Raid

Homestead

It tastes like Karachi, Miraj thinks, his eyes still closed, but his mouth open as he breaths in the briny air. He smells the rot of fish stuck of the beach, unable to shimmy their way back into the ocean before the tide went out. He wonders if it smells like fish, the animals on the beach will look like fish? Or do all dying things, no matter how many light years away, all smell the same? He thinks about genetically modified animals. No matter what hide they have, once stripped of their skin, their meat is still red and bloody with yellow-white pockets of fat.

Hamir’s smile is the first thing he sees when he looks up from his seat in the drop ship. And despite Miraj’s toes being sticky from his companion’s throw-up, he smiles back and begins to laugh. Uday chortles along maybe for the same reason or maybe a different reasons. Miraj isn’t quiet sure if he’s laughing for any other reason but to laugh. The herders tease each other for a few moments as the rest of the occupants file out into the bright day, encouraged by sunlight and fresh air. Only when they’re the last ones, do they hoist on their packs and leave, the oldest going out first. Uday complains about the humidity, saying his joints can’t handle the stifling pressure. Hamir and he begin to bicker about respecting elders.

Miraj listens to what English he can pick up, his eyes shaded by the brim of his ghutra. Some talk about splitting into groups, others kick at ground. The dark sand is fertile enough for a field of purple and yellow flowers to bloom in. He revels in the soft, warm feeling as grains of sand trickle between his toes. He will need shoes when bushwhacking, but for now, to be barefoot was like taking off his sandals and walking into the cool clay of his home in Pakistan.

Besides him, a husband and wife stand to the side holding hands and staring into the crowd. They make no attempt to join. Miraj frowns and looks towards the rest of the crowd. Clusters of people have begun to form, collections of two or three, with their backs to each other. Only a group of twelve or so were in the drop ship and yet divisions were already being created. He steps away from Uday and Hamir. The older man calls after him, but he walks towards the woman with the mechanical arm, purposely shouldering his way through individual discussions. They need one goal not several.

“Which way is water?” he asks as he approaches. “If we have landed so close, animals would go hiding for a few moments.” He pauses, trying to remember the correct term, “Those who stalk—prey on other animals—they will the first to come back.” Miraj’s eyes drop to her arm, his face a smear of brown and red reflecting back at him. “Tergus verber*,” he elaborates, his hands moving as he speaks, “Those types of animals.” If his wife knew how weak his English had become, she would laugh and ask how a man like him was able to woo a English Muslim such as herself at the university.

(*Tergus Verber)

Homestead

Also, can I give random latin names to the some of the known animals? I don't know if you already have names for them or not, wonderlandalli.

Homestead

how many people are in each drop ship? Estimate-wise. I just didn't want to make that call, really. xP

A Crown of Bones

Brand, I trust you. You seem like you've got a handle on this.

Azathoth, rough. Good luck rooting out the program! Depending on your software, it should be a pretty easy fix, though.

A Crown of Bones

I love time skips. They are beautiful things.

A Crown of Bones

not gunna lie, super tempted to make a second character just for the sake of being able to join both storylines!

Homestead

Wonderlandalli,
--->"sandbox style games"
This, I have no idea what it means. O_o

Marx, feel better, man, nothing is worse than being sick/out-of-commission (in my opinion).

A Crown of Bones

Ferronian Outpost

---

The retainer of the slave wagon is a mercenary from a tribe beyond the mountains. She is thick and short and wears the fur of several animals over her stout body. Resting across her lap is an ax dotted with rust. The retainer’s bottom lip protrudes out and over the upper one. Fearsome and humorous at once, she became the next target of the game “what-creature-are-they” played between mother and son.

Fennick tugs at a loose string on his mother’s torn sleeve as he sits on her lap and contemplates the task set to him. As any four year old, he takes his time considering the important task of assigning a person their creature.

“A Rougarou,” he says, his eyes the color of a storm cloud’s shadow.

“A Rougarou? Truly?” Elisa whispers. She feigns a shiver and clutches her son closer. “Best keep a watch on her.”

Fennick smiles, his lips thinning out across his face. They are blue. “But maybe she’s a Dobhar-chu!” His breath steams out of his mouth. Elisa is grateful to be stuck in the middle of the wagon as rain water drips through the oiled linen. The body’s of slaves mashed together, elbows grinding against another, adds some warmth. She did not try to strike up conversation with her neighbors as Fennick was prone to. He cries when they shout at him to shut up, but he still tries to talk to them—like now. “Do you think she’s a Rougarou or a Dobhar-chu?”

The man beside them is naked, but his belly sags over his lap creating an illusion of decency. Elisa keeps her eyes on the top of her son’s head, stroking the hair at the base of his neck and twirling it between her fingers.

“Don’t care that much as long as she just stays over there and not bothers me,” the man says. He speaks with a sailor’s lisp and nostalgia settles in her throat. Elisa coughs to clear it away. She has no room for such thoughts of salty air and lightning storms over the ocean.

Fennick nods at the sailor as if understanding before twisting in his mother’s lap to press his hand against her stomach. “What do you think, not-born?” he asks. Elisa holds his legs down to keep from him pitching backwards and on to the wagon floor as the caravan lumbers through the water-swollen road. He sighs and rests his ear where his hand was, as if trying to hear what the baby is saying. A woman across from them shuffles and crouches between the two parallel benches to relieve herself on the wagon floor. The slavers have already made it clear they would not be stopped for one person to piss. A man with a bloody scalp in the last wagon testifies to that. (Though, Elisa supposes with the rain, most of the blood would have washed away by now.)

“Mother,” Fennick grabs onto her damp, curling hair as the wagon lurches to a stop. “Not-born says he never heard the story of the Rougarou, and he’d asked I tell it, but I told him you tell it best and I said I’d ask if you’d tell it to him.” He looks up at her. Elisa’s not sure if he took after Gillian or her yet, but those eyes are Blackwater eyes.

“I do think a story is overd—”

“Alright, come on now,” shouts a soldier. He frowns into the wagon as the slaves stare out from shadows the same color as the bruises around their ankles from the shackles. “Welcome to Ferros, you sorry lot of bark-slugs.”

Fennick gasps and whispers, “They have bark-slugs here, too?”

But Elisa doesn’t answer; she pushes her son behind her in line to exit the wagon. He grabs onto the back of her threadbare dress, falling into the routine his mother taught him. Unlike the other slaves, he is not shackled, but he still wears the same bronze collar as every slave. Elisa did not have an explanation for it and has distracted him with other stories (like the dragons of the Mountains and the demon bear of Mor’du). She knows the ignorance will not last.

The soldier glares at her bulging stomach and commands the Gorgon sailor to help Elisa down. The torch in the soldier’s hand hisses.

“Come now, Fennick, best you ride on my back, now,” she says, stepping closer to the edge of the wagon. Mud swirls between her bare feet. Her son grins and clambers on, pressing his heels into his mother’s stomach. She grunts, but keeps moving to avoid possible retribution for holding up the line. For Fennick, it is all a grand adventure. Elisa looks to the fifth wagon. None of the slaves were being unloaded from that one. She thinks of the man with the bloodied head. Perhaps, she’ll make a story about him? After all, he blocked the blow from the slavers that was meant for Fennick when he cried about not being able to piss in front of the other slaves. The chain on Elisa’s ankle tugs her forward. She does not look back. She focuses on the grays and browns of the outpost before her as to distract from the whiteness of the Gorgon sailor’s ass.

Homestead

I'm mostly posting here because no one else has these last few days...

A Crown of Bones

Dx
my post is coming. I promise...though, I think I might continue to manipulate what's going on if that's cool with you Brand. I don't how/where the other Ferros-centered characters are introducing themselves so I'm just gunna have fun with my post. :)
(you have been warned.)