also the richest of the 'Democratic Council of the People's Anthastiln'.

"Yes, yes, speak your mind my good Doctor," replied the Admiral; his shaky hands pouring another goblet of wine.

"Send half the militia, tell that testosterone fuelled idiot from 29 that we're having trouble with a tribe from the Northern Wastes. When the army leaves, send the other half to annex the town. Simple as that!" the Doctor said, triumphantly.

Carlos grinned at the Doctor and held his gaze for several uncomfortable seconds. Then his eyes darted to Mr. Hepworth, and he nodded. Mr. Hepworth understood.

Before the good Doctor could react, his skull was enveloped in a rush of smoke, and the room was consumed in an echoing thunder. Mr. Hepworth's smoking pistol presented itself on the large rounded oak table. The Council members shrieked and gasped as the body of the town's richest man slumped forwards, missing everything north of the mouth. Blood splatters covered the Harbour Master Biggins, who was shocked into silence. Only a few quickly remembered rule number one of survival in Anthastiln's ruling circle: Don't condescend, not to the Admiral, not in front of his peers.

"Idiots, you're all idiots," cursed Carlos. Some of the Doctor's blood had flecked his face, and he clicked his fingers at his attendants. Within a fraction of a second, several young boys were busy rubbing him down with damp rags.

"Where are the guards? Someone just fired a shot in my War Room, and my fuck damned security detail doesn't give a shit. I want them dead, I want them deader than dead!" he crowed.

Mr. Hepworth slowly nodded. The Admiral banned the soldiers from his War Room last week, because he feared that one of them might find it a perfect opportunity to kill him and his fellow overlords. He must have forgotten.

"The Doctor had a point, milord, we could hold back some troops. Independence would be defenceless without its militia. 29 won’t be around to dig them out of their grave, either," said Mr. Hepworth.

"Agreed. All in favour?"

The Council members fired their hands into the air. If the Admiral asked if you was in favour, you best leave your constructive thought process at the door.

"Dispatch two thousand to the muster point. Send someone who will keep things discreet. If we are victorious at that shit infested Rockhelm, I want them to delay the Federation army until we've got the town locked up. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, milord," finished Mr. Hepworth, downing the last of his brandy.

---

Anthastiln was a sorrowful place, full of sadness, loss and helplessness. Grand Master Mason hated coming here; despite his dedication to his Lord Christ Jesus, he could do nothing but hold contempt with the man in charge here. The River Admiral was a violent man, he had killed, butchered and raped his way to the very top. His word was absolute, and his so called democratic council, a requirement for Federation membership, was a blood-soaked joke. If Fartown cared more for compassion than it did for gold, the River Admiral would be without his power. Sanctions would strip him of his wealth, his soldiers would revolt, and he would be executed and replaced by -- another murderous fool, who thought being charge was everything.

Grand Master Mason sighed, and drew a cross in the air. Before him stood the River Admiral's Palace, it was an ugly building, made of black stone and elegant spires. Grand Master Mason allowed himself a brief fantasy, in which he imagined The Evil One's lair looking not too different from the monstrosity. He would need to repent for thinking such thoughts, but he would do that later, for now he had a poor nun to rescue. He was too late to prevent most of the damage, this he knew, but what was left, he would try to save.

A soldier, with an iron plate strewn across his chest, and a six-foot long rifle gripped in both hands barred his passage.

"I am Grand Master Mason, of the Tears of Regret Sanctuary. I request access to his Grace's premises, if I may," spoke the Grand Master, with a tone so gentle.

"Sorry Father, I know who you are, but I am told your 'kind' are not welcome without prior notice," replied the soldier.

"Then I shall walk past you, and Christ Jesus will choose whose resolve is stronger," shot back the Grand Master, his voice now colder than iron.

The priest, father, Grand Master, Holy Father, Light of Light, whatever people chose to call him, marched forwards. He was wearing the thick black of the priesthood, and his face was shaven - along with his scalp. These last details were a requirement of all nuns and monks within the sanctuary's service. He was no ordinary monk however; he was God's chosen.

The soldier lashed out with the butt of his rifle, and caught the priest across the face. Mason fell to his knees, blood dropping from his broken mouth. Immediately he regained himself and carried on walking towards the entrance. This time the soldier stood back, unsure of what action to take. He lived to serve his master, but to shoot the Grand Master of Tears would be a sin he would not outrun - either in the realm of the living, or the dead.

Mason's face burned with pain, and he was sure that it was not only his teeth that were broken. He muttered a prayer for the soldier, so that he may not be flayed alive for allowing him access. Entering the large domed lobby of the Palace, he was immediately set upon by several Royal Guards. There were four less of them, than on his last visit, he noticed.

“I have business here, leave me be or shoot me, the choice is yours,” roared the Grand Master. His patience was wearing thin.

The fierce hands that had grabbed him relaxed, and the Royal Guards stood back. One so revered across the Federation had a certain amount of power and immunity, even in Anthastiln, it seemed.

“Where is Sister Mary?” asked the Grand Master, his voice gentle and soft once more.

“The Admiral’s quarters, Light of Light, but forgive me – you may not go there,” replied one of the Royal Guards.

“Then arrest me, or shoot me, or whatever you feel is right. Christ Jesus guides me today, not fear of your master’s insanity,” said Mason.

And with that, the Holiest Man in the known world made for the Admiral’s quarters. He knew the way, it was not the first time he had intervened to save a nun from the monster’s clutches, and by Christ Jesus’ blood, he knew it would not be the last. Such was life, in this depressing purgatory.

“Gentlemen,” thundered the Chamber Speaker, “The vote stands at 91 to 72, Fartown is thusly committed to war against the Western Wildmen with the objective of ensuring Rockhelm’ survival, and of removing the military threat they pose to the Federation.”

Half the chamber rose to their feet, and cheered in great merriment. The other half looked on, shaking their heads and whisphering disapproval. The latest Crisis had split the Fartown Merchant Council, and it took three votes and many hours of deliberation before a majority was finally reached.

“If you please,” shouted the Chamber Speaker over the commotion, “be seated, so that we may elect the leader of our armies.”

The cheers and merriment ended at once, and within seconds the chamber was back to its subdued, boring state. This was an important issue; the man who commanded Fartown’s legions was the greatest honour any citizen of the trading city could ever hope to aspire to. With the title Consul, a man went from a petty leather merchant to the most powerful man in the known world. Riches, glory and fame would be theirs.

This was no usual campaign however, and much was at stake. Many were divided between voting for those who had paid them to do so, and for someone who could actually lead an army and had experience. Fartown had fought many battles on the fringes of civilisation, but few wars, and not on this scale. The whole Federation was to be tested at Rockhelm, and it would rise and fall by the outcome.

There were two names on everyone’s lips, and those two names represented very different ideals.

Minister Octavian Gatus was a wine merchant by trade, but a proven battlefield commander. It was he who led the 5th Legion to victory against the remnants of the Old Kingdom at the battle of Herin, and it was he who reformed Fartown’s widely differing militia into a more uniform fighting force. He commanded the respect of the famed Jake Irons, with whom he had stood side by side at the Great Siege of Tears during the Southern War. At the sound age of thirty-nine, he had done much, achieved much and was promised much.

Minister Helshar Basra was an arms trader, with two thousand armed men at his call day and night, but he was no commander. He had taken the 2nd and 3rd Legions westwards, with the aim of conquering the foreign trade hub of Trapbourg, but was utterly crushed by what many observers described as a numerically and materially inferior opponent. Three thousand good Fartown men had died in that campaign, and though Trapbourg sued for a biased peace on the belief that the Merchant Council would dispatch more Legions, it was always seen as stinging defeat for the Federation. However, with all this said, he was a very wealthy man with seven wives and innumerable mistresses. His weapons from Anthastiln had garnered him many friends, and his inexhaustible Federation Dollar reserves had bought him many more. He had bribed over half the council to vote for him that day.

The Chamber Speaker, an old and haggard man with a hunched back, pulled open a scroll and cleared his throat.

“The names most voted to lead the Legions were Minister Octavian Gatus of the Feathermore District, and Minister Helshar Basra of the Misty Isle District,” he said.

There were many cheers for Helshar, but few for Octavian. Both men were present in the chamber, and both had cast their votes. Even from their appearance, in their simple stately gowns of white cotton, it was evident they were very different people.

Octavian was tall, handsome with a shock of black hair and wide shoulders. He looked everything a prince of the old world. He stood rigid, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber. Helshar was short, extremely fat, and balding and had a face that resembled a rotten potato. He swayed with the consumption of fine wines, and smiled at the coming blessing he was to receive.

“Both ministers shall now stake their claim, before voting commences,” finished the Chamber Speaker, reclining in his austere wooden arm chair and waving an arm at Helshar.

Helshar was up at once, and he rushed to the centre of the chamber so that all eyes were on him.

“My Sirs,” he started, “my good Gentlemen, my fellow citizens of Fartown. It would be with great honour that I lead our mighty army eastwards, and claim for ourselves some new land with which to cultivate our future wealth!”

The room responded in a thunderous applause.

“I know there are some reservations about my military judgement, but worry not, for I shall bring with me the sound council of a dozen 29 advisors. With my eye for a good decision, and their analysis of situations, Fartown’s Legions will press onwards, unmatched and unstoppable. I will claim the East for Fartown, for the Federation!”

More applause followed, and several Council members stood to clap their approval. A few remained seated, not trusting in his ability to heed wise advice from anyone, even if they were advisors from the Outpost. Helshar returned to his place amongst the benches, shaking hands as he went and smiling like a child who was about to be awarded first place in a running race.

The Chamber Speaker, himself nodding approval towards Helshar, then waved Octavian forwards.

Octavian was a quiet man, but he was well known. The whole room fell silent as he made his way to the chamber centre, and eyes fell upon him. Everyone stood to win for voting for Helshar in the short term, but everyone may well stand to lose if the arms trader blundered like he did at Trapbourg. Money was a fine bribe when the consequences were small, or were dwarfed by the gain, but this was a real war – 10,000 Wildmen surging into the Federation’s borders was not the same as storming a desolate town of a few hundred.

Not to mention that Fartown, whose army once boasted 10,000 strong itself, had never recovered from the Trapbourg disaster. Other battles and skirmishes had chipped away at it too, and every victory was always through force of numbers than through discipline or tactics. Except at Herin, of course. To lose the battle at Rockhelm would leave Fartown virtually defenceless, and there would be few men left to carry the Federation banner into a second confrontation.

“I killed a Wildman once,” said Octavian in a cold and sober tone, “I fired my pistol between her breasts, and she fell backwards with a broken body.”

The room was nonplussed. Some Councilers looked around in boredom, but others looked on waiting for the punch line.

“She had sliced her way through my forward line, through my second line and through my third line. Two of my personal guard lay dead at her feet by the time she came to me. An axe clenched in each hand, and a body of solid rock, she had broken my army before my eyes, or so it seemed. I shot her, though I hate making war on womenfolk, and she died there. In all, fifteen of my men had died in her wake. I am lucky, that her friends were two hundred strong, and that we were three thousand strong, or it is unlikely Fartown would be here today,” he continued.

The room was silent now. No murmurs. Just focus.

“Now ten thousand of her are surging towards Rockhelm. The soldiers there are strong, as strong as the Wildmen and very proud. They will hold their palisade for maybe a week, but they have not the numbers, and wooden walls are easy prey to fire. If we fail to break the Wildmen there, before the walls of the town, with the united arms of the Federation at our backs, then we will all be consigned to death or slavery. This I promise you, this, I can guarantee. What can Helshar guarantee you?

Money in your pockets, so that tonight you may fuck your way through a whore house and into the tavern beyond. Hopes in your minds, so that you may fuck and drink your way through the next few days. Doom, in that he will fail to deliver, being as stubborn and as arrogant as he is, and I assure you, there will be no more fucking or drinking from that point on. For any of you. Well, not at your leisure anyway.”

This drew seething rasps from some of the chamber, and Helshar himself started calling obscenities and threats at Octavian.

“Vote with Fartown’s future in mind, not your own. Wealth can only achieve so much. If you want a suitable man at the head of our Legions, then send me, and I will do what needs to be done, so that you all can carry on living in your high rises, with your beautiful women, fine foods and drink.”

The chamber became a riot, as Councillors exchanged insults with each other. Many had switched to Octavian, spurred on by brutal depiction of the situation. Helshar declared death for any who went back on their bribe. The Chamber Speaker weighed in, but could not quiet them. In the chaos, Octavian marched from the chamber centre, and fighting off as many grabbing hands as he could, exited Fartown’s parliament building.

He would be Consul, and an hour from now, he would be leading the world’s greatest power to war against a very worthy adversary. Four thousand troops were already assembling, a thousand of them cavalry, and he would not wait for official word of his victory – Hell, even if he didn’t get the position of Consul, the militias called his name, not Helshar’s.