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3 mos ago
Current Sign me up.
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9 mos ago
Thank you, Match Day gods.
10 mos ago
Like...CerealKiller Hackers?
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10 mos ago
Thanks, Dad.
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10 mos ago
Shit, that's every God damn day.
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Bio

Former...lots of things on this site. Above all, former RPer/creator.

I'm retired, I'm gone. Keep creating, always.

Most Recent Posts

The Road Goes Ever Onward...

It was early morning as the sun struck the glittering buildings of Night City as the part time merc, full time cowboy, and NC’s least known smuggler tapped on the steering wheel. Waiting for the light to change, as he watched the local joy toys and one nightstand crowd do the walk of shame heels in hand from Japantown. Dusty and Sora had gotten into a routine, he’d swing by and take her round for morning errands and small talk, then off to the office. Where he’d tinker and make calls while she did her business, it had stayed like this for two months. Sora seemed to have an infinite supply of money and for some reason valued his thoughts, why she needed an up jumped farm hand with a sweet rider for other than to let the other suits know she had more money to throw around than they did, he’d never know.

Somedays she’d ask for a new restaurant or bar to visit, other’s shrines or quiet spots to get away from it all. The fact the pair of them were avid smokers helped too, pretty sure the Clydesdale had more smokes in it than some of the shops in NC. The pay was outstanding and Sora seemed for whatever reason to like the Nomad in her life... Even if she did scare him shitless some days. As the light turned green he let the engine roar as shot down the road, with a quick turn in he pulled five minutes early and decided to roll another cigarette. Turning up the music as he took a moment to look out at the view. Sometimes, just sometimes Night City looked pretty enough to want to live here for good.

Shutting his eyes, as he leaned back in his seat turning up the volume as he waited for the familiar sound of Sora’s approach. She usually gave him the common courtesy of not just spooking the shit out of the nomad, though he was certainly aware she enjoyed the occasional joke with him as the punch line.

He’d gotten an apartment not far from the Afterlife, occasional get away or pick up gigs on nights Sora wished to be left alone. But two months later she still wanted him around. He'd work on the gall to ask her directly eventually but for now, it suited him playing chauffeur to Sora and even Emily on occasion. Sora’s dainty little assistant certainly seemed more chatty than she was, especially if her boss wasn’t around. Always curious about what the cameras and Arasaka spooks couldn’t dig up on people who didn’t live their lives where they could be tracked.

Sora was halfway through a cigarette when she pulled open the car door, tossed the katana in the back, and slid into the passenger seat. She was typically dressed; slim-fit suit, shoes, no socks, her jet-black hair impossibly straight and long. There was no makeup on the woman, but there never was. Without looking over she offered an open hand to Dusty, her black leather and silver-trimmed cigarette case snapping open in offer a cigarette inside. From time-to-time she would offer a random kindness, though her face was a pure shroud of nothingness when it came to possible emotional state, or motivation.
But her cigarettes were true tobacco, not synth-tobacco, so the offer was at least made.
Her early morning was over. There were two meetings, and an Arasaka counter-intelligence operative that had veered off the rails that she had dealt with. The meetings had been short, the rogue Arasaka agent even shorter. She’d simply blown their internal cyberware, the internals of their processor and brain blowing through the back of their skull, painting the wall of the motel room behind them that they’d been hiding out in.
Sora would give them credit: they didn’t try to bargain or beg. They’d gone straight for their sidearm. As if they were fast enough, but they likely didn’t know that, and Sora preferred that conclusion to begging and bargaining. Her eyes danced along the glitter of the light of the morning star that illuminated the corner of Japantown they currently haunted, scanning people and faces off Arasaka’s databases.
She’d been bored since Eddie and her band of merry-men were dealt with, no amount of additional corporate responsibility gave her any comfort from the dread of lacking a real, true, interesting target to hunt. She was a super-predator without prey…and she was discovering it to be a fate worse than death.
At least in death she wouldn’t have been bored.
“You have people trying to call you,” she informed him flatly, not beginning to explain how she knew that before he did.
“My clan probably.” He answered as drew out the custom engraved lighter he kept. “Probably asking about when I can come home to work fields or other such stuff. Ma, always hates when I'm away.” He spoke as clicked a button and picked up an earpiece. He knew Sora could listen if she wanted to, but he tried to pretend he could have a private life.
As it rang he continued to talk. “Found a new place, serves real fried chicken. Nomad joint but the guy said I'm welcome to bring a guest. If you wanna have lunch today. I know you hate staying in that office all day.” He stopped, a loud and panicked voice entered the earbud as Dusty slowed down at a light.

“Daryl. Buddy. Slow down, what do you mean Mila's convoy got jumped?” He frowned as the Nomad fixer started to explain. Dusty cursing under his breath as he kept talking. He gripped the wheel tighter and his left foot began to bounce. Signs he was tense and ready for a fight, ones Sora had learned easily. “Okay... Are you sure it's him? Hit Meta's and Aldercado's too... Shit he's serious about finding me huh.” He grumbled as his eyes darted along the lit up interior. “Okay. I'll talk with my boss.” He clicked off the earpiece taking a deep breath. A quiet, “fuck” escaped before he pulled them over.

“Sora I might need a little... Vacation time? I got a family matter, I mean actual family matter I gotta deal with.” He was clearly tense as he took a breath trying not to let the anger consume him.

“Fried chicken another day, hmm?”, was the living weapon’s only response, and she gave it in a dull casual sarcasm that carried with it hints of boredom. Her eyes never went near him, she just clicked her cigarette case shut and pocketed it away inside the interior pocket of her slim-fit designer blazer. If she had listened in, there was no sign. The surveillance on him was simply a matter of protection: protection of Arasaka, and protection of herself—too many analysts had dubbed Dusty the greatest ‘soft spot’ in her armor, the most likely way for someone to get to her, for it to simply be ignored.
So, he was watched, and far more than he knew.
“You must do what is necessary. I will stay in the car.”
Simple, yet impossibly vague language for someone in her position. Would she stay in the car as he dealt with family drama? Would she stay in the car until he dropped her at the office? She said nothing of intent, just tossed the butt of her finished cigarette from the window and retrieved another from the case in her blazer, before putting the case back, and lighting a new cigarette, exhaling with a deep sigh that accompanied her body relaxing into the seat, her head rolling against the headrest as she stared out of the window.
Dusty sighed, checking his mirrors a moment as they merged up onto the highway heading towards the edge of tone. “Nomad Convoys are getting hit hard. A cousin of mine, Mila, was on a run. Her and some others. New Raffen Shiv, not Wraiths turned up... Had a fucking AV and Kang Tao weapons, high end stuff that didn’t just hall off the truck. Big guns and bigger balls, someone saw my brother leading them.” He spoke taking a long puff on the cigarette she had given him before letting the window down enough to chuck it out. Armor plating coming up as they picked up speed, blowing past some NCPD cops who knew well enough to chase a fucking Nomad rig.
“I’m the closest and they think the Raffen are hauling up survivors for the slave market. So go find my people, any Aldercado’s, or any Meta’s they got bring’em out. Second part... Beat on any Shiv bitch I can get my hands on who might know something.” He explained as realized how fast he was going weaving between cars, slowly he lifted his foot.

“You sure you wanna come? You ain’t a danger girl any more, I can drop you off anywhere you want and be back in a couple hours. Unless you really wanna sit in here and smoke?” He asked, releasing the tension in his hands as pushed the cowboy hat on his head back a bit. “Just... My brother’s a sore spot... He killed fiance in a stunt to try and become the next head of the Jodes.” Ah, Dusty had finally mentioned something interesting: he was related to the founder of the Jodes clan after all, it wasn’t just a name and interfamily rival over succession, oh that was something else she probably knew better than Dusty, Arasaka was full of it.
“Family is always a…’sore spot’, as you say.”
Sora may have spoken the words in relation to his current circumstances, but there was something about the hard aloofness of her tone that suggested the words might have been a blade that cut both ways…his family, her family, the Arasaka family, only Sora knew exactly the meaning, and her’s was still a face that gave little to nothing even to the perceptive.
Finally, she sighed again, the only real hints at any emotional response from the woman. “Do not let off the accelerator; I was beginning to enjoy myself.”
It was a request; anything to do with his rig was a request, she understood the boundaries that the man had established, and she largely respected them. His rig was one of the few, it was an easy thing to understand, given his nature as a Nomad.
They nearly out of the city by the time she finally rolled her head against the headrest so that her face was pointed at him, her nearly black eyes blank as she spoke, her tone as understated as she was dangerous, “Oh, no…the ‘Saka Ninja will accompany me on this most dangerous and righteous undertaking. How terrrrrrrible.”
Finally, her eyes held a glint of something: sarcasm, light mocking mimicry, and the hint of amusement. The kind of amusement that allowed her a faint chuckle, before she closed her eyes and faced forward, eyes on the road ahead briefly before she simply closed them and enjoyed the last of her second cigarette of the day.
“Just drive, Dusty…continue blathering on about your familial drama, especially if it provides meaningful context and intelligence: What clans are these? Last I heard there were only Aldecaldos in the area. What are their current postures and attitudes towards each other? Why should I care? You know, basics.”
“Aldercado’s and Jodes get along... Well now. Jodes are the first nomads, oldest Nomads... And we don’t much care for statics, cities, or politics. We’ve been focused on farm work, animals, plant health, guns, and our rides. Made us tight knit with Metacorp, one of the big players in the seven nations. Meta and us have been working on new projects to bring some greenery further south, that’s what in those transports... Seed vaults, growth data, soil rejuvenation kits... Shit to make California pretty again.” He explained as to why they were moving things around. “But LA and NC are mostly Aldercado territory, we had to get them to sign off before we start trucking in stuff from our two nations.”

“Long and short of it. Expensive stuff to grow real food and plants has been stolen by people who would as soon enslave, rape, and betray everyone they know for eddies. We're heading out to meet a couple others from my clan, some Meta’s, and an Aldercado’s who were first on the scene. Meta’s tracking the stuff, Aldercado’s more worried about the people. My family is more worried about the fact that Wraith went quiet than this happens. We might have new players on the roads.” Dusty spoke, as Dusty moved them over to the VIP lane of the border security who scanned via drone... And with Sora onboard they just dropped the barricade and Dusty gunned it.
Out past the city, the armor panels came up and the windows were now view screens displaying the outside. Dusty pressed a button underneath the steering wheel as the engine whined and two more tubo’s cranked on as they flew through the wastes, burned out wrecks and small towns vanishing like dots. “Well, good news... Lunch will be better than fried chicken.” He tried to crack a joke. “As for more intel, my brother’s a snake who wanted to make his way into ruling one of the seven nations. So... Think everything I’m not ambitious, subtle, and borged to hell... You know I don’t much trust cyberware.”
“Who’s naïve enough to trust cyberware? You just hang around enough cyberware to launch a small Japanese woman into space all day. Totally don’t trust it. Who would trust that stuff? Psht. Nerds.”
With the armor up and no real windows to speak of, Sora just pressed the dying cigarette between her thumb and index finger until the flame died. There was no wince of pain, there was no sign that she felt anything at all, instead placing the dead butt into the retrieved cigarette case before making it disappear again inside her blazer.
“Trust was gone in my life the moment someone asked me to wear bunny ears.” Then, turning to Dusty with the most earnest, serious, expression she had ever dared to show him, she admitted, “I killed that person with a stylus without hesitation. Bunny ears, Dusty. That’s my boundary. Never cross it,” she finished, muttering, crossing her arms over chest, looking at the projection of the wastes.
“Gotcha. Never ask the lady who signs my paychecks to wear bunny ears.” He added almost sarcastically this power dynamic only went one way and he knew it. Setting the cruise control he took a breath leaning back. “I got an ashtray if you want.” The Nomad clicked it out from the center console, as he flicked his eyes back into the rearview. “So... When we get there try to... Not to piss them off? They already have plenty of dead and captured family and will be on edge. Not to mention angry I brought an outsider in on this... It's a bit like if you brought me to a board meeting in Tokyo and I started complaining about the lack of a good burger.” He added a bit nervously.

“But, I did grab my kit bag this morning... Wakako was talking about lining me up with a gig to some sharp shooting on some Russian mob guys doing a deal.” He spoke, the speed started to wind down, as he frowned monitors showing nothing outside of them save for more damaged vehicles. “Weird... They’d post outriders a few miles out.” He placed a hand down where he kept his shotgun.

“I smell a trap... Good news, I am driving a far greater danger.” He looked towards Sora for a second, winking at her. “You see something that looks suspect, you do what you gotta.” As they rolled onwards, they found it slightly off the road. Five or six big transports were rammed and damaged, all of them with Metacorp logos on them. Around them Jodes and Aldercado’s vehicles burned in wreckage, blood and coolant splattered... What came next was worse, Jodes' outriders and those they were supposed to meet have been flayed and blood eagled with cyberware and drugs having been used to keep them alive through the whole thing.

Scrawled on a far wall was a simple message. ‘The eighth nation rises.’ On the side of the Netrunner RV that had been providing mobile hacking security. “Fuck... This is bad. At least ten more dead... These guys are worse than Wraiths.” He spoke, pulling over, frowning. “You wanna take a look around, you're the detective here after all?”
She sighed, closing her eyes again with a tiny yawn she spoke through, “First, Tokyo has amazing burgers you uncultured swine. Second, don’t ever fucking wink at me again. Third...go, my little Dustbunny, spread your ‘kit’ wings and fly. I’ll try to make sure I notice if you’re about to die.”
“Gee thanks mom.” He rolled his eyes as he put it in park and got out and began to walk towards the RV’s getting a look at some of the corpses of the attackers. “Fuck... They really went all out. Guys have phoenixes and shit all over them... But not a lot of bodies for a convoy this big.” He frowned as crouched down, examining the blood trails. “A lot of blood splatters and too few bodies. A lot of captives...” He muttered to himself, as he raised his head, as looked up the glowing red eyes of borged out Shiv stared back, decloaking.

“Hello little bug, the spider wants to play, he said you’d come... Said you’d taste like him too.” She spoke as launched a barbed tongue at him and Dusty jumped back firing his shotgun hitting her dermal plating as he scrambled back impacting her armor with a second round before she vanished again. “...God fucking damn it.” He stood up and readied himself again.

He listened to her stalking, the sound of her metallic body leaping from one wreckage to another, as he held his urge to fire in check. Ducking clear as she turned visible and leaped in trying to swing her arm blades at him, as he leveled the shotgun at her chest and knocked her back with the blast of buckshot. Flipping the lever action again to ready it, as drew his magnum and fired two rounds into her head, level blood and other fluids splattered along the wall as she hissed and bolted behind cover. “Oh you scared creepy crawly bitch!” He yelled, trying to draw her back into the fight, she seemed all chromed out and halfway to Cyberpyscho.

“Little bug has more bite than I thought. Boss said you’d be tough but I will peel you as I did-” Her voice echoed but like the speakers had a source, so he and fired a revolver round knocking her off the burning wrecked of a car stuck in the ground, as she writhed on the floor he walked over placed the shotgun against her jaw. “Please bug... I will take a message... I will be good. I don’t wanna die...” She sniveled her red eyes darting between the gun and him.

“You will be the message.” He pulled back and as he looked away, suddenly her scream came as blew off an arm, then with a flick of the lever he took the next. Then he took each of her legs, leaving her with the wobbly little tail she’d added as grabbed her by and dragged the nugget of a Raffen back towards the wreckage, throwing her into the biggest crater as wiggled and screamed in the hot sun of the wastes, maybe they’d come for her... Maybe they would leave her, but the message was clear: mercy was out and now it would be who could do worse to the other first.

He needed information but for now... Leaving her in that hole should be fine, he could question her if he had too. He went back to looking through the wreckage, noting the directions of the tires... The fire from the AV and how they’d tried to circle up for a defense, it wasn’t a clean attack, the dead were maybe thirty bodies including those meant to meet them. Meaning they probably had near a hundred or so as captives. The Aldercado’s had claimed attacks before this one and Meta had claimed someone was ambushing them on the coast too. Standing up he moved back towards the car to get on the radio, they’d need hands to bury the dead... And he figured out the direction the prisoners and merchandise had gone.

The goods were headed back into Night City, while the prisoners? Further into the badlands probably a Raffen tent city or underground hideout. He’d heard rumors they’d taken over cave networks or mined their own out to stay hidden. He was clear on one thing, his people would be sold and sent to the coast if they didn’t hurry. However, if they didn’t get the seeds back before they were sold and moved... They could kiss a greener California and a decade of work goodbye, he wanted to save the people, but would that be enough when they may lose everything they spent their days working for.
“—Greentech. MetaCorp…yes, I’ll wait.”
She was on the phone when he approached the car, her crystalline, wafer-thin handheld tossed in his direction with the accuracy of a marksman who could drop a dime in a thimble during a hurricane, and the casualness of a lazy Sunday. On the device were images, “You can scroll,” she added, towards Dusty. Suddenly in his hands he had images with the watermark of Arasaka, six images in total. Satellite images of the very location they were at, and the surrounding grid. He was welcomed to see what useful information he could get from it, both the slaughter caught in still images, and two aftermath images that showed departure.
“I sent you a sat-pic of the truck leaving the area…that sounds like a personal problem, Jin,” her tone was colder, harsher to the man on the other end of the signal than it had been to Dusty just moments ago. It was either just the hard mask of Sora the ‘Saka Ninja, or she genuinely held a distaste for this ‘Jin.’
Her eyes rolled, hard—it was most definitely the latter.
“Very well. Find the truck…what?” Her face twisted in irritation, unlike her, but she hated stupid above all else. “Why does Arasaka Security have the imagination of a gun-barrel?...no, Jin, listen to me very carefully: Find the truck. Find out everything about the people driving the truck. Find the buyers. Use our endless proxies in Night City to make those buyers no longer want to buy. Use another of our endless proxies to buy the goods ourselves, make sure Reqresuitions oversees the negotiation—yes, Jin, because throwing too much money would spook them.” Her eyes rolled so far into the back of her head, she might have been looking for what remained of her patience in the back of her mind. “Drive it to R&D, they have twenty-four hours to make their scans, minimal invasive. Leave the truck at Badlands-Z579. Nothing marked, no traces.”
She killed the line with a thought and exited the car to close the distance between herself and the Nomad merc, holding out her hand for the return of her handheld, her eyes katanas in a defensive posture as they locked with his own, “You get your precious greenery, we screw over MetaCorp diversification without them knowing—win/win. Now focus on people. I’m not doing that for you.”

“Understood... They're probably going to be in a Raffen Camp... Ain’t gonna be pleasant what we find, like less than Night City pleasant.” He explained as moved to climb back in the car. “We’ll follow the tracks and figure out where they are... But it’ll take a solid plan to get them out. It’ll be crawling with these new Raffen.” He explained looking back towards the one in the hole. “And it looks like they are way more chromed out.

Climbing back into the car he got it started and moved on, getting the Clydesdale into four wheel drive as they moved with speed over the rough terrain. The ride however was no worse than Night City potholes and city maintenance works. “...You know that cost Saka a fortune, I don’t think you really want a green Cali that much. Pretty sure you’d rather be back in Japan. So either you want to help or part of you cares about this place more than you let on.”
When he talked about where she wanted to really be, Sora thought of Eddie, and the thought turned to dust in the hands of her memory, as the only images that remained to her was Eddie, milk-white, and dying fast in her arms. It no longer mattered what feelings were real, and what feelings weren’t real.
Maybe it never did.
A soft sigh of irritation escaped her, as if she were talking to a child like Jin all over again, “You underestimate just how much Arasaka enjoys denying other corporations’ diversity of revenue, and you underestimate just how much I enjoy making Arasaka pay out fortunes.”
Sora twisted in her seat and reached back, long black hair shining as it moved behind her reaching shoulder and arm as her hand grabbed the katana and brought it to rest between her and the passenger door, her eyes once more locked onto the horizon, with little interest in anything else.
“I am the plan, Dusty. Get me there and try not to die.”
It was nothing he’d ever hear in the inflection of her tone, but he’d no doubt by now learned if she mentioned committing violen
ce, at all, that she was in the state of mind to hurt people. And when she was in the state of mind to hurt people…precious little on Earth could hope to stop her. That would have been it, the end of it until their arrival, but something happened after prolonged minutes of silence. Maybe five, maybe ten—it was hard to tell with the empty stretch of Badlands and silence. But then, just then, she did something he had never witnessed before.
She said something personal.
“I don’t miss Japan. I don’t like it here,” her voice was hardened steel, until she paused, and said the most revealing thing she’d said since her arrival to Night city: “I don’t like it anywhere.”
“...You sound like a Nomad.” He answered, not joking or cruel, just honest. Most Nomad’s didn’t like one place they moved. Maybe stay on a farm a few months or few weeks on the road. They were never still, never placate with where they were always on to something next.
“Well, I do my best to try and make whatever you have to put up with easier... By the way, how was Emily today? Last I saw her she was panicking and running towards the office a couple days ago like she’d forgotten to order your cigarettes again.” He added as they drove, Dusty came from a hard life full of violence and Sora was violence the only normal person the two interacted with was her little Corpo secretary which Dusty still wasn’t sure if Sora sleeping with or not, she definitely watched the way the girl moved more like art than as a predator... Then again he knew enough that kind of prey would bore her.
“Surprised you wanna get in the fight... Must be one of those days. I’ll take the ridge with the big rifle from the trunk. Pick off watch posts and the like while you do your ninja thing, throwing knives you had me store are in the case in the bag seat along with your spare outfit and carton of cigs.” He added, he’d make a space onboard for Sora’s things she wanted kept in his car in case something happened, it hadn’t since Eddie and those days, but nonetheless he made sure she had them here.
“Save the bag for after.”
The moment the car stopped, and it was clear they were near, Sora pulled the handle to the passenger door and stepped out. The shockwave from her next movement was enough to shake the car on its shocks and nearly crack one of the imagery displays. She, apparently, did not wait for him to get set up on the high ground. The perimeter was dealt with stealth, just dead bodies falling silently, the only hint something was amiss the sudden breezes kicking up dirt.
“Dust storm might be comin’,” observed one Shiv as he looked up from his beer and fire roasted sausage. He never really did see where the fix that exploded through his chest came from, unless you count when his head was ripped straight off his body from behind, leaving the head tumbling to the dirt, not even touching ground before she was three other murders in. She stopped in front of one, who blinked at her, and opened their mouth to shout.
It was hard to do when Sora ripped their jaw from the rest of their skull, crushing their brain to mush within their skill with two bullet-time fast strikes from her fists. Despite the starting of other shouts from around the surface camp, the dirt “storm” just kept kicking up more and more Badlands dirt. She stopped for half a minute, enough time to catch her breath and let her internal components recharge, close enough to another Raffen Shiv that they rose their assault rifle, only for the katana to finally flash in the sunlit camp—half the gun slid off slowly in a diagonal slice, leaving the Shiv gawking before their head came off with a second flash of katana in the sunlight.
The concussive sound of a small sonic boom came again as she darted off once more, resuming the dust storm. Bodies began to fall after sprays of blood and white cybernetic fluid, sliced through at the waist as she went in zig-zagged lines throughout the camp. What was left were non-combatants, or those hiding in corners of tents or backseats of dirt covered rigs. Dusty could clean them up from afar, she decided, as she headed for the caverns.
The sheer volume of dirt that flew via dust cloud into the face of the cavern’s checkpoint left those on sentry all but blinded and swallowing dirt particles. By the time anyone was able to look up, the very first sentry’s head exploded, her katana pushed straight through his face to her forearm as the tip of the blade embedded itself into the brain of the biggest borg she’d seen yet. The first sentry’s neck was goo as she rounded her shoulder and removed the head of the big borg to ensure that was that.
Her pistol finally came out, as a crowd of ten were shot, forehead shots dead centered for each. That’s when the real screaming began. In the caverns she could be even more dangerous, sending walls and vehicles flying at people like a rampaging cybernetic bull on parade, fists and kicks enough to send their shitty little prefabs flying like projectiles in a hurricane wind. When the pistol was out, the katana finished the work. The biggest of the borged out cyberpsychos got the blade embedded into its reinforced skull, so Sora simply started ripping out throats and every bit of fleshy bits available. Throats, necks, balls, tits, uncybered limbs, one random cybernetic arm became a club to bludgeon and crush the faces of others in her hands.
It was plastered in blood and bits of flesh, bone, and brains that Sora finally staggered out of the caverns. She took one awkward step, and fell backwards onto her ass in the dirt, against the mouth of the cavern, the sandstone. In one hand the Katana was resheathed, and allowed to fall to the ground beside her. In the other hand…a large bottle of whiskey, clutched by the neck of the bottle, bottomed up as she took as thirsty a drink as she could recall, her body still save for the heavy, labored, breathing of her chest, head leaned back against the rock, eyes to the sky, but firmly shut.
The only communication from her was then, a text message to Dusty that simply read:
I don’t want to frighten them, you rescue your trapped people.
Dusty had gotten his gear, though in truth he mostly just watched Sora work; it was sort of like watching a natural disaster and wild animal all at once. She was as brutal as she was efficient, however he was aware of something others were not. She could still get worn down and tired, her amazing displays and feats came not just from her parts but training and practice. She wasn’t full borg nor did he think she wanted to be, she was that good and modified enough to do the job well. When the work was done, it seemed anyone who had survived fled or hidden deep enough that Sora’s advanced systems couldn’t find them, which meant several meters of stone between them.
He crouched down and carefully sat a warm clean towel, a very big bottle of water, and lastly her bag with a spare outfit, tossing her the key to the Clydesdale. “Clean up however you like, I’ll get them out... You rest up, probably most you’ve gotten to do in two months.”

Last time she’d gone this all out had been awhile, a hand on his revolver as he descended down towards the pens. Occasionally diverting away towards crying or whimpering, this was a place for Shiv of all clans to come and trade in goods and people... Or make use of services normal Nomads would shoot them for, making places like Clouds almost seem tame. Uncuffing men and women who were tied down for the pleasure of their captors, finding some who had expensive cyberware ripped from them now as little more than pieces of scrap with a pulse he had others help them as he finally found the pens below. The Aldercado’s and Jodes within had kept their bravado, the Meta’s were far more scared of these Shiv, a life with the biggest guns protecting ripped away can do that.

“Alright, grab weapons, gear, anything you need from the Shiv they won’t need it anymore. After that we are stealing every single working vehicle we can get... And we're taking the others with us... Jodes will take them in or get them home.” Aldercado’s and Meta’s grumbling about Jodes usual willingness to allow strangers to join the Nomads.

Meanwhile outside, a tractor trailer bristling with guns rammed through the front gate, following it a couple of Militech tanks and she was fairly certain some of the weapons on the supporting trucks were from Arasaka transports that went missing. An older woman kicked open the door barking orders, the Jodes name written across her shirt told her exactly which clan was leading the charge. What came out of the back next was a netrunner, not like any she had seen before one the mythical savants the Jodes stayed in contact with, a Technomancer. Not a piece of that gear was made by a corporation, all of its custom hardware backed up with a serious fire power from Aldercado’s infamous Los Lobos. Seems the shiv had kicked the nest hard enough to see the trillions in the Nomad economy actually put to work in going after them.

The older woman rushed over to be kneeling down by Sora. “So you’re the one my nephew has been working for... Gotta say you are a hard woman to miss.” She spoke giving a smile that reminded her of Dusty's. The old woman reached a hand down to help her up. “Guess we owe you for this mess? Dusty’s never so... Clean about his fights.” She added, shaking her head.

Sora sighed deeply, she left the half empty bottle on the dirt beside her, standing up and taking only the towel, bag, water, and katana with her as she wordlessly and without meeting the gaze of the older Nomad woman walked off towards what remained of the camp. She found a water tank and a hose, utilizing one of their camp showers, aware of the trembling woman in the corner of the communal shower stall, trying not to move or breathe as if there were monsters on the loose.
“Go,” the living weapon said, gently. The woman paused, briefly, before running out of the shower hiding spot and left Sora alone. Given how straight and flawlessly groomed her hair was, it didn’t take so long to comb her fingers through it to get out all the gore. Hair, face, before she removed her shirt, one button at a time, her fingers trembling as she did so, her eyes clinching closed as memory invaded her cleaning.
That man dying as she twisted her blade inside him, in that lonely, shadowy, lunar hallway. The look of shock and horror on Eddie’s face as she finally realized just what Sora was capable of when she was angry and hurt. The look of her father as his eyes were blank with rage, hitting her again, and again.
The look of the child that saw her near the captives in the caverns, white with fear at the sight of their crimson splattered savior. Sora froze, turned around in the cavern, and retrieved her lodged katana before exiting and texting Dusty during a short rest. The memory of the moments played out hazy, sun bleached, and pixelated in her mind, a song she’d heard on the radio the other day playing in her mind as her eyes stared into space,
‘You don’t know what love is,’ the Chet Baker blues song sang, sadly, in her memory.
The pants and shoes came off next, and it was a small blessing that even as a Nomad army gathered just outside and within the camp, not a single soul came near her shower. She was still half damp when she tied her hair into a long ponytail high on her head, her lithe frame clothed in light brown shorts that fell to upper thigh, a black tank that was hidden under a dark brown hooded sweater adorned with cherry blossom blooms here and there, it’s gray-white hood folded down behind her head and mostly hidden by her long, still damp, hair. Faded black work boots that she didn’t bother to tie, only fold into the boot, were all she had on her feet as she emerged from the communal shower, slipping on a pair of silver framed, dark brown aviators over her eyes as she found a fire and burned her bloodied clothes and shoes. Katana slung over her shoulder, along with the near empty bag, she finally approached the car, her eyes scanning the area for what was happening, and who was paying attention to her.
Slowly Dusty emerged, a young woman leaning against him her auburn hair matching his own as the older woman's face fell she bolted towards the younger girl. Grabbing her in a tight hug, Sora would get the impression that it was Dusty’s cousin as the young man moved away from the crowd. She’d note the Aldercado’s and Jodes seemed friendly but clearly there was tension as Dusty moved away a very loud and angry voice filled the air.

“Rhodes! You mother fucker!” It came from a very angry Meta who seemed to be in charge of their group. “You dragged an outsider into all our clan's business! And come to find out it’s your brother who is riling up the Shiv.” He angrily spat upon the ground. “Living in the city, working for a Corpo... You're not fit to be a Nomad!” The tension got worse, as Jodes moved to stand behind Duston, Meta’s moved to stand behind their compatriot who knew an awful lot about Dusty.

“You say that again I’ll fill you full of holes. I’d give my life for anyone else out here and nearly have a dozen times over.” Dusty answered with a gravel and anger that Sora had never coaxed him. “Only reason I’m not beating your skull is common decency and because you would have been kin if she was still alive, Bart.” He growled pointing a finger as the two men drew closer. “Now fuck off and go count your numbers.” He raised his voice and jammed a finger into the smaller man’s chest. “Or they can be counted without you among them.”

Before it could go further, Duston and Bart separated the older from before parting them. “Enough! Children. I am the only one here who can speak for a nation and you will both, shut the fuck up before I beat both your asses and drag you across the badlands ass first.” She growled, clearly the woman was a serious power as even the Aldercado’s backed up a bit. “We will all return to our camps, count our losses and we will convene the Nations. Shiv had dozens of boltholes and plenty more camps out here... It’s high time we started clearing them.” She was talking about taking the Nomad nations to war.
As Dusty stepped away she saw several Nomads hugging him or clapping his back Meta’s and Aldercado’s too. A few people mentioned a thing called the Battle of the Brothers, it was clear whatever was happening she’d get to spend a night around Dusty’s clan as the midday sun started to set.
She appeared like a ghost, without sound to betray her approach, so quickly that it was closer to appearing as if by magic than magic itself. Just…there and staring at the man others were calling ‘Bart’. Where there had been scrum, where there had been bodies, all Sora seemed to be aware of existing was herself, and Bart, her eyes fixated through dark brown lenses, her body encircling the man like a predator debating the kill. Someone stepped in her path, and her shoulder rolled forward, flipping the katana forward in the air until her left hand snatched it, mid-air, near the middle of the sheath, her head tilted dangerously at Bart.
Was she still in bloodlust? Did she simply not like the way this man looked? Were they heartbeats away from a new torrent of blood?
Her voice came hard, harsh, and loud, “Talk to me like that.”
If the tone wasn’t enough, if the words weren’t threatening on their own, if the very way she moved wasn’t a proclamation of lethal danger for everyone within sight, the very slow spread of the grin across her lips was the black sun drawing across the horizon, an omen of utter and complete destruction.
“Draw a weapon,” she whispered to the man. Her black eyes hadn’t seen another soul, they had fixated, a killer narrowing in on the kill as the delicate fingers of her right hand slowly, purposefully, coiled around the hilt of the katana.
A single wrong breath by any party near her would be all it took in this steel trap of a moment.
Bart trembled, his hands hardly moving as he took a backstep, he knew about who Dusty was working with but didn’t think she’d be the one he brought in person. However, it was Dusty who stepped forward. “Leave him... He’s ex-fiances brother, a pencil pusher and big mouth... But he’s not worth the bloodletting boss.” Her Nomad spoke as slowly walked up behind her, Bart’s eyes darting from Sora to him, as if to beg for help.

“Then again... If she wants your blood I can’t do nothing about it. She’s a good boss... Looks after her people real well and treats us better than most.” He spoke as reached over, taking out a cigarette and his lighter. “Bart. You fucked up. Now make it right.”

“Fuck... I’m sorry Duston I just... Fuck I’m sorry!” He spoke, looking back into his reflection in Sora’s sunglasses as the fear in eyes and the thumping of his heart increased. Duston for his part looked towards Sora for a moment. The wreck of man’s lip trembled as he swallowed and then shut his eyes waiting for what he thought was coming.
“You wanna get something to eat? Diner up the road has good burgers.”
Blood was hardening in the sand in the heat of the sun above, the metallic scent of death and burnt electronics filling the air of the killing field she had personally planted, one death at a time, in the matter of mere minutes.
Never did her eyes do anything but stare at the man.
“I remember how we used to justify it all…and we knew better. We told ourselves it didn’t matter, anymore—we CHOSE to continue,” her voice rose like the haunt of a devil in the dark, her right hand knuckles turning white as her grip became possessed by demons Dusty had never seen before, yet the silence that followed the rise in volume was immediately shadowed by a fall to whisper, “Shame on us,” she barely breathed the words, her eyes finally snapping away, to the bodies, to the death all around them like a fog of war, “Shame on all of us.”
Without another word Sora Hayami swung the katana back over her shoulder, retreated to the entrance of the cavern…and picked up the bottle of whiskey still covered in her own bloody handprint. Muted, without a hint of emotion, she stared back at Dusty, “You owe me fried chicken.”
She took a long drink as she turned her back on the crowd, and walked back towards the car.
Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach
Ser William Marston
Garin Sands, Captain
Ser Ryam Redwyne
Ser Dennet Tarly
Lord Bertrand Tyrell


“I am standing by the river, Seven wait to take me home,” the voice that sang wasn’t gifted with inherent beauty, but there was an earnestness to it, carried on a gentle feminine warmth, unafraid to be heard, “Kiss me, Mother, kiss me Father. See the pain upon my brow. While I will soon be with those above, fate has doomed my future now.”

The Mander wasn’t as wide here, not as deep, but moved quickly and with a chorus that added to the natural song of river, bird, and cricket around them, the dead, and the Silent Sisters for whom Vittoria Tyrell sang the old song that had been in the Reach as far back as there had been the Seven, if not before.

She stood just upon its bank, her brown eyes locked upon the green-brown water that flowed, rather than the dead and the Sisters, the men with her a forgotten memory as she lost herself in the singing, and the emotions in her heart that spawned the song on her lips in the first place, so seemingly unprompted.

“Through the years you’ve always loved me….and my life you’ve tried to save. But now I shall slumber sweetly, in a deep and lonely grave.”

Deep and lonely were moments where her voice nearly cracked, words drawn out and lengthened in the singing of the song, nearly swallowed by the emotion of it. Every death hurt worse than any she could remember before. This was harder than it had ever been before.

And she was desperately tired of it.

“Throw your loving arms around me, I am weary…let me rest.”

Vittoria was glad for the physical distance those in her escort had provided her in the moment. It gave her freedom to cry, to bend her knees to squat, and to sob into folded forearms resting on her knees.

“I am Death,” she whispered a new song to herself, and herself alone, “come to take the soul, leave the body and leave it cold. To draw up the flesh off the frame, dirt and worm both a claim.”

She sniffed, and closed her eyes tight, as she forced composure onto her face, as the last line came to her silently, within her thoughts: Death is moving upon my soul.

It was several long minutes still until she stood. Double that time until she actually looked up to the sky, and finally back to her escort. Of all of them, it was her brother who had walked down the small ridge, and approached her.

“Are you alright?”

Her brown eyes upon his were the only answer her brother needed.

“I’ve seen that look,” Bertie said, with the careful tone most men reserved for statements such as, ‘oh, fuck.’

“I’m going to kill them.”

By now Dennet had likewise made the short trek down to Vittoria, Ryam behind him, Garin behind him, and William Marston lagging back further. Her brother, her brother by battle, her cousin, the man whose fate was tied closely to her own, and the weapon of destruction Vittoria had found herself closer to than any of them had any right to in the days following the battle.

They should have been enough to calm her.

But nothing was calming her now. “OVER A FUCKING MARRIAGE. I WILL RIP THEIR FUCKING RED KEEP DOWN UPON THEIR FUCKING VALYRIAN HEADS!!”

Bertie blinked, before looking back to Dennet and Ryam: both shrugged. At least Dennet tried something else, “Girl, you just saved their Kingdom.”

Vittoria screamed; guttural, pained, incensed.

Dennet nodded, and stepped back next to Ryam. When Dennet looked at him, Ryam shook his head, quietly. Nope. Not me. Both men looked back at Garin, who just stared at Vittoria, blankly. His thoughts doubtless on his wife, his children, and the future.

There was a pause and it seemed as though Garin might say something but then he shook his head slightly and turned away, perhaps in embarrassment or maybe he simply had seen that kind of rage and sorrow before. None would blame Garin for not galloping in the clutches of the raging dragon that was Vittoria Tyrell in this moment.

“GET THEM MARCHING TO KING’S LANDING!”

The order came hot, angry, and utterly unnecessary. Of course, they wanted to tell her, the host was already on the move. Had been, as Lord Theo had seen to before resigning himself to stay in the Reach and allow the High Marshall to command the march on King’s Landing. Lord Theo believed Vittoria was going to secure the city and keep the peace.

What would Vittoria actually do was worth wondering as they all quietly walked back to their mounts, except the weapon. The silent, hard, Knight never moved from his spot just down off the ridge, the farthest back watched as brother, brother in battle, cousin, and Garin marched past him to their horses.

William was ready for the storm. Unlike the rest of them, when Vittoria went to stomp past him, his hand went out and stopped her, gauntleted hand firm on her arm. Her head snapped up at him, but his gaze held firm. “This is unlike you, my Lady.”

“I’m tired of burying good men for BAD REASONS.” The Vittoria Tyrell that they knew was gone. “This is KILLING the good parts of me. I feel so unafraid. I feel like I am slipping away…” she leaned in closer to him, to whisper to him with a hushed rage, the type of which had never taken her tone before, “I will devour them,” her body literally shook with anger as she stressed the whisper of the word.

“Go on,” William said, but not to her, to the men behind him, back up the ridge, and on their mounts.

“…go on?...who is this?” Bertrand Tyrell blinked at Dennet and Ryam.

Dennet sighed, “It’s the weapon that won the battle for his Lord Commander. Come on. We’ll stay close enough.”

Garin nodded slowly, though he never took his eyes of Marston. “It’s as he says, Ser Bertrand. Marston is a great many things but he can be trusted to keep his word. He’s too arrogant to be a traitor.” He said.

Vittoria felt the rage broil inside her and without thinking she tried to wrench her arm free from William’s grip. Suddenly her body jerked back as William shoved her away, gently, for him. She screamed at him, her brown eyes as big as the pain in her heart.

“I am a child of House Tyrell and I could have your head and more for such a felony against my person.” She spat.

William allowed the ghost of a smile to grace his cold features.

“Such rage is beneath one of your standing, Lord Commander. I’d expect that from a footsoldier who found his favorite whore with a friend but not you.”

She didn’t think, she just rushed the man. Her world was a tumble of sky and hot dirt as she found herself, quickly, on the ground, her head bumped and her breath completely taken from her body. He never worried when she grabbed his ankle, it was just something women did in defiance, and it wasn’t until he saw one of her legs snake behind his own that he realized what she was doing.

By then it was too late.

His weight and size worked against him as her legs scissored his just below the knees and took him to the ground. He hit hard, but she never expected him to recover so quickly, nor did she imagine just how heavy he was going to be as he landed his weight on her upper body, pinned her to the dirt, his hands quickly taking her forearms, and squeezing enough to make her howl; in pain, in anger, or worse.

“I COULD END THEIR DYNASTY! I CAN BRING THOSE FUCKING REPTILES TO HEEL!”

He shook her, once, harder than he ever could have imagined handling the High Marshall of the Reach. Hard enough to jerk her head, to slam her back into the dirt below, to rob her of breath once again to completely silence her, save for the sound of gasping in pain.
Then, with seemingly no effort whatsoever, Marston had lifted his armored bulk from the ground and her with him. His gauntlet closed around her collar and he lifted her not quite off the ground.

Now his famous battle fury framed his own whisper, his face darkening, his blank eyes full of an emotional state he never seemed to show anyone, “Yes, I believe you could. I believe of all the people in Creation, you alone could do that. You could turn the Seven Kingdoms into a battlefield of blood and fire, and you would stand over it, victorious in the end…how many men would it kill? How many boys? How many women? How many children? How . . . how many squires?”

Vittoria gasped, sharp, at the word ‘squires’—not because of the word, itself, but because of the intensity of his grip as he said it, his own anger and loss bleeding through his actions as much as it did his words in that moment. Her brown eyes drowned in tears, in part because now she understood why he used the word ‘squires’.. He hurt her, shocked her, and left her sobbing into him as the dream of vengeance on the House of Targaryen faded away from her, leaving only sorrow of the dead once more. “I’ve become a monster, William. I will let you down.”

“You alone can determine who you are and what you will be . . . and that is far more than most can say.” William seemed to almost say that last bit to himself.

His hand opened and he lowered her back the ground.

“Lord Commander, we will await your instruction.” He bowed and turned then.

Vittoria ran a hand through her hair and shook her head as William walked away, never looking back. For all the care he showed, the entire incident might have never happened. Who knew? Perhaps the killer in the form of a knight really did view things that way. A highborn lady would never do something so lowly as to lose her composure, so William would undoubtedly view his world accordingly.

“You would have made a fine Lord Paramount, all coldness and practicality.” Vittoria said to herself and then regretted it.
If Marston heard her whispered remark as he walked away, he gave no sign. And Vittoria felt a stir of pity for the hulking brute. She had to wonder what kind of father, and mother, could give rise to such a man? If he’d ever had anything like parents. Or maybe he’d been dredged up the darkest depths of the hells, forged into the armor he never seemed to go anywhere without, given a sword and told ‘kill.’

I hope and pray there’s a far kinder end for you than what I think awaits, William Marston. The world cannot hold very many such as you. Else you’d kill us all, I suspect. Vittoria shook himself from her reverie.

She was a Highborn lady, like it or not and as such, there were certain things expected of her.

She rejoined the small party where they waited. They mounted up and the the ride back to camp seemed to be one of the longest of Vittoria’s life. On some level, she supposed she should have burned with shame and self-loathing but in truth she was too tired to care about any of it.

Garin rode up next to her, the little Sand Steed mare he rode seemed to dance under him like an ocean wave in the sun.

“I once made the mistake of crying in front of my father, when I was very young.” He said, softly enough that only she could hear.

“Well . . . you’re a child of a great house and so are your peers. I think you understand.” Garin’s eyes still scanned their surroundings but he was far away in that moment.

“But for all that he was a cold, heartless bastard, he taught me one thing.”

Vittoria didn’t and couldn’t meet Garin’s eyes.

“What did he teach you?” She was pleased at how close to normal her voice came out.

“That anyone can give vent to what they feel but very few ever act beyond. Now, the man who pushes on? The one whose heart has calmed again and can look at his desires in the cold light of day and still acts? That is a man to fear.” Garin smiled gently.

Vittoria nodded shortly. “I think your father was right.”

“First time for everything.” Garin smirked.

The comment wasn’t that funny in and of itself but something about the whole situation and the way the mercenary said it....

Vittoria laughed and laughed.


Name: Carolina 'Yanci' Cabrillo
Age: 30s
Title: Vice President of Creative Development, Warner Brothers

Biography:

Hollywood wunderkind, producer/director/writer who moved into the Seven Circles of Hell that is executive leadership. Despite being one of Hollywood's Most Powerful People, despite having a peaceful and happy (if somewhat empty) personal life, something isn't right. Dreams keep Carolina awake at night, dreams of hell on Earth, dreams of a desperate push to save the world. Dreams of an angel with black hair, black eyes, and the brightest smile.

'Vampyre: the End Times' is a screenplay that Carolina wrote in a single weekend, like it just poured out of her subconscious and onto the screen. She almost did nothing with it until a Director friend, Matty, read it and declared he had to make the project come to life. Something about it, he said, just spoke to parts of him that he didn't even know existed. He even suggested a change to the title, one that he can't explain the source of:

'Vampyre: Gehenna'
Epilogue RP to a decade long series of V:tM RPs.
<Snipped quote by Ruby>

I be there. No see this. ):


You don't see the Discord link?
<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

All g. I’d like to join in post-holiday.


Jump in the Discord. Duh. :)
Lovely posts, Estylwen, some really great lines in the three posts I read.

I read because...I am getting tagged in them. lol I don't mind, don't change a thing, just wanted to say good stuff!


Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach
Ser William Marston
Garin Sands, Captain

Though the dust from the battle had begun to settle, the cloying stench of ruptured organs and the piled corpses of the slain was already rising. The oppressive heat would only make it worse. But Vittoria had planned for that. Teams of camp followers and soldiers were already moving to dig the wide trenches that would serve as mass graves for the fallen soldiers of the Faith. Women and men toiled under the sun’s unrelenting fury, their faces shrouded by cloth masks as they broke the parched ground with picks and spades.

Beyond the sound of horses and hurried commands, there was a low and distant sound on the oven-like breeze. The quiet moans and sobs of those who still clung to life or simply hadn’t finished dying.

Vittoria stood in her stirrups and tried to ignore the dull ache in her joints and hands. The tough little mare she’d chosen, munched contentedly on the dry grass, heedless or perhaps inured to the death and pain around.

Her infantry and knights had reformed and dressed their lines. Though her men were tired from the battle, they still had strength enough to hold the line at least longer. Garin’s scouts and the main body of his cavalry were already at work, setting pickets, patrolling beyond her forces, securing the enemy camp and harrying any survivors.

All was . . . not well, thousands of men had just fallen at her command. But things were in order. She ran a hand through her dusty hair and forced her tired mind to think over whether or not she was forgetting anything.

The battle was scarcely over, when essengers began to arrive almost instantly. Lord Theo congratulated her and asked her to see him as soon as she could. She read the scrawl of ink and parchment, barely big enough to hold with two hands, five times…the contents of it never did give way to the power of her gaze, remaining the same as it been when it arrived in her hands from the messenger.

It said nothing about the Faith’s camp. It said nothing about Rowan or Oakheart. Garin Sand’s last missive had little else. The enemy camp and baggage train had been taken, the few Faith servants who’d survived the massacre were being pursued. Her response was loud and deflating; the kind of sigh that came from the depth of one’s gut and slow rumbled its way out of their lips with exasperation.

“…we’re not done, are we?”

The question came from a man with a tone of pain. It wasn’t until the second messenger in quick measure, producing the second missive from the commander of their van, that her mood visibly perked: Davos and his people were only minorly injured. Smiling, she responded to the exhausted sworn shield and cousin of her’s, Ser Ryam, “…no, I don’t think we are.”

The third messenger came, presented his tightly rolled parchment, and left with the urgency of a man worried about his brothers. It was a small reminder that the fighting was still playing out. That danger was still in the air for some of those under her banners. The message made her blink: Ser Morgan Hightower has been taken prisoner.

The world around them was brown and gray, with all colors but blood red. long dead. Even that was already turning black in the summer heat. Another sigh came, smaller, silent, her own kind of prayer in that field of dead. That was when the fourth messenger arrived from the dust and death, a man-at-arms sent from Ser William Marston, the cold-eyed killer who’d held the bridge for her. The disheveled soldier dropped to his knees before her, breathless and gasping for air.

Ser Ryam was suddenly not so exhausted, stepping his horse between the man-at-arms and the High Marshall, but Vittoria placed a hand on his armored shoulder, with a gentle smile. There wasn’t any fear left for her this day. As she leaned from the saddle to take the message, a flash of light off metal caught her eye.

In the distance, she could see Garin Sand’s banner held aloft . . . and the head of whatever poor unfortunate who hadn't run fast enough from the Dothraki warrior who held it. Garin raised his spear in salute as he drew closer. Though he was covered in dust, she saw the easy set to his shoulders and the jauntiness in the way he rode. All must be well then. Suddenly her body didn’t ache so much, and her head felt clearer than ever. She felt as if she could glow.

Vittoria Tyrell felt powerful again. “Tell me.”

“Ser William Marston bade me give you his compliments and to tell you that he has captured a Septon in the field—”Anyone, Vittoria prayed, but—“a Septon Pater. North and east from here.”

Before the name was even out of his mouth she was turning her horse and shouting for her bodyguard to follow her. Ryam was already turning in his saddle to call for his remount. Her hand touched his left shoulder, as she smiled at him, “Thank you. Rest, Ser Ryam. You have done all that I could ask.”

The capacity of Creation for tragedy and pain became the landscape, thick with dust, highlighted in drying blood and rotting flesh and smashed brains. Bile, entrails, vomit—there was every smell contained within men as fragrance of the thick air. Vittoria had hated every battlefield she had ever had to be on.

As she drew closer to Garin, she pointed to the north-east. “If you will ride with me, Captain?”

Garin nodded and the small column of riders he had with him, turned to follow their captain.

“My scouts report that they’ve found only stragglers, the camp is taken and some of your own footmen have already crossed the bridge to go and stand guard there. Lord Theo has sent his men to inventory the baggage train. As for my cavalry, we’ll keep up the pursuit through the night.

“But there’s very little left of the enemy.”

Garin’s voice was raspy from barking orders and dust, sweat had ran down from his helm, through the dust that caked his lined features. His eyes were red and puffy from stress and exhaustion, no doubt his body ached under his armor. But he still rode tall and proud. Then again, he could not afford to show weakness before the kind of mercenaries he commanded.

Vittoria nodded as she blinked her red-rimmed eyes and tried to think through the fog in her brain.

“So you’ve taken the baggage train and the bulk of your cavalry are still in play. You’ve done a great feat of arms here, Garin. It will not be forgotten.”

Sands nodded, no doubt he understood, she couldn’t make promises. But at least Vittoria had recognized the importance of dividing the loot from the baggage train.

Fighting her own Reachmen, fighting the Faith…she had never hated a battlefield more. She had a won battle that many an experienced commander would have found a challenge. But it held no glory for her. Any thoughts of honor and victory were overshadowed by the empty gazes of the dead and sobs of the wounded.

If it were possible to spare the day one more tragedy? She rode quicker than she should have, her little mare moving over the rough ground with the grace of a dancer. There was still some fighting northward, where Northern mercenaries were said to appear—from where, at the expense of what accounts, she was still dying to learn.

Well, regardless of their intentions, her army was deployed and ready for them. If nothing, a show force was sometimes a good idea.

The ground rose before a quick dip in the spot beside a small stream now choked with dead and blood and worse, down the small slope and across that stream Vittoria Tyrell found the men she sought:

“SER WILLIAM!”

It was before they came within earshot, next to Ser William, that Septon Pater spoke in wry tones as he heard that voice and saw the distant figure of the Lord Commander ahorse, “…you’ve done it now, Ser. Both the Mother and the Warrior, entwined, come to judge us, now.”

William turned to regard the Septon with the blank stare of his gore-spattered great helm. If the heat discomfited him under his armor, he showed no sign.

“It seems to me, priest, that the judgment has already been passed.”

Despite himself, the old Septon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. In the same way a man might give pause when having rounded a bend in the trail, to come across an angry bear.

Pater had met such men before. Indeed, more than one old Septon had been a knight in his younger days. He glanced at the carnage around them and counted himself lucky that the hulking knight beside him had seen his bloodlust slaked. If Lady Vittoria was the Warrior and the Mother, then Marston had been the merciless Stranger at this bridge.

He watched as his menacing captor stood in his stirrups and waved his newly acquired lance at the approaching cavalcade. Pater knew little of knighthood but he knew enough to realize Marston was a warrior with great strength and a brutal drive for combat that few men ever experienced. He felt respect for the young knight but there was pity in his old eyes as well.

In his experience, men like that were rarely happy unless they were fighting. Usually they would fall in battle. Or they lived long enough to look back on the life they’d led and begin to wonder what it had all been for. Pater wasn’t sure which fate was crueler.

“Tell me, Ser. Was the death at this bridge all your doing?”

William turned again and his helm moved slowly from side to side. “No, some of those Essossi,” he waved a gauntleted hand at the approaching horsemen, “feathered a few of the ones on the eastern bank.”

Pater nodded gently. “Still, Ser. You showed great bravery today.”

William’s pauldrons clanked as he shrugged.

“He does the most, who is worth the most.” He said, the sound distorted behind his helm.

Vittoria was staring both men down as she approached, as Garin and Ryam took to looking around their surroundings intently and dismounted without a word said. Pater took the opening and ran with it, beginning to explain even before her booted feet hit the dust and dirt and blood of the battleground. “I struck out to find you before this…” Pater paused, but only for a heartbeat, “fine Knight found me and graciously did me no harm.”

“You thought you might be a threat to Ser William?”

Pater stuttered, “Well, uh, um…no, I suppose not, just the grace that I was not immediately thrashed upon discovery from the Knight of the Bridge.”

Vittoria looked past Pater, to William, “…still getting your strength back?” She asked, as if there could be no other reasoning behind why William left Septon Pater unbruised. It was dry, battlefield, humor—the real reason was what she had first alluded to, that Pater had been no threat, so he suffered no harm.

“He told me he knew you. I decided to wait . . . if he was lying I was going to hold his ankles and bounce his head off the bridge.” William said.

There was a long pause and Vittoria made a note that Marston had very little in the way of a sense of humor. Well, or at least anything that she would have considered amusing.

“I would offer my congratulations on your victory, High Marshall…but I’m sorry, Vittoria, I’m sure this day was no happy day” Pater offered the girl he had helped mentor to womanhood.

Her nostrils flared. Deep within the chasm of her spirit, she was as heartbroken as she was absolutely furious…and it was a fury with focus. With intent. Instead of showing it, Vittoria smiled brightly at the man, “Congratulations are in order for you as well, Pater.”

The Septon blinked, the look in his eyes shifting as suddenly as if he’d just realized he were standing on quicksand, “Oh?”

“You will be good for the Realm, your High Holi—”

“—the High Septon lives, Vittoria, it’s—”

Her head dipped to the left, just-so, in as close to a shrug as she’d allow, “Not for long. The Most Devout accompanied the Faith Militant’s host not because of holy purpose, Pater, let us be clear: You didn’t want to burn to death from Maegor’s dragonfire.”

“The High Septon must be chosen, fairly, as a decision from the whole of the Most Devout, you know this.”

Pater looked at her as if he were lost. Or perhaps, as if he did not recognize the young woman before him. He’d seen nearly every side and facet of her being that existed over the long years, but he’d never seen here, like this…he’d never met the High Marshall of the Reach in the aftermath of battle.

When she turned to him, she squared completely, her eyes numb, her body still high on the supply of victory, on the fact that nothing stood between King’s Landing and her…nothing. The tone that followed her dull gaze gave the Septon chills, “The Most Devout allowed this. Men that followed me, loved me…are dead, Pater. Children not yet the age of a grown man died in that dust today, Pater…I KILLED MY OWN REACHMEN, I ORDERED THE ASSAULT ON THE BANNER OF THE SEVEN, MY GODS!”

Even Ryam and Garin had stopped being alert, instead turning in their saddles to stare: by the time she was done speaking, she had been screaming. The careful façade had broken, and the rage, the anguish, had been left bare…even if for one fleeting moment. Her hands busied themselves shoving hair behind her shoulders and ears, her red lips parted as she breathed deep, slow, breaths until her composure returned.

“I have committed sins on this day that I will never be able to atone for…fine,” she said the word like most men spat, something she wanted out of her mouth, now, “Fine, this is my burden. I will bear it…but I will make this day WORTH this burden, Pater.”

He said nothing as he stood there, staring, his inner turmoil plan on his face as her pain was on her face. “Garin, take Pater with you, round up as many of the Most Devout as we can…hiding in their camp? Hiding in the surrounding areas?”

She had asked, turning from Garin, back to Pater, in time to watch Pater nod, and sigh, “Most of us did not ‘hide’, we waited, and we prayed. You will find them in a few of the largest pavilions in our camp.”

Garin smirked, his reverence for the divine was real but he had only contempt for the Septons of the Seven.

Vittoria turned back to Pater, looking him straight in the eyes as she issued her orders.

“Garin, I want them rounded up and escorted into the biggest pavilion they have. Surround it with your most trusted men,” her head snapped back to Pater as her seething rage poured out of her, “the Most Devout will choose a new High Septon. When you have been selected, Pater, it will be over. Until then you will all stay in that pavilion.”

“Vittoria—” his protest began.

She appeared to ignore it, “If a member of the Most Devout tries to leave…fill them with arrows.” Then, only then, did she address the Septon’s protest, “Let us not pretend the Most Devout have never selected a High Septon they were instructed to select, Pater, I know the history as well as any Septon.”

Garin grinned mirthlessly. “Better than that, my boys are itching for sport. I’ll let them draw and quarter any man who tries to escape.”

“You would kill us if we leave? Vittoria…are you hearing yourself?” It was in disbelief that Pater nearly chuckled.

“Today will NEVER happen again, Pater.”

Pater opened his mouth again and then Marston’s gauntleted hand clasped the back of his neck.

“You live only because the High Marshal wishes it and I let you live because I deemed there’s little honor in killing you.

“But do not test me or the Lord Commander again. You and your ilk can bend the knee and obey . . . or be made to.” Martson’s voice was as cold and hard as the steel he was clad in.

Pater stood stock still in shock and growing fear. He gazed up at Vittoria in mute appeal but in her bloodshot eyes, he only saw the same cold ruthlessness of the soldiers beside her.



Lady Vittoria Tyrell, High Marshall of the Reach

At his insistence of ‘laying it on’ thickly, Vittoria just stared with her soft brown eyes, long brown hair waving in the breeze behind her armored shoulders. In truth, she had no idea what he meant. Instead, she turned her back and addressed her sworn shield, Ser Ryam, “Let’s bring up a horse for the man, Ser? One of their own will do.”

Garin’s men hadn’t let all the horses of the Faith Militant just run off. One of them would be brought up, as they had no spares of their own. None of their own had been wounded, let alone fell in the skirmish of the old oak. When she turned back to the priest, there was no real change of expression, no break of warmth except for the courtesy of a smile, “Of course,” she said, motioning for some of the mounted men who remained close by to come in and cut him down.

At his introduction she went through her mind, to see if there was any recall of him—she’d met so many people during her hosted triumph in Volantis, and so many red priests and priestesses, so many cryptic introductions, so many mysteries presented to her, as if she had some grand place in a great design for creation.

Like she was something more than a girl who liked to read, liked sweetcakes, and liked attending service at the Sept in Highgarden with her friends and family. To this day, she felt little different than that girl…except for the weight she felt upon her shoulders now. A weight that had nothing to do with the armor she wore. She was there to offer him a hand after he was cut loose, as Ser Ryam approached with the horse for him, Vittoria decided she didn’t recall him.

“One thing battle has taught me that no priest or septon ever mentioned, Kian: every god has a twisted sense of humor.”

Her own mare was brought to her, a wince of pain as she pulled herself back up to the saddle, before nodding to Garin and Ser Ryam, looking over her good shoulder to the Priest, “Shout if you have trouble keeping up,” the grin barely kept from her lips before she snapped reins and led the way back to camp, and before any more straggling Faith Militant showed up to make the day more interesting than she would liked.


Vaera Balaerys, dragonrider
Lyman Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock

The North Silver Street Counting House; too many paths led here for her to ignore it any longer. Vaera didn’t bother hiding who she was—the eyes in Lannisport were everywhere, and they were all eager for every detail of every ‘strange’ thing they saw. A Valyrian woman wearing light armor and armed? That would count as strange nearly everywhere in Creation that Vaera dared travel.

There were two men present, one old, one younger. She knew their names because she’d already heard them come up in tales and retellings many times before, Darwyn was the elder, Heath the younger. Both knew what Vaera needed to know was the impression she got as she stood outside the counting house, waiting for the right time.

The right time seemed to find her. “Awful business, Lady Vaera.”

“I’m not a fucking Lady, and who are you?”

Her lavender eyes squinted at the sight. There was something not right about the man. He was middling height, barely taller than she was, and thin. His clothes stank, his matted grey hair stank, and his teeth were nearly Lannister yellow as he smiled at her. In short, he was disgusting. It was a sharp smile, the kind that hid daggers behind it, with beady little dark eyes that just seemed to know something Vaera did not.

Her head turned this way and that, her body going from leaning against the inn across from the counting house to standing upright and ready for the fight. He just…sighed at her, “I have served the Kingdom of the Rock.”

“There is no more Kingdom of the Rock, so what do you serve now?”

His smile twisted, “My Princess, of course,” his voice was wrong. It had the weight of a renowned mummer, the sophistication of Volantis old money, and the sharpness of a cunning mind. None of that should have been coming out of a stinking peasant in the streets of Lannisport.

“…you’re one of her spies.”

When she saw the glimmer of the steel of the thin dancer’s blade produced from his rags, she nearly pulled her own blade…something stilled her hand, something told her not to, “She’s not dead. Her brother wants to find her.”

“Her fool brother caused this.”

She wanted to laugh, because she agreed, except Vaera didn’t mean that brother, “Lord Lyman.”

That seemed to stop the spy. “A good lad, that one.”

She heard her heart beating in her ears, as her sword hand kept firm but not overly tight, like any good sword fighter. If he moved, she’d have one chance to parry, and only one. She could not act late, she could not hesitate, she could not misread his body…or she’d be in real trouble. “He seems like the only sane member of the family, but I never met her…what’s your name?”

His lips formed to grin, as his blade nearly made her draw as it moved, a flourishing motion that simply moved the blade from pointed at her, to pointed skyward, and tightly close to his chest as his body went to full height.

He was taller than she thought, his posture manipulating the perception of his height to her eyes. She’d been fooled by old mummer’s tricks. It was bitter, but it wasn’t nearly as bitter as dying at the hands of a man in stinking rags. “Prince Lyman and Princess Lorelai are worthy offspring of the late King and Queen, indeed.”

Are, he said, and her mind snatched the word, “You know she’s alive.”

It wasn’t a question. Vaera’s instincts told her this mystery man knew more than anyone else did in the entire Westerlands. “I am Eustace, Lady Vaera of House Balaerys.”

“I’m not a fucking Lady,” she repeated, flatter, duller than before, but just as quickly and instinctively as she had the first time—her body still facing him from the side, her hand still ready to draw Valyrian steel in a beat of her heart, her knees still ever-so-slightly bent and ready to move.

He laughed at her, like he was some Lordling having a go at an old mate, “You must permit me this honorific for you, it would be most unsuitable for a servant of the King of the Rock to be improper.”

Vaera Balaerys cocked a brow at the strangest spy she’d ever seen. He’s fucking mad. Something Vhandyr once told her about madness and great sparked in memory in the back of her mind, and took her chance, “Fine. So nice to meet you, Eustace. Where is she? I know you know. Just like I know you know who really tried to kill her.”

“Mm, I’ll admit my propensity for private matters, Lady Vaera,” he giggled at her.

Vaera’s brow furrowed and her mind doubled back: …did he giggle at me? “I’m not here to hurt her. If you think Lyman will want to help her, please, Eustace, tell me where she is.”

He spun on a heel as graceful as any dancer she’d ever seen, and by the time his face turned to her view, the steel was gone, and the man stood at an impressive full height, as he gave a small bow to her, “Seek only the Admiralty House, Lady Vaera, a lad by the name of Konrad. Do tell him I sent you.”

The moment he turned the corner, her eyes darted in every direction to see who had seen what, to see who else might be lurking, to ensure there wasn’t another spy waiting for her back with dagger in hand. To her horror…there was no one. No one to witness, just an empty Lannisport North Silver Street. She felt like a fool as her breath left her lips heavy, burdened, in relief.

“I hate this place.”

Konrad was a lad, truly, at maybe ten years of age at the most. Yet the child became possessed with character and wisdom thrice his age the moment Vaera dropped the name Eustace upon him. The story came as quickly as Vaera could ask the questions. Where did she go? On a ship headed north, to Bear Island. How long ago? Before the sun rose on the night her uncle tried to kill her. By now she’d been at Bear Island for days. Why hadn’t she gone to Lyman? She couldn’t risk endangering him, and she’d lost faith in Loreon.

She’d offered him gold in thanks, but the boy instantly returned, and he laughed at her before running off. In her shock, she could only repeat herself: “I hate this place.”

Her return to Casterly Rock was tense, though more because of what she didn't see than what she did see: none of Loreon's people were to be seen. Moreover, what she did see were various Westerland Lords coming and going, like they wouldn't have just a day ago. Something had changed, and that something was fairly plain the moment the household guard delivered her to Lyman.

To her surprise, Loreon was there with Lyman in a private gallery, Loreon was seated and sullen, Lyman was relaxed and sipping wine from a golden goblet. There were no Esossi anywhere to be seen. There was no Red Lady. Most notably, however, was the great sword Brightroar laid before Lyman Lannister on the long narrow table in the gallery in which he sat at it's center, his older brother on a stool on one end. Before she could ask, Lyman explained it: the men with his brother were sent back to Essos, with their red woman. Loreon would be allowed to follow them, leaving Lyman Lannister as Lord of the Rock.

“I will be providing the Princess with an escort to anywhere of her choosing. She will want to burn her fallen brother in dragonfire, and so be it. She has a fortnight to pick her destination. You will have just as long to pick your next destination, Lady Vaera.”

Just this once, she actually wished she could have stopped herself, “I’m not a Lady, Lord Lyman.”

Flatly, he drank, before answering, “No, you are not, but I am still hopeful you have been successful?”

Vaera heard herself retell it all. At the mention of the spy that she lied and said he renamed nameless, Lyman just blinked at her. At the idea that the truth of his sister was veiled in the walls of the Admiralty House…he did not seem to be surprised at all. At the mention of her final destination, and the reasons why she kept it all secret, the sharpness of his green-eyed gaze was all the acknowledgement he would offer.

It was as if the youngest Lannister was cut from gold, himself, cold and unmoving like one of the golden statues in the gallery all around, “You have served House Lannister well, Vaera. You may request your payment as you see fit.”

For a reason she couldn’t place, something deep inside her suspected this would be the last time she saw Loreon Lannister. “Good luck, Loreon.” He returned it to her, his tone low, his appearance in the moment…tragic to her eyes, even if the tragedy was of his own making. Even before she left the room she knew where she’d go.

The Lonely Light. Then north—to Bear Island.
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