Atalanta

The Sunday Group

I imagine Mal and Jaelle are going to be in trouble if the baddies get back, especially if Mal is hurt. I think their next step should be getting the Petersons somewhere safe. I'm excited to read the club scene for sure! Then maybe exploring the mysterious dirt road.

A Thousand Legends ~ Sundered Veil (At Capacity)

It's here!!!!!

The Sunday Group

One of the strangest things about being a wraith was how real Jaelle still felt. When she touched her skin, it felt as warm and alive as it always had. She moved as she used to, breathed as she used to, and when the destroyer of worlds erupted in the center of a back-water gas station, her stomach dropped just like a living person’s might.

Got she hoped Mal had killed them. And not killed himself in the process.

“What was that?” If possible, Debbie Peterson’s voice had doubled in pitch, and her face had gone deathly pale. She reached out as if to grip Jaelle’s arm, but Jaelle stepped back before the other woman realized she wasn’t actually all there. “Were those men terrorists?!”

“I didn’t even see the bomb!” Liam Peterson said.

Jaelle held up her hands. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll just—“

A spray of gunfire interrupted her, and Jaelle went cold. Mal hadn’t killed them. How was that possible? Nothing could have survived that blast. Nothing. Unless someone else was shooting. Had the police come back? Were they firing on Mal cause they didn’t understand?

Liam pulled his wife down—the most sensible thing either of them had done recently. Jaelle copied the movement as though there was any chance that a stray bullet might actually hurt her. From the road behind them, the sound of squealing tires pierced the thick, Louisiana air, and Debbie looked more horrified by this than anything that had happened so far. “They’re getting away?!”

“We don’t know that,” Jaelle said. “That might have been back up arriving. I’ll go check. You two stay here. You are now important witnesses and your testimony is vital for your country. If you call yourselves patriots, you’ll protect that information by laying low.”

A bit theatrical, perhaps, but Jaelle had half-learned English through Netflix.

It seemed to work for Liam. He gave her a stalwart nod, and Jaelle had to give it to Eleanor. There was magic in a sharp blouse. Something that made you look like you knew what you were doing.

“Alright. I’ll return soon.”

As soon as she was out of sight, Jaelle ran, blurring through trees rather than bothering to go around them. She hit the washed-out concrete in half the time it had taken her to get the Petersons away, once again invisible to the mortal eye. The lot was a wreck. Debris lay everywhere, a rainbow of garish advertising beneath shattered glass, cinderblock, and burning insulation. It smelled horrible.

The black car was still there, one of its tires blown out so that it sagged, lopsided onto a steel wheel. A still corpse lay against one of the pumps, its head gone but the rest of the body untouched. It was male and entirely hairless.

Jaelle couldn’t bring herself to look into the gas station where she had last seen Mal. Couldn’t bring herself to check if his body was still whole or if he had impaled himself on debris from his own explosion.

Compared to that horror, to the return of existing alone while she slowly lost herself to the degradation of mind that awaited a soul without a body, dealing with the corpse was easy. When Jaelle was born, some few hundred years before the current day, people had not been so good at hiding death. They died more often, for one. No more fragile but much worse equipped to deal with the uncertainties of illness and injury. There was not the same availability of chemical preservatives, and families of the Roma cared for the bodies of their deceased.
Jaelle was no stranger to the bodies of the dead.

She crouched down beside it, looking for tattoos or sigils or other identifying marks. There was nothing on his skin that she could make out, but something odd shined from his mangled neck. Silver ichor dripped from wire flashing that seemed to disappear into his spine where nerves ought to have been according to the seventh-grade anatomy home-school course that she’d watched on Youtube. More nodes mixed in the pulverized contents of his skull, a soup of grey matter and machine. Jaelle turned away, reeling. If she could have vomited just then, she would have, but she hadn’t eaten in three centuries.

That left only Mal. Hidden in the remains of the gas station. She was going to have to go in there. There was no one else.

The thing that made feeling real so incredibly odd was that nothing else ever did. The flames still licking around the gas station's ruined entrance did not warm her, and the hanging metal beams did not cut or bar her way. Jaelle moved through it all, this endless dreamland of her not-life, looking for the person who had rescued her from the void.

“Mal! I swear to GOD if you’re dead, I’m going to find your spirit and kill you!” She wouldn’t, really. But still, it was the principle of the thing. “Mal!!!”

The Sunday Group

You got it! :)

The Sunday Group

@Penny Dang I was really hoping to find a Ghostbusters cover on Hurdy Gurdy but no luck

It could have been her theme song XD

The Sunday Group

Obviously XD

Jaelle could theoretically have phones mounted in useful places. “Hey, Siri? Call the Boss.”

O R I F L A M M E

R I G E V A N D

Interacting with Svend, Queen Astrid, Inga, and Snorri @Force and Fury

---

What an odd turn my life has taken.

I thought, at first, that slipping into Eskand on behalf of the king would be no different than any other mission I have taken, but I was wrong. This is one of the strangest endeavors I have ever agreed to complete, and though I am young, that’s still worth something. I have stolen into many a keep and castle, both in Parrence and in our nearest neighbors.

My life has, for the most part, been solitary. There were friends in my youngest years, before the nuns gave me to the Black order, and after, I had my teachers. In the half-decade since I began to take contracts in earnest, I have had fewer connections still— bright, lightning touches that go as fast as they arrive. The weeks spent with the army were welcome, but this is something entirely different. How is a party of two dozen foreigners supposed to be stealthy? Our mere existence attracts far too much attention, and while I have been silent in front of my companions, I am afraid of what might happen should we be noticed by the wrong people.

I think I will feel better tomorrow. Svend’s is a good plan, and while I will live closer to our enemies in the coming days, I will rest easier alone than in this group. I trust myself more than these strangers, Echeran bless them, even though they are faithful Quentists all.

This journal won’t be following me, of course. It is proof positive of my true purpose. If I don’t make it home, perhaps one of the others will survive long enough to pass this off to a Rezaindian convent. Or better yet, a Parrench loyalist who likes a strange tale and has an eye for ciphers.

Echeran keep me and all the other fools.

“Osanna, girl, are you coming?”

Osanna looked up from her journal and tossed it carelessly on the top of the pile of things that wouldn’t follow her into the capital of Eskand. It was morning still, the wan light barely penetrating the Parrench cave base. She stretched and pulled on her cloak, leaving her sheathed sword on the ground behind her.

“You’d better get used to calling me Ositha now. Wouldn’t want to mess up before the Queen.”

---

“I take no enjoyment in this pageantry,” Queen Astrid assured Jarl Bjørn of Alsfard, “but these little medallions mean much to the Quentists and one cannot be too careful these days.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied easily, though one very close to him might sense the tenseness in his bearing. “Your majesty is wise to take such precautions. Our enemy is insidious, and his false gods are wicked.” Svend - for that was his name in truth - had not yet stepped on the symbol of his faith, much as he had sneered at it. To do so was the act of an apostate.

“Step on it,” commanded Princess Inga, high-handedly. “Spit on it and step on it.” Her squeaky, girlish voice was even and distant, with properly royal airs, but it could not help but betray a hint of dark amusement.

“Truly, to cast doubt upon a Jarl who offers you a tribute in metals, a servant girl-” he gestured in Osanna’s direction “-and three knarrs filled with warriors for the glory of Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, and Visitor.” He scowled. “This is more, even, than unnecessary.”

Astrid shifted on her throne, then, somewhat intrigued for the first time. “No aspersions have been cast as to your loyalty, Jarl Alsfard. Please, do as my daughter requests before we continue.”

For a moment, Svend’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and one close enough may have been able to see the tightening of the muscles in the arm and shoulder attached to it. Then, he stepped forward nonchalantly and horked up a wad of spit. He let it fall onto the sacred hourglass of the Pentad. With an unbothered look, he stepped on his handiwork, adding a little twist in at the end and meeting the Queen’s eyes. “Now, may we talk business?”

“But of course,” replied the Queen, rising and stepping down to clasp his right hand between the both of hers. Her eyes passed briefly over Osanna. “Will this one be accompanying us?” she inquired.

Svend shook his head. “Ositha?” he remarked. “Only if your majesty wishes. This poor girl is yours to do with what you see fit, as a token of my loyalty and regard. She is Drudgunzean - Lindermen, I believe. One of my men rescued her from that vile place when they threatened her with death for keeping the true gods.” He shook his head. “She proved herself useful: an able cook and cleaner, particularly good with the older children, but I have too many servant girls already and too many men with wandering eyes.” He paused and met the Queen’s, something passing between them. “Besides, I am preparing to take my entire household with me to Parrence anyhow, for when we claim it. Don’t need more mouths to feed. I swear she is useful, though. I’d not insult your majesty with less.”

“I see,” replied Astrid, looking ‘Ositha’ over once more. “Girl,” she said, “Do you speak our tongue?”

“Yes, your majesty,” Osanna said in poorer Eskandr than Svend had heard her use before— stumbling, perhaps, to hide her Parrench accent. “I understand you.”

The moment that the Black Rezaindian had replied, however, Inga piped up, for Snorri had mostly been bored, fiddling with his chess set in a corner, playing against himself and stealing the occasional keen glance the way of the others. “Mother,” the girl said, “should not she also complete the ritual if she is to be ours?”

Before the Queen could agree with her daughter, Osanna stomped over the symbol. She hawked a wad of spit and scuffed the heels of her boots on the hourglass that represented everything she’d dedicated her life to. Svend thought she looked like she was enjoying herself.

“That will do,” the Queen said dryly, and Osanna bowed again, standing behind Svend with due servitude.

"You must really hate them," sympathized Inga, trying to keep the slight skip from her step as she came up beside her mother. "For what they did to you." She shook her head. "I bet you wanted to—"

She was cut off abruptly as her mother clapped a hand shut. With a slightly resentful glance the Queen's way, Inga curtsied and forced a smile. "I would've killed them," she murmured under her breath, prompting a sharp look.

"The fires of youth are not easily quenched," observed Svend, for want of something more meaningful to say, but he pivoted quickly. "And so it is with my men, your majesty. Many are young. They were kept back from the first wave by doting mothers and grandfathers. They are eager to win glory for their names and for our people."

"Yes," Astrid replied, "yes, I imagine they are." Her smile was very much like her daughter's. "This is, of course, a matter that we should speak of." She brought her hands together twice in a clap. "Inga," she called and, then, craning her neck, "Snorri!"

The girl stood at attention; fear of Mother drummed into her. The boy made one last move on the chessboard and stood as well. "Yes, mother?"

"Please show our new servant to the servants' quarters. Find an unused room for her and have the maids clean it." She turned to Svend. "Jarl Alsfard, what did you say were her skills again? I cannot recall."

"She is capable of anything you ask, my lady, but she was the children’s tutor in Avincian, Parrench, and some basic arithmetic. They were very fond of her."

Astrid switched to fluent Avincian without warning. “Ubi discis has linguas loqui?” She directed the question at Osanna, and Svend blinked, trying to hide his alarm at being left out of the conversation.

“Parentes mei mercatores fuerunt, Majestas Tua. Negotiaverunt Yasoi inter alios.”

“Ils devaient être des gens intéressants,” replied the queen, switching seamlessly to Parrench. “Peut-être vous révélerez-vous aussi intéressant qu'eux.”

Osanna’s shoulders slumped, and she allowed herself to stumble over the words. “J'espère que je serai à la hauteur, Votre Majesté. Mais j'aurais préféré les garder ici plus longtemps.”

“But of course,” replied Astrid, smiling in commiseration. “It is something that we all wish, but it is not our job to know the gods. We merely join the Visitor when he calls us to his table. Someday, we shall all be there and reunited with those that made the journey before. For now,” she concluded, changing pace and tone, “I bid you follow Inga and Snorri. They may or may not lead you to some interesting places.” She finished with the hint of a cheeky smile.

Osanna bowed again and followed after them. Svend felt a twinge of unease as his ally disappeared into the bowels of the keep, but then the Queen turned her attention back to him, and he gathered himself to speak.

---

Osanna followed the two royal children deeper into the Hall of Kings, her eyes on the tapestries lining the halls. They were all made of wool, many brightly dyed in rich reds, greens, and purples, though the oldest had faded. The subject was unerringly of war. Men and women raised weapons above their heads, their mouths open to scream war cries. Some called lightning to their grasp while others stood atop mounds of broken bodies.

What would it be like, she wondered, to grow up beneath the eyes of these figures? Would it be harder than dreaming of the Red Sisters or Parrench Knights? Inga was certainly bloodthirsty enough, though Snorri was harder to judge. Maybe they all felt the weight of their people’s giants.

“Are these your Æresvaktr?” she asked the children.

“Yes!” squealed Inga eagerly. “Well, some of them anyways. They have been around since the days of Fradje Ironshaper, you know.” The girl skipped ahead. “This one was Brynhild of the Mountain!” she exclaimed. “She was a princess like I am, but of a much smaller kingdom: Sturmreef. When the sea people ravaged it, she took her people that remained and brought them to Meldheim. There, she married the king and began a great dynasty, but she did not forget the blood that they owed her, and she returned, many years later, with a great army and ten legendary warriors in particular, and crushed the sea people.” Inga’s eyes glowed reverently. “Thus, our dynasty was founded, Sturmreef was joined as an under-kingdom, and our oldest enemies crushed. They have never risen up since.”

Snorri, for his part, was quiet. While his sister regaled the new adult with sagas, he all-but rolled his eyes, careful to do so when Inga wasn’t looking.

Osanna cocked her head, watching them both. Inga was an easy mark— it did not take a sage to know the duties of a princess in any kingdom, and she seemed more interested in battle than suitors. Osanna thought she’d befriend Inga by encouraging her passions, maybe by telling tales of other warrior women. She could teach the girl a little bit of fighting, but that likely wouldn’t ingratiate her with the Queen. Just stories for now then, and if Inga asked, she’d show her how to hold a knife. Even the daughter of a merchant clan might know that much.

As for the boy… well he certainly wasn’t as enthralled by the heroes as his sister. She’d need a different approach, but perhaps not while his sister might overhear. He seemed to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Is Brynhild of the Mountain your favorite story?” They turned down a dimmer, less decorated hallway— the way to the servant’s quarters, Osanna assumed. She updated her growing mental map of the Hall of Kings accordingly. “Or are there many brave princesses in your history?”

“She is so grand because she is the first, and many are her exploits,” exclaimed Inga, eager to share. “But she was more than just a warrior. Father says that anybody who excels in life must be more than just one thing.”

Snorri perked up and interjected with something almost like interest. “The wearing of many hats, it is called.”

“Yes, yes that,” replied Inga, one part thankful and two dismissive. “She was victorious not only in battle but in marriage as well and at the negotiation table. Those victories are less glorious, perhaps, but every bit as important.” She paused. “That’s what father and mother both say.”

“Which father and mother?” inquired Snorri, tilting his head, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Ours, or the Gods?”

“Oughtn’t it be both? Father tells us to be dutiful, and Mother loves homebuilders. And, of course, your parents wish for a strong kingdom for you and your descendants.”

Snorri grinned, somewhat ruefully, but with a hidden eagerness, like he’d found a new playmate.

“See, Snorri, she just handled one of your ‘clever’ questions,” crowed Inga. They were a good ways down the hall now, and the children stopped to ask an older maid where the free rooms were. Surprisingly casual around the royals, she directed them to a couple near the end of the hallway and offered to lead them there. “That won’t be necessary,” Inga replied. “I’m certain you have much else to attend to.”

So it was that they showed ‘Ositha’ to her room. Inga seemed much occupied with getting her settled in. She commanded Snorri to ‘wait aside’ as this was ‘a woman’s room’. His expression could best be described as long-suffering, and he kicked at a ball of lint on the floor idly, brow furrowed after a few moments, as it often seemed to be. “I suspect we’ll be seeing more of you,” he said after a few moments had passed, and Inga was busy complaining about the state of the cobwebs in the rafters and batting at them with her nascent Force magic. “Mother probably has it in mind that you’re to tutor us in Parrench and Avincian.”

Inga’s face screwed up in a sneer. “Why should we have to learn that vile tongue?” she growled. “I do not understand it.”

Snorri looked like he had more to say, but he shrugged. “If mother commands it, we do it.”

Osanna glanced between them. “It can only aid you to know your enemies. We think and speak and act through language. Knowing how they use it can teach you something of what they are.”

“Yes,” huffed Inga, her face perfunctorily pensive for a second, “I suppose so. Anyhow…” she gave Osanna her attention more fully and, with a slight inclination of her head, started moving. “I have much to attend to. Be well here. I look forward to meeting again soon.” She paused in the doorway. “Come, Snorri.”

The boy, however, was staring up at the rafters, where shafts of golden light filtered through a couple of drafty windows and dust sparkled in their grasp. He only twisted briefly to glance his sister’s way. “I think I shall remain for a bit so that I may learn some before our lessons.”

Inga rolled her eyes and was gone. For a moment, Snorri was more or less still, but then he was a nine-year-old for once, scampering over to a small step-ladder and hopping up on it. “So,” he chirped, perched there. “Tell me all you know of Parrence.” He was curious, grinning in anticipation. “You have been there, correct?” He held up a hand to forestall anything. “And their gods, what do you know of them? Why do they believe in false gods so forcefully?” The boy lowered his hand and blinked, waiting for an answer.

“I’ve been there,” Osanna said, and to give herself time to think, she looked around the room. It was a simple space, furnished with a bed, stool, chamberpot, and chest. A small table opposite the bed held a wash basin, but no pitcher— they hadn’t been expecting her after all. She opened the chest and began to shake out bed clothes to make the bed, her mind whirling.

It would be easy to accidentally give too much information. Osanna knew Parrence more than most people who lived there, thanks to years of work in many of its cities and holdings. If she failed in her mission, she didn’t want to leave the young royal with too much information on her people, and even more than that, she did not want to give herself away. A merchant’s daughter would only know so much.

“I know that their land is lush and warm,”she said. “Acres and acres of it are full of crops—wheat and barley and vegetables. What livestock I saw was fat and the city of Solenne was stuffed with people who had money to spend. As for their gods, I don’t know. We all believe in gods, don’t we? Even the Yasoi. I think, perhaps, the Parrench’s wealth has given them the idea that they are more blessed than the rest of us and can so take what they please.”

“In truth,” admitted Snorri, “I am somewhat intrigued by their gods - to study, of course, as one might study an enemy to learn his weaknesses. It is truly ten that they have, but they make as if the ten are five.”

Osanna scrunched up her nose as though she did not know that much about them, and did not particularly want to know more. “How do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Snorri, hopping down from his perch. “I just feel like their whole way of doing things is based on lying really convincingly. Father says that’s a skill too: one that Eskandr aren’t very good at.”

“I’d like to hear—” Osanna breathed in sharply at the sudden invisible pinch behind her ear, worry coiling in her gut like poison. She had not experienced one of Maud’s summons before, though she had been warned ahead of time of what the sensation might be like. Something was happening to the others back in the fishing village below, and the words she’d written in her journal that morning came rushing back to her with no small amount of anxiety.

Of course, Osanna could not leave her position. To do so now would only risk Svend and everything they had planned. She would continue as though nothing had changed for now, and try to take some comfort in knowing that so long as Queen Astrid believed their ruse, she was safe.

It did not, in truth, make her feel any better. There was so much at stake here, and not least among them were the lives of Osanna’s allies. Echeran would take them when he pleased, this much she knew and accepted, but she hoped that time had not yet come.

Osanna looked down to see Snorri’s eyes upon her, and she gave him a secret sort of smile like they were co-conspirators—two quiet, thoughtful people in a big loud world. He smiled back almost reflexively but tilted his head quizzically after a moment. “Are you alright?” he inquired. “You started just now.”

“I’m fine. It must have been a draft.” She dusted off the front of her borrowed dress and hung her cloak on a hook placed near the door, likely for that purpose. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on those liars, but let me get settled in first. I’m sure I’ll see you soon for lessons.”

Snorri seemed to have a bit of antsy energy now, as one might expect from a child his age. He rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to the heels. “It is a bit drafty in here,” he replied noncommittally. “I suppose I should let you see to that.” He scowled thoughtfully for a moment, but it evaporated, and he managed a final smile. “I look forward to our lessons.” With little else in the way of formality or pleasantries, he scampered out of the room, remembering to close the door behind himself.

After he left, Osanna took a breath to settle herself and rebraided her hair back from her face so she’d look neat and clean. She was a servant in a new household, after all, and it wouldn’t do to make a bad impression with the rest of the help. There was plenty to learn from gossiping maids.

In short…

Osanna and Svend go to the Hall of Kings, where Svend gives Osanna to the royal family as a servant named Ositha, along with “a tribute in metals and three knarrs filled with warriors for the glory of Father.” Once in, “Ositha” begins to slip into her role as a language tutor by befriending the royal children.

The Sunday Group

“Get down!”

Jaelle needn’t have bothered. Mrs. Peterson was already kneeling, one hand grasped her husband’s waistband, and her other held her up, shaking against the dirty linoleum floor. Liam grunted with each strike of the door, his face flushed. They both looked so pale.

It was times like these when Jaelle felt the most useless. She couldn’t pick up a key, couldn’t help Mal fight off the attackers. No action she took could directly affect the outside world unless it was through influencing someone that could affect the world. So, what options did that leave her?

She could change her appearance— make herself look like something impressive or frightening, but somehow she didn’t think that tactic would work on these men. They were too cold, too unflinching in their attack on Mal. She watched him use magic both defensively and in attack, but neither of the suits blinked. Jaelle’s heartbeat surged in intangible fury; it felt real enough to her.

Mal needed help, and she couldn’t do anything.

The door gave, and Liam Peterson tumbled through it in a spray of limbs. Jaelle turned with them, taking in the shelves and cleaning supplies, and most importantly, the emergency exit. “Through that door!” she hissed. “Get out and head for the tree line! We’ll be right behind you.”

Blue fire began to encircle Mal’s hands, and Jaelle blanched. This was about to get messy—the sort of messy that led to too many questions about strange powers and otherworldly destruction. She hoped he could keep it contained to this space, but just in case Mal couldn’t, Jaelle scrambled for an alternative to the destroyer of worlds.

She ducked into the hallway, waited for the emergency door’s clanging alarm, and then forced herself into a different shape—herself but male, her hair buzzed, her shoulders broader, and her legs longer. She flickered a moment, trying to solidify the deception, but it was difficult to force herself into this different of a shape. By the time she managed it, the spell was nearly ready.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Jaelle leveled an incorporeal gun with steady incorporeal hands at the nearest of the attackers. He promptly shot through her.

Well, so much for that idea.

Jaelle turned and ran back through the hall, letting the illusion fade with the same relief as someone carrying too much weight might put down their burden. It would be up to Mal unless—please God— they got some help. By the time she reached the Petersons, Jaelle looked herself again.

She waved them on, directing them into the woods behind the backcountry gas station. Hopefully, the fear and adrenaline would keep them from noticing that she didn’t disturb the shrubs they passed.

O R I F L A M M E

R I G E V A N D

Interacting with Nettle @A Lowly Wretch

---

On the morning of their departure, Osanna waved goodbye to the red sisters in camp, tied a black ribbon around Dame Sabine Dupont’s scabbard, and headed to the city gates. This would not be her first time in Eskand. Osanna’s work had taken her into the Quentic areas of Drudgunze for months at a time, and on occasion, the northernmost reaches of the enemy’s lands. She was grateful to those trips now, for the practice in Eskand’s language, though she was well aware she didn’t speak it like a native.

Because she’d only visited Eskand through Drudgunze, this would be Osanna’s first sea voyage. She looked forward to it from descriptions in stories and the mouths of sailors. They called the sea a tempting mistress— unpredictable in her moods, but beautiful. Osanna could just see the red of a sun sinking below a watery horizon, feel the playful lapping of wind through her hair. Even Sabine called it “bracing” and she under exaggerated everything.

Osanna didn’t experience any of that.

She spent the voyage hanging over the ship’s rail, spilling bile into rolling water. Salt caked her lips and hair, and if someone spied her from the murk, she did not see them.

When the Parrench landed in Eskand, Osanna was one of the last to rise. She scraped herself off the bottom off the ship’s deck with pale fingers, several pounds lighter now than when she’d left. Never had she experienced anything so miserable as the sea, and she found herself dreading the return—stuck in a strange land with that misery her only way home.

The fishing village of Rigevand was a gray place in twilight. The black mass of Eskand’s capital darkened the sky above rock facades. The village was little more than a collection of longhouses and a few scraggly docks. Even the land was dull, lacking the green they’d left behind. Yet Osanna blessed the dock’s soft, salt-eaten wood as her feet came to rest upon it even if the world still seemed to sway.

She’d ended up at the end of their little party next to a slim girl. She had a wealth of green hair tucked into a rich brown cloak, and her boots seemed several sizes too big. Osanna remembered her, vaguely, from between bouts of sickness. She’d stuck with the tethered girl in the bow during the journey, but now that Maud was at the front pretending to be ‘Captain’ Gerard’s daughter, she looked very young and very lost.

Osanna smiled at her even as she stumbled, trying to re-find her balance. “How’re you holding up? I think I hate the sea.”

The overture didn’t elicit any response but confusion. Osanna looked away, her brow furrowed. From what she’d understood of this mission, everyone selected had distinguished themselves in the battle for something or another, so the girl was powerful or clever or both. It was possible that she was choosing not to respond out of dislike or temperament, but that felt unlikely, so the simplest reason was that she did not speak the language.

“Hello,” Osanna tried again in Drudgunzean, hoping that the girl didn’t speak anything further afield. “You look like you fared better on the journey than I did.” She smiled, to show she was laughing at herself.

---

Nettle herself looked up at the woman trying to engage her. Though a number of the crew had on occasion tried briefly in vain to speak with her there was no understanding of what they were saying. When the woman re-stated her words again in a language she could, albeit poorly, speak she still looked confused but at least the light of understanding could be seen in her eyes.

”Hhhm- mayh be?”

The woman cocked her head to the side, as though listening. “I’m Osanna. What’s your name? Have you been to Eskand before?”

The man at the docks waved them towards the village proper. Dark was falling in earnest now, the silhouette of the city in the distance disappearing into the sky. There was little light to see by other than torches at the end of the docks.

Though the environment darkened Nettle was no stranger to the dark, the swamps barely letting light through the canopy even on clear days. She was well accustomed to moving around in little lighting, getting by on more than just her eyes.

”Hh… HNettle ihs name. N-hh, I hhhave noht.”

“What do you think? I’ve never been this far into Eskand, but I suppose one shouldn't judge a kingdom by its fishing villages.”

“Ehhh…” Nettle looked around at the twilight lit silhouettes of the humble village and what buildings lie further off.

”Hhhit iss hh, villhadge? K-khhinghome? Hhhh… Hhit hhass p-perhsohnss… Ahnd b- bhoatss.” She was quite unsure of what to make of this place. It wasn’t much different from the fake caverns of the drudgunzeans or the parrancians for that matter. Not as tall as their ‘Castles’ as they call them but quite similar to the smaller places she’s seen along her brief travels.

“I guess by that logic it's pretty much the same. Ah well, we’ll get to see a lot more of it, if everything goes to plan. Of course, we’ll be burning it down, but, hey, got to enjoy it while you can.” Osanna smiled at her like she was telling a joke, though she kept her voice lowered as they slipped through the village. A couple of their designated captains stopped to talk to villagers from the largest longhouse.

”Hhhburn?” Nettle questioned, canting her head to the side. She didn’t quite know fully what she meant by that given the tone and the context. Was she being literal, was it a figure of speech? Who would want to set more fires? Aren’t those dangerous? She was starting to get worried. Well, more worried than she already was around man-beasts.

Osanna blinked, and she glanced around before speaking in a whisper. “Do you not know why we’re here?”

Nettle simply shook her head to indicate that she did not.

“You know that the Eskandr attacked Parrence. We did not completely win, so now they’re in the Parrench countryside. Some of our people are working to make them leave, but we’re here to save our friends taken as prisoners and to attack Eskand back. If we do enough damage, maybe they’ll come running back home, eh?”

”Hhhwe… Hsavhe friehndss ahnd fforhce Essskahndrhh t- to rheturnh?”

She asked to confirm if what she understood was correct. It made some sense, they needed to save the friends the other man-beasts took and then force them to return home. She wasn’t really clear on why fire was needed in any step of this process but rescuing their friends made sense.

“Precisely! I don’t think the others realized you don’t speak Parrench. But I’ll translate when we finally gather to decide what to do.”

Nettle simply nodded. While uncertainty was abound she couldn’t argue with the idea of rescuing the man-beasts these other ones captured. What else they had planned she did not know but at this point a lack of knowing what was happening around her seemed to be a perpetual state of things. One can miss the simplicities of life in the swamp once they realize it’s gone.

---

O S A N N A

It was sometime later that they reached Birger’s grotto, a cave tucked into the mountains near Rigevand. Osanna’s eyes felt tight and itchy, the torches swimming through her vision like fireflies trailing streams of light. She wanted nothing more to find some quiet, dark place and sleep for hours to make up for the long night and the miserable journey that had led up to it.

Instead, she followed the line of Parrench into the cave and gathered around the fire with the others of the inner circle, peering down at the map of the area. It matched others that she had studied before, though was crude and lacking in detail. Osanna yawned. What strange turns her life had taken lately—from a near-solitary existence as one of Echeran’s assassins, to fighting in battles and working as a team. It was different, but not entirely unwelcome. Constantly traveling alone got dull.

This next part, though, felt familiar.

”We’ve got a lot to do,” she said, first in Parrench and then in Drudgunzean. “But I think the worst thing we can do is go in blind. I volunteer to scout the most important targets unseen so that we can better put together a plan. In the meantime, we need to lay an escape route—traps, misdirections, anything to stop the Eskandr from following when it's time to get out of here. For those of you from this are, it might be useful to meet with any contacts that remain loyal, though only if you trust them with the fate of Parrence, and even then, don’t tell them why you’re here.

The Sunday Group

Jaelle was still standing in the camera room when the car pulled up. Even in the grainy, thumbnail image in the screen’s corner she could tell it was sleek, but after four years of navigating this world, she still couldn’t tell the cars apart other than ‘big’ or ‘small’ or ‘truck.’ Two men stepped out in black suits and sunglasses—not much different from Mal’s “The Authorities” disguise. They just looked like more law enforcement to her, but Mal must have sensed something because his mental shout was enough to rattle her intangible teeth.

Jaelle raced back to the front, taking in the sight of the female gas station owner reaching down for something behind the desk and Mrs. Peterson stepping closer to her husband. They wouldn’t have long before the men entered, but they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. One pointed at the parked cars, and they exchanged a few words.

Mal’s fixation on Sherlock Holmes aside, Jaelle had seen enough Law and Order to know that, in a situation like this, you were supposed to protect the witnesses.

She made herself visible, wearing her own image, but altered slightly, her Roma garb replaced by a copy of one of Eleanor’s blouse-and-skirt combos. The sort that gave the impression that she was the person you ought to trust to know what was going on. So as not to overly startle anyone, Jaelle slipped from around one of the aisles of snacks instead of simply appearing, and wore a smile that she hoped would put the Petersons at ease. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. For your safety, please come with me through the emergency exit while my colleague and the owner find out more about these visitors.”

The gas station owner glared at her. “Where the hell did you come from?” but Mrs. Peterson was well over her head. She seemed glad of any sort of direction.

“Come on, Liam. I think that’s an excellent idea.”

He dug his heels in. “We said we’d wait until—“

“Until the authorities came, yes. And it looks like they’re here.” Debbie Peterson hauled her protesting husband to the door where Jaelle stood and reached for the handle.

It didn’t turn.

The gas station owner cursed. “Here, I’ll get—“


The distorted electric bell chimed with the arrival of the two men. The one in the front took off his glasses, revealing warm, gold eyes set in a well-structured face. His skin was dark, and his hair buzzed nearly to his scalp. He looked at Mal, at the gas station owner, and finally toward Jaelle and the Petersons. He sighed and his partner, a shorter man with a wealth of curling blond hair, shrugged. “Told you we’d need a cleaner.”

Gold-eyes reached into his jacket and pulled out a silenced pistol.