Shienvien

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The first assumption had been accurate. The otherwise perfectly average storage space had been turned into a temporary holding cellar for the dead. All human, all armored. The usual faint mix of grains, fabric, maybe a bit of moisture and the vague hint of something molding was overshadowed by the distinct scent of blood. There was a heaviness to places like that that even Yanin could pick up on, at least when alone. Other people distracted from the impression, but just by himself... Eyes could see people, but there was no motion. There were bodies, but no warmth. There were others, but the only one you could hear was yourself.
He had no personal bonds to these specific individuals, and hence there was no sadness, no mourning, yet it felt wrong on a very primal level, and he didn't like it. The best he could have described it as was 'a distinct sense of he should not be here'.

But there were reasons to be here beyond checking if this area was currently safe. Four of the bodies down here were lined up neatly, three of them Fadewatchers. Yanin didn't touch the bodies, merely kneeling in front of them and observing for a handful of seconds. The fourth was quite unlike. Civilian? Someone off-duty? One of the targets of the attack? A passerby who intervened or a private guard? From the placement and care of positioning, it stood to reason it had been someone on 'their' side.
There didn't seem to be any distinct signs of magical or otherwise atypical method of attack - only injuries from regular old melee and ranged weapons. He could ask the minorly injured Fadewatcher upstairs for confirmation. It was a good idea to learn who - or what - you were up against, the sooner the better, especially if trouble were to make unexpected return.
Other dead had also been brought here, unceremoniously dumped into a pile of corpses. The other side of the equation. Six of them, once you tried to count the bodies and respective limbs, variably equipped and not discernibly marked. Common criminals wearing whatever armor and weapons they could loot or buy? The cheapest mercenaries someone could find? Unfortunately, the dead couldn't typically speak, only give some clues.
Anything else on them that might have indicated who they were and what they had wanted? If there were any obvious pouches or pockets to check, he would, otherwise...
Time to return among the living, at least for a bit. The living could often give answers faster.

Jordan Forthey

"Right; we will pay Lady Bor a visit once things have calmed down here," he replied to the notion of her men had attempted to lend their aid. As they had already intended to, before discovering the local division of Fadewatchers in figurative shambles... This was one seriously botched mess...
The girl took to recounting what she knew of Bren ... of a smiling, charitable man.
"He does seem kind. Can he do magic?" Jordan asked, even as a rather distinct couple on the street drew closer. Distinct, for they were a deigan couple, and in particular a true deigan - who were reasonably uncommon sight - and an ascended, no, ascended-true mixed-blood deigan, which was considerably more rare still.
From what little he knew of deigan culture, the fact that ascended deigan had done their best to genocide all of the true deigan race was one thing he was aware of, atop of many of them holding grudges for long and once adults, living unaging seemingly until something just took and killed them.
There was that, and also the fact that they appeared to be headed in their direction, rather than past them. The male eventually fell back, but the female continued forward, if anything only hastening her pace.
“You, Fadewatcher – forgive my brusqueness, but there isn’t time to dally. The injured appear to have been brought inside, yes? Are we in time?”
Another healer? She had the garb of Reina's follower, at least - and a rather tantalizing version of it, too - and appeared no more overtly armed than the previous woman who had made her way over. Would it really have been so long that someone had, magically or by rider, managed to summon healers from nearby settlements, too?
"Were you called-" Never mind. She seemed intent to push through, doing her best to look him in the eye as she proudly demonstrated two small vials in her hand, as if expecting him to immediately know what the fluid within did. She seemed genuine enough, and if this was a deception, it was the most blatant one he had seen to date. Jordan appeared slightly taken aback as he scrutinized her. "At least some of the injured, yes." He didn't know yet if any of Vela Bor's men were hurt or killed, and if so, whether they'd have been brought here or to the manor. "It had been hours before we got here not long ago. A surgeon from another down arrived just a couple minutes ago." She might have overheard enough to realize the local healer was missing in action, if whoever might have summoned her hadn't mentioned it already.
With this, he took a step back, keeping one eye on the newcomer and trying to see into the interior of the guardhouse over his shoulder with the other. There were two local Fadewatchers, one accompanying the surgeon kneeling next to one of the wounded, the other preparing something at the fireplace. Thankfully, his master made a reappearance from the basement, so Jordan referred to the Reina's follower and raised an eyebrow.
Sir Yanin looked at two of the occupied beds the surgeon was not at and shrugged. Barring any protests from the healthier local Fadewatchers, Jordan looked fully at the deigan woman and took a half-step to the side.
"I reckon you can go in," he noted, glancing back at the kids - and then the male deigan lurking behind.

Madara

Alas, no miracles occurred. Quietly and without much fuss, she tallied up the rest of the apparent injuries on the remaining four who were neither dead nor immediately dying, quietly half-asking them to let her look at them, half simply informing them that she was doing. Two slashing wounds, one hit to the head, two shattered bones (she didn't touch quite yet), missing fingers...
Slashes were comparatively easy to repair, though she might have to pull some tendons or muscle together - she could help them keep most of the function of their respective injured limbs - fingers could be sometimes sewn back - worked quite well with palanters, sometimes with humans, too - but not when they'd have been lost outside for hours, so it'd just be a matter of fixing the skin over the injury the best she could. Reassembling shattered bones was not her particular favourite, but she'll make do. Head injuries were the hardest to do much with, and most unpredictable the worst way possible. Scalp injuries bled a lot, but weren't overly dangerous, it was potential fractured skull and swelling she was worried about.
She'll fixing the injuries one by one, and afterwards seeing to additional medicine that could be drank with tea and actually getting them comfortable. They were still half in armor.
Most of her skill relied on physical reassembly and various chemicals derived from plants and creatures. If so desired, people could also seek magical healing to finish the job afterwards - aside of the most potent, radical forms of it, magical healing was complementary, not an equal or a substitute to surgery, nor was the latter only a means to make one survive for the first.
As a lot of what magical healing did was to mimic and accelerate natural healing, hence it was entirely possible to get a much worse result with magic alone - even leave someone unnecessarily crippled. On the opposite side, only cleaning and stitching flesh together still left a lot for time to mend. But bring the two together, reassembly first, a level of magical healing attainable for most people after? Everything clicked together. Everything was in its rightful place, the mage saved their energy, even divine taint was not much of an issue if you only had a hair-thin gap to bridge. Quick. Efficient.

Madara knelt next to one of the wounded - the one with a slashed shoulder - and wasted no time picking out things from her pouches - a larger bottle bottle, a spool of thread, fabric - a set of implements rolled in leather - that she inverted and tied to her upper left arm like a toolbelt of sorts -, two tiny bottles and three vials that she fitted alongside the implements, three needles, assorted bandages in their own smaller bag-within-a-bag, two small bags of herbs...
The multitude of tiny bottles and vials she carried were an art form onto itself. Of painkillers that worked on humans alone, she had five different kinds on her, not counting the very minor secondary or ternary effects of concoctions of other primary uses.
One of them could remove virtually all pain where it touched exposed internal tissue, but too much of it in blood and it could kill, mostly because it was also slightly paralytic for the hour or two it was effective. If someone drank it, it did barely anything at all unless they also had a terrible case of ulcers. A second kind was mostly supposed to be taken with food or drink, but it also made one inebriated and drowsy. And in much higher quantities than that still, it could make one's body forget how to breathe and have a heartbeat. A third one, consumed or applied directly, helped quite well against pain and inflammation and fever, but it also made much harder to stop bleeding. A fourth one removed pain and inflammation, and also left you clear-headed, but if someone took more than a drop for five kilograms of body weight they allegedly turned slightly yellow and died a slow, painful death that was particularly hard to stave off - after several days of feeling perfectly fine after. She had not confirmed the latter fact for herself, but nevertheless had a bit of a morbid professional curiosity in regards to who and at which cost had figured that specific quantity in particular out... The fifth one, when applied directly, would alleviate pain and leave a pleasant warm sensation, but was also significantly weaker than the others, hence being less useful against the kind of debilitating pain that could give you a heart attack. It also did nothing when eaten, besides tasting positively vile for just about any mammal out there.
And then you had to remember how those, and all others, interacted between themselves. There were definitely reasons why she didn't permit anyone touch her vials' and bottles' contents in their pure form. She could genuinely state that she had nothing with the primary purpose purpose of causing death, but medicine used wrongly was just as harmful. Then again, a bottle of strong alcohol could technically kill just as well, and that was something people had been drinking for fun for millennia.

"I can help fixing your shoulder and mute the pain - if you could try to hold still and lean forward a little," Madara informed the man, her natural melodic mezzosoprano quiet, calm, giving him a second to accept that she was there as she wet her hands with a small amount of liquid from the larger bottle before actually touching him and starting to unravel the bandage covering the site. The fluid evaporated almost instantly, though the lingering smell indicated some kind of spirits.
There was some kind of commotion by the door, but she just about barely spared the follower of Reina a glance. She spoke, though, one hand briefly relieving itself as the second held everything in place, motioning towards the one of the occupied beds hosting the man with the head injury, but immediately resuming its work.
"If you have Reina's mercy by your side - or very potent anti-inflammatories - lend your aid to him first." He was the one she felt she could do the least for, and was also the most uncertain about.

If prayers could indeed summon followers, Reina must have had quite the sense of humour.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

If it had, indeed, been hours, then it would explain why the streets seemed comparatively calm. Winter was coming and the crops didn't harvest themselves. Whether the kids were here because they wanted to be here or because their parents definitely didn't want them that far out of the village on that particular day was anyone's guess. He didn't think he wanted to explicitly ask if someone they knew was known to be injured or killed... It might come up, anyway, but still.
"Was anyone or anything else taken, besides the healer?" Or injured, or killed, atop of whatever poor Fadewatchers were there fast enough to try to intervene. "Or do you know of anyone who might know more of what happened? Besides our colleagues in there, I mean."
What manner of bandits would break in just to get the healer and no one else? Not riches or ... unless the particular healer was also the kind of herbalist that could make potent toxins and other substances of questionable legality, or someone had a personal qualm of some kind against her. If it was a matter of one of the bandits own needing a healer, surely they would have tried to make them come with more peacefully ... unless they'd tried to, and failed spectacularly?
A girl piped up, mentioning that "Bren" - presumably the healer - was nice.
"Ah? What are they like?" Might learn something, might not... But in any case, it would be awkward to stand in silence and stare at a number of upset yet anticipant kids until Sir Yanin decided he would be better used elsewhere or dismissed to do whatever.

Madara (and Sir Yanin Glade)

Evidently satisfied that there didn't seem to be any threats or items amiss on the ground floor of the guardhouse - if the dead and wounded could be counted as "not amiss", and in the absence of a second floor above (they'd have seen if there was anything notable on the roof), he seemed to intent on giving the lower floor the exact same kind of see-over, and headed downstairs to check everything there, too. Maybe he wasn't the most talkative sort, or just one who preferred to see everything for himself rather than take someone else's word.
(Bloody dragging marks? Had they taken the definite dead there? Caught someone?)

The quiet turned out to be the worst kind of quiet - not calm, not asleep, not even in shock or unconsciousness, but they apparently had ceased to be among them. Likely a while before she set foot inside. If they had breathed their last breath within her sight, maybe she could have attempted something, but it looked far beyond her - or any mundane's alone - ability already.
If she wanted, she could mostly tell how long it had been since someone died, from blood following gravity, from cooling of skin, from stiffness settling in, from natural breakdown laxing it, and finally putrefaction rotting the body. (Incidentally, an experienced butcher would, too. Perhaps not the stages of subsequent detrimental decay, but the initial states would be quite distinctly familiar.)
Gut wounds tended to be a bit of a wash even if she were there in time. At the end of the day, some parts of anatomy simply were significantly messier than others, and did no good inverted into the rest of the body. So all that could be done was to clean up things the best you could, bring out any anti-infection and anti-inflammatory stuff you had, and hope upon natural healing and pray to whatever gods bothered listening.
In a cruel twist to it all, unless one of the bigger blood-vessels in the area were also nicked, gut injuries also often took a long time to kill - hours, days even. Plenty of time to lie curled up in pain and contemplate your mortality while someone else scurried about to see if they could procure a very potent magical healer in time.
Femoral artery injuries were the exact opposite in many ways - you had to act fast, in many cases faster than it took to run a few hundred meters to fetch someone and back, but they were comparatively easy fix. You could hold off the bleeding enough with heavy pressure - enough pressure to leave deep bruises and hurt like burning iron pressed into one's flesh - but not with bandages. Simple bandages did almost nothing to stop that much blood.

If someone had known to ask, there might have yet been hope for this one.

"May Reina have mercy on you," she muttered under her breath, with her hand lightly on the dead man's shoulder. Or the Wanderer take good care of you, as the case might be; a human would have had to be steadfastly determined to not let go for more than a dozen minutes after the heart had stopped. Maybe a bit longer if freezing or drowning.
She wasn't the most devout follower, but many people had unwavering faith in their chosen deities' aid, and even so, it never hurt to ask, at least for things what were beyond what she could do. Maybe some days they were merciful, as they were supposed to be. Maybe they granted some of that mercy upon those she could help no more. And just maybe, they would give a second chance to someone who would otherwise have none.
There was a slight pause, perhaps of contemplation, or maybe to see if this day would be one of those miracles happened, Reina willing, but if nothing occurred, Madara moved on to whoever of the four downed seemed the next worst off. She was not finished here either way.
There was no need to say why she was moving on to those awake enough to pay attention to what she was doing, if they weren't aware of their fates already. Those who weren't well enough probably could do better without knowing just yet.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The kids were in no apparent hurry to leave, and the street remained bizarrely calm in stark contrast of the surge of rushing blood in his veins. Only when given distinct instructions did one on them speak up: “The bandits took our healer. There's no one to get.” Looked barely teenage - and on a normal day, he would probably be chastised for slacking off from picking potatoes. One could only hope that these kids weren't sticking around here because their parents or older siblings were Fadewatchers...
Sir Yanin tore the door open, ready to act if need be, but nothing burst forth. Jordan had reflexively taken a couple steps forward, half-turning his head, white-knuckle gripping his sword, yet his master didn't draw his, but rather seemed to merely assess the situation for a second or two.
Jordan released a breath and the hilt of his sword, and seemed to visibly relax a little, even as he continued to check the street every couple of seconds.
"Bandits?" he repeated, "Did any of you see what happened and how many there were, and where they went? Or if they are still in the area?" He should probably try not to ask all the possible checklist of questions at once and give them time to answer.
Someone - a young male voice - was now pleading inside the guardhouse, seemingly with Sir Yanin who had now moved to effortlessly fill the entirety of the left half of the double door. He couldn't exactly see past him, but there were definitely injured people in there.
"Eh, we are Fadewatchers, too, just usually in Brow's Nest, Etlon..." It probably made them as qualified as any other, since it seemed that the local Fadewatcher department was pretty much out of commission. There had to be something that could be done. If they didn't have a dedicated healer, then anyone who knew how to tie bandages in place would help. "Did- could anyone bring any supplies left behind? Or any bandages from surrounding houses with a few people who could help with tying them in place. Someone who has been a midwife, maybe? If it's reasonably safe, anyway." He was still saying too many things at once, wasn't he?
He sighed. "We can help you to find your healer, I hope." If said healer is alive, anyway.

Sir Yanin Glade

Nothing. For a second or two, Yanin remained in the cover of the door, gaze attempting to pierce into the comparatively dim interior. Just about, he made out that nearly everyone in the room was down, and the last one had been startled off from fumbling with one of them. Two strides closer, and he was in the doorway, continuing to survey the situation as his eyes adjusted.
“Please, no more!” plead the only Fadewatcher that seemed to have remained standing.
"I am not a foe," the knight replied, still with a tension in his voice and seemingly ready to draw his sword.
Slowly, as if expecting danger to be lurking under any bed, chair or table, he began, eyes more often than not drifting to the stairs, noting the position of any bit of furniture, and blood-splatter. It looked like the aftermath of a massacre. But not one that took place here. Had been long enough for someone to at least try to bandage the wounded. Why would they have just one witless Fadewatcher trying to take care of six wounded, a couple of which did not look so good...
"Is there anyone else in the building?"

Madara

She was not going to apologize for good hearing. Bandits? Kidnapping? Looked like the two swordsmen were rather late to the party. And it was particularly their healer that had gone missing. What a coincidence.
Brushing an imaginary mote off her shoulder, the half-palanter stepped out from behind the carriage she had been using as a makeshift cover.
"You sure did give me a bit of a start, there," she made a vague gesture at the sword at Jordan's hip he had been clutching at just moments ago, "but I should be able to help. I am Madara, a surgeon in my hometown." Among other things.
"Right, the young guy muttered, dubiously looking over her, but evidently deeming her trustworthy enough. "Sir, Is it safe in there?" he asked the door.
"This room seems to be," a different male voice - presumably the big guy in full armor - replied.
Taking it as permission to approach, Madara strode over to the door, much like the knight before her briefly stopping at the door to assess the situation and carefully fold back the sleeves of her tunic.
"I might still need those extra bandages," she noted to those behind her back, her natural tendency to gesture kicking in, as even while she was busy pinning her sleeve to her shoulder, she still managed to hold up a finger. "Would someone kindly light the fire and get some water boiling? And bring a light; my sight in dark is not poor, but I a nightwalker I am not."
By the time she was finished pinning her second sleeve up, she was done running her little preliminary triage and moved in after the knight - "I'm here to help," she would assure the frayed Fadewatcher, but only in passing -, first opting to take a closer look at the quiet ones.
Dying just happened to take too much energy for any to be left over for being noisy, so quiet was sometimes a bit more concerning. Some people were unfazed by nature, others were too shocked to do much, but yet others ... had no more do
left in them. It was those that needed help the fastest, if there was any help left to give.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

"This is the place?" inquired the voice of Jordan Forthey - a young guy atop a sorrel horse. In addition to the white linen shirt, grayish pants and brown boots any old peasant might wear, he had donned a slightly bleached blue-green gambeson and the cuirass, faulds and tassets a keen eye might recognize as being identical to many of those handed out to Fadewatchers, just without the tabard they typically displayed when on active duty, and leading along a bay pack mule that was nearly as big than the slight horse the guy himself rode on, and sturdier still.
"Yes," responded the other man, this one astride a large white gelding, about the length of a horse ahead. Not only did the other man seem much more blunt and laconic from the brief exchange, but he was also a much more imposing figure, both tall and fully armored - helmet and all - in a much better quality steel, clearly bearing the viper-and-falcon heraldics of a family of some note from Etlon.
"Looks ... smaller than I expected for a detour that long, I guess? I mean, not that I'd really have been in many estates besides the Glades' one." That one was more of a heavily guarded mansion, with a number of associated auxiliary buildings in the vicinity that directly belonged to the estate, and had their own workers employed by them. And then several dozen surrounding farm buildings in addition to those, scattered out among the fields. This one was more like a little village, buildings all neatly lined up against the road, with the manor just one of many on the same dirt street, just a little nicer, fenced in, and well, much bigger. "Sir," the young guy added after a pause, remembering that they were no longer alone on the road as some kid gawked at Sir Yanin Glade's big white "warhorse" and scurried off.
"Tareon is a warlord. Baroness Vela Bor is a retired adventurer." The statement was delivered matter-of-factly, as if this info alone was enough to explain everything. That was about par for the course for the young guy's master, who himself was not that much older under the helmet. Either he was arguing with someone, or particularly exited about something, or speaking just to fulfill a duty ... or you had to pry every single thing out of him separately.
Even the reasons for coming here in the first place were somewhat occluded. The most he could get out of his master was that there was something he needed to figure out ... and rather than show up at the Glades' mansion, where he was not bound to be welcomed (by his father, Sir Tareon Glade, anyway - Jordan thought Sir Jeran actually liked him, and the others either didn't care or just didn't want to piss Sir Tareon off), or try their luck with either of his older sisters in Zerul and Relimon, he might as well pay a visit to someone who was willing to invite them in. Granted, not them specifically, just any ... adventurer.
Not that Jordan would complain - they had pretty much taken a single day off from being guards or training for the past two years, so some change was nice. Now he could travel and train rather than patrol and train. It appeared training was not optional even on the move. Not that he'd be surprised after three years of what felt like disappointingly little progress, but ... his right shoulder still hurt from yesterday, for starters. And his left shin. And probably a few more places, though those were harder to tell over just muscles being sore from training and riding for so long alike.
"We will be stopping by the Fadewatcher Station before paying a visit to baroness Vela Bor," Sir Yanin suddenly interjected Jordan's mental recounting of every single place in his body that hurt. Did he decide that because he just happened to see the long wooden building with the sign of the Fadewatchers coming to sight, or?

Sir Yanin Glade

For the most part, he just wanted to know if this place had gone to shit just like everywhere else, legendary ex-adventurers or not. The roads were probably the least safe they had been in the last two decades and trustworthy men were too few, too far, or too weak to do enough about it. Not that he alone could do much about it, either, even if he didn't have his own personal demons and shortcomings to deal with.
Good memory, attentiveness, quick thinking and and outright extraordinary fighting ability were ultimately still limited. Very few actual problems consisted of armed humans conveniently lined up for mostly fair combat one or two at a time. Disease, toxins, being doused in oil and lit on fire, just blowing up the entire damn building, nonhumanoid threats, famine, total war, being ambushed while trying to sleep off exhaustion, pick your damn poison...
Politics were bullshit he could only figure out by watching people and their interactions for a long time, and then what? Who was going to listen a less favoured son of a minor noble? You could be a bloody mind-reader and expert negotiator and still someone figured out a way to remove you if they didn't like what you were advocating for.
It was always bastards like his father who found ways to stick around. No desire to be like that man. No ability, either. They, however, both knew that if the old Glade were to ever raise a sword against the Viper of Glades, he would die - and since killing him would have been too obvious, he was simply made unwelcome in his childhood home. He was worried about his oldest brother. Too nice of a guy to be allowed replace Tareon. Might have had something happen to him already if Manin hadn't just coincidentally gone and gotten himself killed first. His mother was not in a much better position. The others? Yanin guess they were less likely to be in the way for the time being.
All that aside, their colleagues were probably the closest thing to implicit allies they had, the couple family members who tolerated Yanin, and he didn't wish to drag into further mess if he could help it, notwithstanding. Even if they couldn't be as selective with whom they recruited as during better days ... it stood to reason that the odds were at the very least better than average.

The streets looked normal, if a bit empty, presumably because a lot of people were either in their respective workshops or out in the fields busy harvesting crops. A couple people glanced in their direction, but they always did. There had, indubitably, been a number of opportunistic odd folks going through coming through here ever since the open invitation went out, but in spite of that, they - or at the very least he - stood out enough.
Even so, his eyes behind the visor were constantly scanning the street, as if he were still on patrol. There was no reason trust this place - or any open area. And since he apparently lacked the innate ability of most people to simply know what anyone he was staring at felt unless they were expert at hiding it, the best he could do to make up for it was watch the people, too, and remember what they did.
There were no Fadewatchers in sight, not even as Prince, the knight's big white steed, came to a halt next to their building, impatiently huffing, stomping his hooves and shaking his head. A handful of kids were watching nearby, a few people were still on the street, there was no generalized panic, yet trouble was there before they had even arrived.
"Something is wrong," he stated, still trying to cover anything out of place in the broader vicinity, looking for anything else out of place in or near the adjacent houses, people who should not be there, watchers, ambush.
The horse danced around himself even as the man did so, making a nearly full turn before being urged behind around the corner into the year so that Yanin could dismount with a distinct clink of metal and loosely throw the reins around whichever object was closest. More for show rather than effect - Prince was quite capable of getting loose if something threatened him. Or biting off the ear of anyone who wasn't either Yanin himself or Jordan trying to touch their things.
Jordan followed suit. Yanin didn't particularly know yet if he would have been more useful on the ground or horseback, but...
"There is blood on the ground. Fresh." Red, semi-coagulated clumps of sludge left behind where the fluid could seep into soil and stone, not browned and flaking away. And there would usually be at least someone out at this hour. There wasn't. "Watch my back." Jordan was fumbling something, but dropped it to follow him back around the corner, to the double doors of the main entrance.
There had been some detective work in the past two years. Other things, you could fill in just by logic. Why was there blood outside? There didn't seem to be enough commotion for something dramatic - even a farmer injured by shrapnel while splitting rocks was bound to generate a spectacle in such a small place -, yet someone had gone in bleeding, or left bleeding.
Was there a distinct trail like someone shot or stabbed might leave? High marks of fresh, violent injury? Someone had said that if you lost half the blood in your body, you still had some chance of surviving. That was a lot of blood if it was distributed over a floor, even more so if it was a quantity that would definitely kill at least one person. Something else entirely? Acid? Acrid smoke? Anything but the scent and sight of blood itself?
As he neared the doors, faint sounds could be heard. Groans. Wails. There might not be enough time. The bloody fuck was going on in there? The voices were several. It kept feeling like the street was too peaceful for an overarching threat, for multiple someones to have escaped in while painting the ground. So what then? Something exploded in someone's face? People came in and attacked, with the last one stabbing whoever was in front of the door, dragging them in before anyone noticed, and neatly closing the door behind? Not enough time to analyze it properly when whatever was the cause could still be in there, continuing to do harm. He gritted his teeth, his right gauntleted hand wrapping around the handle of his sword so he could draw and parry with it in a single move. The left one grasped the handle of the door.
"Keep from line of sight of the door," he noted to Jordan, who side-stepped and turned just in time to see a woman in green tunic promptly slip behind a carriage across the street.
He'll be leaving the door between himself and whatever was inside for now. He was trying to listen keenly to whatever words might be possible to be made out from inside, but it didn't give an absolute guarantee whether the first one out would be a foe, an injured person trying to escape, or something else entirely. The door itself seemed strong enough to take a blast of some strength.

Jordan Forthey

Jordan looked from the carriage, to the kids on the street, to the surrounding houses, to sideways at Sir Yanin Glade and the ... muffled noise from behind the door. Even with just two or three seconds of hearing it, the... Well, he should probably get the civilians out of the way, just in case, he guessed. So much for vacation.
"Uh, kids? You should go," he instructed, loud and clear, if a tiny bit more shaken than he would have liked, his right hand straying near his hip in reflection to Sir Yanin even as his left vaguely motioned sideways, move along. "Go tell a healer to come here, I think we'll need one soon. Something ... not very nice is going on in there."
Next to him, Sir Yanin had moved in position behind the left side of the double door, skipping a beat - presumably to let the onlookers to actually scatter. They were both on the same side of the door, so his master was next to his left shoulder. A louder wail made the squire flinch.
"Actually, I think we might need several healers, if they're not all in there trying to help people already."

The wait was over. If the door was not locked or barred, Sir Yanin would tear it open as he stepped backwards, ready to face whatever was or wasn't inside.
Maybe it would all be for naught. Maybe it was all over and all that was indoors would be just a couple injured avid complainers, a healer that couldn't find fresh bandages or boiled water and a couple farmers who had seen what went down and were rather animatedly trying to convey its horrors. In which case they would have just opened the door a touch too aggressively, no harm done, they could all sigh a sigh of relief.
At worst ... well, they were as prepared as they could be in a dozen seconds.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Madara

The half-palanter looked out of place in the small shop of both furniture and assorted knick-knacks - a slender yet strong figure in an almost immaculate dark green tunic weaving through the cramped interior of the shop with an odd kind of meticulously rehearsed ease. Even with a backpack slung over her shoulders and apparently heavy pouches tied to her waist, there was nary a sliver of fabric brushing against the wares. Long, slender, spidery fingers tracked the items on display, the ends of her pointed and oddly glinting - perhaps lacquered, or at least oiled - fingernails almost, but not quite touching the surfaces of the more finely crafted pieces.
Always almost. Perhaps it was a generalized mutual respect towards craftsmanship in any form, for she herself was a seamstress and a seller of assorted special wares. She preferred if people weren't overly handsy with anything on display, either. No matter how much you washed yourself, skin was inherently a bit oily. Fabrics, paper, wood, they all soaked it up, just a little. And more expensive pieces could have hundreds of contemplators who didn't quite want to take the plunge.
It was perhaps in stark contrast, then, that the very same half-palanter was also a somewhat accomplished surgeon. Same general concept, she would say. Just messier. Much, much messier.

Madara had in technicality little use for furniture made so far from her little town - not that of the ordinary variety, anyway -, but there was little to peruse in this quaint little village with, indeed, less than a third the houses of her hometown and none of the benefits from the added trade and business due to the transit between Nemhim and Wenal city. Some market stalls, someone to fix your plough, a herbalist, a winery (for later, either to celebrate, or ... just because) this here carpentry store and, of course, the main aim for this detour.
Would anything come of that? Maybe, maybe not, but there was no do without try and you had to go out of the way if you wanted more supplies beyond what traveling merchants offered nigh free of additional effort (but not free of sometimes rather excessive monetary cost). The two she left behind could deal with that and anything else usually expected of her just fine.

The small figurines of prooga displayed next to chairs, spinning wheels and other utilitarian items seemed almost as removed from the place as she herself, all traces of the original event they were commemorating long gone, but as it appeared, not quite forgotten. Well, at least one in the village had been then and there. Someone had taken the time and effort to painstakingly carve even the hair on some of the wooden prooga. Idly, she wondered if the same hands had crafted the sign above the door.
How long had it been, now? Perhaps enough to be not quite as early in the morning. Palanters tended towards nocturnality and slept little. Humans ... not quite so. She wasn't entirely certain on which side penin fell, but heavily suspected that it was closer to the latter, especially in a village as human-oriented.
A politer time for unscheduled visits, it would be. Without further ado, the ever so uncanny woman slipped out without making a purchase, straightening her shoulders and preparing to brace herself. But ah, it was actually quite mild now, almost warm, quite unlike the earliest crack of dawn.
With long, measured strides, she headed down the street, fully intent on just making an appointment out of herself.

There were sparse people wandering on the streets, minding their own business, and she would have reached her destination just the same, too, if it weren't a small bit of something particular catching the front and center of her field of vision just as she was taking the right turn that would have led her straight to Bor Manor, necessitating a pause and a quick side-step onto the grounds of whichever villager just happened to have their house across the street from both the inn and the guardhouse, and behind a carriage parked there.
The tall, armored man approaching the Fadewatcher Station? He quite very definitely had a hand on his sword. A smaller guy - also armored, but resembling a Fadewatcher in his attire, albeit not bearing their tabard - was facing the street. Well, something was definitely happening, and it might just come to be that her services would be needed even before she got to where she was headed. Not that she'd be intervening just yet, oh no - she had no intentions of engaging in open combat with two professional-looking armored swordsmen with just teeth, nails and a dagger.
She could fight, if need be, but she was not a fighter, and it would be terribly unproductive if the only person in vicinity who knew how to attach a tendon to bone or sew a jugular back together before you bled out got her hand lopped off during the first stage of the conflict. It was only practical that she simply resolved to protect herself rather than rush headlong into ... whatever was actually about to go down in there. Surely, no one would aim to ambush a guardhouse through the front door, the very people who you'd usually go to in case of an armed break-in, in the middle of a village, with just two people?
The smaller guy might have noticed her already, for better or worse, as for a moment he appeared to look straight at her. Oh well.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Name: Jordan Forthey

Ethnicity and species: Rodorian, human (white)

Sex/gender: Male/man

Age: 19

Physical build and appearance:
Jordan is about 1.83 tall (a notch over 6 feet), leanly built, but quite fit guy. He has shoulder-length hair that, much to his annoyance, has been described as "potato-colored" - a sort of uneven light brown that's almost, but not quite dirty blond -, perpetually slightly concerned blueish-gray eyes, and quite youthful face which seems to acquire a random thin mess of (for some reason) blond hair, should he ever go more than two days without shaving. Often has a bruise or a few to show for his efforts of trying to learn combat.

Languages:
Native Rodorian speaker; his master has been trying to teach him to write on slow days, so he knows what the letters look like and can mostly read and somewhat write, but not exactly fluently and without error.

Magic:
Has never used any or tested for it, hence it remains to be seen if he'd be innately gifted enough for it. Has - unbeknownst to him at this point - affinity to lightning and strength of soul just about average for humans, or 0.3kWh.

Usual attire:
He is typically seen wearing worn brown leather boots, brown leather belt, gray pants, a white cotton shirt and (in colder weather) a black wool coat. Courtesy of his service a Fadewatcher, his own coin and Sir Yanin, he also has steel plate armor to wear. It's mass-produced, much simpler than Sir Yanin's, and fits decently enough rather than nigh perfectly. Much akin to his master and weather permitting, he can thus be seen wearing the cuirass, faulds and tassets of his armor atop a simple dark greenish blue gambeson even when minding his business, and supplement those with greaves, gauntlets, cuisses and a sallet helmet when conflict is anticipated. As his armor lacks some of the joint protection Sir Yanin's does, it's necessary for him to exercise a bit more caution.
He also has a simple, but steel, longsword with its own brown leather sheath, attached to his belt at the left. The sword itself is not much of a looker with its simple crossguard and round pommel; one can tell it's been fixed a few times - the blade has been ground down to 93 cm from the original probably around a meter to correct a lost tip -, but it serves its purpose, and Jordan's master insists it's still semi-decently balanced. Its material is on the softer side for a steel sword, but seems to be without rust veins or other distinct defects. He also has a dagger with a 22cm blade (again with its own leather sheath, though this one attached at the right hip), which is actually new and harder steel.

Other equipment, rations and clothing (includes that carried by, but not associated with, his horse):
A whole thirty-eight rodlin. Not too much on the grand scheme of things, but it's his to do whatever he wishes with.
A leaf-bladed iron spear, ash pole, 2 meters long.
A heater shield (standard Fadewatcher fare).
An iron cudgel (standard Fadewatcher fare).
A crossbow (standard Fadewatcher fare).
24 crossbow bolts, hardened iron tips, quiver that houses twelve.
An extra pair of gray pants.
Two extra shirts.
Five extra socks ... he is unsure where the sixth went, but guesses that should he lose another one, he'd have an even number again.
Spare underwear (3).
Flint and iron.
About half a kilogram of dried jerky. Two loaves of bread.
A little bottle of vegetable oil, a whetstone and a rag.
Soap. Straight razor.
About six meters of rope.
Cloth that can be used as bandages.
A small bottle of strong alcohol (moonshine).

Social status and family ties:
He's been Sir Yanin Glade's squire for about three years now, formerly having been the Glades' stable hand since he was about eleven. For the past two years, he has also been serving as a Fadewatcher (corporal) alongside his master, albeit much like Sir Yanin, he's currently on leave; that's about as far as his standing goes.
His family are farmers in Nemhim, owners of a small household, a couple of fields, and a dozen cattle. The household consists of Jordan's mother (38), his father's elderly mother (78), as well as still hosts his two sisters (8 and 12) and brother (9). His third sister and father succumbed to the withering a few years back.
Aside of Jordan, the Fortheys are otherwise unaffiliated with the Glades, and in fact condone his continued service after the demise of his father, when it should be his, as the oldest son's, duty to take over his father's place rather than go pursue some illusions of grandeur and potentially get himself killed. Him sending part of his paycheck back to his family the past two years has not seemed to affect their (or at least his mother and grandmother's) opinion on the matter much.

Additional notes abilities and skills:
Knows how to take care of and ride horses. Knows how to cook. Knows how to take care of laundry and sort out supplies. Knows how to clean and maintain weapons and armor. Knows common commands and procedures for a guard and most common laws relevant to those patrolling the streets. In general, has a number of fairly mundane everyday skills expected of a squire, a stable hand, or, more recently, a Fadewatcher.
As a part of acquiring his status as a Sir Yanin Glade's squire (something he still feels indebted for, seeing that he didn't have the social standing or prowess otherwise), his master has also been trying to teach him combat and social manners.
Sir Yanin is a decent, if somewhat impatient teacher of martial arts. Although his master insists he has definitely improved, remaining steeply outclassed even when his master has significant handicap has somewhat curbed Jordan's enthusiasm in regards to his own progress. He intends to keep trying, though, and if it means he gets to keep saving lives and make Rodoria a safer place for everyone, the pain, exhaustion and failures are worth it.
As far as social manners go ... a lot of rules. Sir Yanin doesn't seem particularly pleased with those himself, and is even liable to outright ignore his own teachings. But sir Yanin was also an actual knight of a decently well-known family, regardless of his standing within the family itself. A peasant squire is probably not permitted to follow suit, even if Jordan weren't innately bound to be more on the reserved side.

Name: Buddy
Species: Horse
Sex: Male (gelding)
Age: 4
Physical build and appearance: A slight sorrel horse at barely more than 15 hands (152.4 cm) tall. Who knows what exactly he's supposed to be, but Jordan seems to be quite fond of him.
Associated equipment: Has a brown leather saddle and saddle bags, standard and a bit worn, but not bad quality, stirrups, bridle, a dark gray saddle blanket, and an old patchwork winter blanket. The latter's mostly light gray, but seems to have once been white and cobalt blue. Buddy goes bare-hoofed. In addition, a feeding bag, brush, comb, washcloth, lead rope (stored).

Edit Log

19.12.24: Added a space between equipment and inventory; noted Jordan's rank of corporal among Fadewatchers.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Name: Sir Yanin Glade

Ethnicity and species: Rodorian, human (white)

Sex/gender: Male/man

Age: 22

Physical build and appearance:
Sir Yanin Glade doesn't tend to leave the most approachable first impression. He is a notably tall man standing at slightly over two meters (6'8"), with a build that's neither narrow nor pronouncedly broad, neither overweight nor so thin one could see all muscles clearly defined through the skin. Rather, he seems well-proportioned and -balanced, naturally both strong and agile - an assessment which wouldn't be wrong. He furthermore keeps his training up very rigorously, if not outright fanatically.
It's, however, not necessarily his apparent physical prowess which tends to make people wary of him. It's far more his mannerisms, mien, way of expressing himself and, just perhaps, the vague impression that he might actually make use of said physical prowess if he did not get his way otherwise. Most of the time, his expression seems either blank, forced or mildly annoyed. Or very annoyed. And occasionally confused, though it remains unclear whether or not it isn't just his disbelief at your insistence on arguing with him.
He gives rather abrupt, confrontational impression, bothers little with social niceties, and seems to frequently disregard apparent power levels - that is, if he doesn't instead simply seem to mostly ignore you, and just absentmindedly give replies when directly addressed. He is equally likely to stare at you for too long and intently, or not bother looking at you at all. Incidentally, it would appear that any attempt to intimidate him in turn merely elicits a blank stare. The nicest thing anyone will generally say about him would probably be that at least he has a sense of duty.
Sir Yanin's complexion is pale - he doesn't seem to tan during summers, either -, with deep-set and contrastingly dark brown eyes and thick, nearly black dark brown eyebrows. With strong brow and strong jawline, his face appears almost rectangular, with an averagely proportioned, if slightly crooked nose. His hair is slightly lighter dark brown than his eyebrows, slightly wavy, and of somewhat ambiguous and varying length - maybe fifteen to twenty centimeters as of the present time. He's usually clean-shaven, though he might neglect to do so for a few days if he doesn't have to appear before people.

Languages:
Native Rodorian speaker, reads and writes fluently. (As a direct consequence, would be able to sound out any other language written in human cipher, though not necessarily understand a word of it. Unless it's Kirkinian, which is almost mutually intelligible with Rodorian.)
Can speak a fair amount of somewhat formal Fermian. A bit stilted and with an accent, but enough to get by on a general social event or business affair. Can recognize around two hundred symbols from the deigan cipher, but would probably be only able to reproduce around a quarter of those without error without a reference.

Magic:
Has never actually used any and doesn't seem to have any innate gift for it, but knows what some of the most common magical artifacts (especially weapons) look like and do in the general sense. Likewise can identify a few dozen most common runes used on runeswords, simply due to special interest in weapons, combat and warfare in general. Has affinity to magnetism, current strength of soul of about 0.32kWh.

Usual attire:
These days he can usually be seen wearing heavy long black hiking boots - chosen more for comfort than looks - and black pants, off-white shirt and silver-trimmed dark blue gambeson accompanied by a wide, black leather belt with a silvery buckle.
Attached to said belt are a couple of pouches, a dagger's scabbard on the right and a sword's to the left, both of the latter black leather reinforced with dark wood and silvery metal. Within the longer scabbard is a finely crafted steel longsword with a 108 cm blade resides (fullered, hollow grind). The two arms of the guard curve slightly towards the blade, and have the overall width of 20 cm; in addition, the guard comprises of two metal semi-circles on either side of the blade's base for additional protection. The total length of the guard, grip and pommel is 30 cm. The grip is wrapped in black leather, and the pommel is round. On closer inspection, one can see the pommel has a falcon holding a live strike-ready viper between its talons engraved in its butt, painted copper and black. The overall weight of the sword is 1.6 kg. The dagger is remarkably similar, just with a 26 cm blade, enough grip to comfortably fit one hand, and no semi-circular bits to its proportionally reduced guard.
Even when just minding his own business, he commonly opts to wear burnished steel plate cuirass, faulds and tassets atop his gambeson, as well as lighter, fingered gauntlets. If he knows he'll be in actual combat, or occasionally just when traveling, he'll be liable to don the rest of his full steel plate with heavier gauntlets and a visored conical helmet, with mail attached to the edge for neck protection. The cuirass of the plate bears the already familiar falcon-and-viper motif from his family coat of arms.
On top of everything else, a black hooded cloak might be worn - not so much for warmth (the gambeson is rather warm on its own), but rather to make him less conspicuous and as protection from rain.

Other equipment, rations and clothing (includes that carried by, but not associated with, his horse and mule):
1893 rodlin.
Soap.
Straight razor.
A small mirror.
Flint and iron.
Four candles (white)
A Glades' seal, additionally has initials Y.G.
Thread (white, black), needle.
Ink, quill, a couple dozen sheets of paper.
A leather-bound notebook.
A little bottle of oil, a whetstone and a rag.
Cloth that can be used as bandages.
Flask with strong alcohol.
Two knives more suitable for cooking and eating.
A fork.
Three spoons.
A small cauldron.
Two cups (clay).
A metal rod, about 60 cm long and a centimeter thick.
Smoked dried meat (~2kg).
Bread (4 loaves).
Two dozen sweet-spicy baked things (about a kilogram). Yanin calls them cookies, but that's probably not it.
Dried fruit (200 gr) and nuts (800 gr).
Salt and various spices.
Tea.
Two flasks of water.
A backpack and a canvas bag to fit everything that does not fit in the saddle bags.
Rope (~8 meters).
Tent (waterproofed canvas x2, rods, support poles).
A small hatchet.
Two blankets (human).
A flanged iron mace, 1.2 kg.
A halberd (iron), 185 cm length, ash pole.
An elm recurve bow (left-handed), 175 cm long, about 40 kg draw force.
12 iron bodkin-point arrows in a dark brown leather quiver, 5 steel broadheads stored separately.
A steel arming sword, 75 cm blade, 90 cm overall length, simple cross-guard, leather-wrapped oval grip, round pommel.
Shield, round, oak, iron edge, handle and center-bit, 60cm diameter.
Four pairs of socks (black).
A tabard in his family colors and symbolics (red and blue, diagonally, copper and black trim, copper-and-black falcon holding a copper and black viper between its talons).
Two additional pairs of pants (black).
Extra underwear (5).
Three off-white cotton shirts, two dark blue.
One dark blue silk shirt.
A copper-and-black-trimmed dark blue long jacket (or a very formal variant of his usual gambeson) with crimson lining.

Social status and family ties:
The Glades presently hold thirty-seven inhabited farms (formely fourty-three, but the withering has taken its toll) with their fields and lots, about three dozen hectares of forest (largely firewood), and a mansion with associated stables and a small orchard of its own, situated in Etlon. On local basis, they're decently well-known and respected, though some members of their family more than others.
The Glades' mansion and grounds are governed by Yanin's father (Tareon, 51), who has the reputation of an iron-willed and skilled combatant, strategist and negotiator (qualities which served the Glades well in achieving their current position), but also a rather ruthless and unforgiving man whom you do not want to cross. Though Sir Tareon is no longer in his prime fighting condition due to some old injuries, reduced training regimen and age starting to slowly creep up on him, he would still make a rather formidable opponent. Most people, though, will shy away from merely facing his rather imposing figure in a wrathful state.
Yanin's mother (Melone, 47) has relatively little input on the proceedings of the Glades' holdings other than the (younger) children's care and education (which is a matter she seems to have taken to her heart), as well as the managing of household servants. She's a quiet woman, soft-spoken and well-mannered, not fond of either confrontations or scheming. She stands tall and rather broad-shouldered - though no match for Sir Tareon -, but seems to be quite pale and often tired, frail rather than powerful, even more so in recent years.
Sir Yanin Glade furthermore has six living brothers (Jeran, 28; Elan, 26; Javien, 23; Gerain, 18; Marlon, 15; Adrian, 10) and three sisters (Eleanor, 25; Alaisi, 21; Ilene, 3). One of his brothers (Manin) died when he was an adult (at 24, three years ago). Melone has also underwent multiple miscarriages, at least two of which are semi-publicly known, more suspected. As she got older, her ability to conceive and carry to term seemed to lessen (as might have her general health, claimed those who had known her for a long time); Ilene's successful birth was a true surprise, but also came the closest to ending Melone's life out of her many pregnancies.
Sir Jeran as the eldest son is expected to succeed Sir Tareon as the head of holdings; he is leaner in build, though, and while is undoubtedly steadfast where it matters, he does not seem to share his father's temper. He is overall a more diplomatic, more understanding individual; people have also described him as a nobler person, a gentleman rather than a soldier. Or a more idealized knight. The Falcon of Glades. Currently single.
The late Sir Manin, in turn, was perhaps his father's favorite son; though he was more of a shadow of his direct ancestor in his skills, their personalities were definitely matched. Curiously enough, in spite of them being similarly tempered (with Sir Manin being perhaps even the nastiest of the two), their mutual company seemed to have calmed both of them down, or at least gotten them in high enough spirits to have them make more concessions. Even his aspirations were close to his father's, and that's what eventually did him in - Sir Manin fell in armed conflict. Caught a crossbow bolt in the neck, with nary enough time to even fetch a healer. Tareon has been a lot more bitter, irritable after the fact.
Sir Elan is ... an "odd one", his father used to say. Which, in his eyes, meant bookish and quiet, at least until he found someone willing to listen a lecture on whatever got his interest most recently. Elan is otherwise rarely seen in social situations, and tends to spend time studying languages, deities and artifacts instead. His knowledge seems to have made him a decent conversationalist with whom it mattered, though - he is married to Lady Jeanette (23), a well-mannered noblewoman who has won both of Elan's parents' approval.
Lady Eleanor is much akin to her mother sans the health problems, though with a deeper interest in economy and finances, and some of her father's stubbornness. She is engaged to a Relimonian merchant, and thus rarely seen on the family grounds; it is typically assumed this arrangement will be out of practical considerations rather than something as fleeting as love. Sharper tongues might insist it's the numbers in her fiancé's books - others will say it's less to do with vanity and desire for wealth, and more with passion for playing the market in and of itself.
Sir Javien is neither here nor there. He is decent, but not exceptional at most things he does. More so out of lack of passion than intelligence - he's quite sharp, as far as wits go. He might be more hedonistic than most of his siblings, but bereft of scandals as he is, people don't tend to consider it a big deal, or worth noting. He is also one of the more social, charismatic and approachable ones, and seems to be overall well liked. Still single.
Sir Yanin Glade himself is a truly exceptional fighter, but otherwise not too noteworthy individual. People tend to consider him not really the amicable sort, nor, for the matter, too sociable - during events, he mostly kept to the side until he felt obliged to speak, and when he did, he was bound to be either laconic or confrontational.
Some suspect he is an incarnation of the darker side of his father, and perhaps a harsher man than either Tareon or Manin ever were - an impression that is further deepened by the fact that even Sir Tareon himself might be afraid of him. Not that he'd express it - but it is alleged to have influenced Yanin's early ascent to knighthood (at eighteen rather than the more typical twenty-one) and his eventual stationing further away in lieu of a more direct approaches to dealing with unfavoured offspring.
His siblings have varied opinions on him, though even Sir Jeran - who is one of those who quite like him - occasionally refers to him as the Viper of Glades. For about a half of the four years since his knighting, he has been a lieutenant serving as a head of guard (Fadewatchers) in Brow's Rest, Etlon, where people cautiously thought he was doing a decent enough job. They didn't consider him a likable individual by any means, but agreed he was reliable, got things done, and did not shy away from getting involved if it meant keeping people alive.
Sir Yanin is currently on leave from his guard duties due to personal reasons, starting eight days ago.
His middle sister, Alaisi, is quite the carefree soul who took early interest in the magical arts, and after a visit to the magical academy of Zerul City in her teenage years, it turned out she might have sufficient innate affinity for the powers of her soul to be worth nurturing. A few years later, she was admitted, and is presently studying there. Most people who encounter her like her; though she shares the Glades' more robust build, people used to always call the younger version of her "that sweet girl".
Gerain is a knight still in the making, apprentice to one Sir Marcus, an old acquaintance - not quite a friend - of Sir Tareon. As Sir Marcus was also Jeran and Yanin's (but not Manin's or Elan's) master, he does seem to hold some reservations towards the boy, just in case he turns out more like the Viper than the Falcon. Chances are, the former managed to bruise his ego quite a bit. In practice, Gerain is at once akin to both and neither. He lacks the warmth of Jeran and the brash straightforwardness of Yanin, and falls somewhere between the two in combat prowess and manner, but is probably a better battle tactician than either of the two, rivaling or even surpassing Sir Tareon himself. People seem to think that in him, nature has found the perfect balance between his two older brothers. Gerain himself is not too fond of the comparisons with his siblings, and would rather be considered as his own individual.
Marlon is just barely too young to be on a path to become a knight - as is generally expected of the male members of the family -, and as such, has merely regular physical training (as opposed to Yanin, who did start full combat training early) and is mostly focused on his education. More than anything else, he seems to share just about equal passion for numbers and magic. A decent enough young guy, if with a bit of a short fuse when distracted.
Adrian is still too young to formally do anything much besides receiving education. Seems to have a fondness for animals, though. Especially, for some reason, the monstrous sort. His parents are not particularly happy with that particular obsession, though they've permitted him access to some copies of the Deo'iel texts (in the hopes that it would facilitate interest in reading, at least), and offered to grant him a hunting dog and his own horse sooner rather than later. A proper, full-sized one, as Sir Tareon does not believe in ponies.
Ilene is barely more than a toddler. At best, she knows how to use a fork, talk as a child would, tell which letter you're pointing at, and sing a bit. Nevertheless, she's her mother's current dearest and her "miracle child".
Jeran, Javien and Yanin presently have squires; Elan insists that he does not possess the time for matters of that sort. The mansion has about four dozen various servants and other folk permanently on its ground (including stable workers), as well as three dozen guards on site and patrolling the wider grounds.

Additional notes on abilities and skills:
In addition to being able to read and write, Yanin can also do a decent amount of calculations if given time and (preferably) something to write things down on.
He has also been educated in etiquette (even though he doesn't always seem to know how and when to put it to use, or simply doesn't bother to), knows who most of the important people are and how they relate, knows a fair amount of history and lore, especially about current and past military and various associated organizations, orders, knighthoods and martial practices, knows some about materials, trading and in general the appropriate values of things, some about the different creatures of the land, and other varia. In spite of his lack of enthusiasm in learning it all, it would appear that at the very least his memory is quite good.
Where Yanin excels, though, is combat. Before he was granted knighthood at the age of eighteen, and in spite of never taking part in larger tournaments, he managed to locally acquire minor reputation for it, having rather quickly bested his mentors, and later, any volunteer challengers who wished to try their hand against defeating him, without a single defeat.
The past couple of years have also lent some experience into investigative work and fighting non-human combatants. Most recently, he's seemingly been a bit bothered by something, and to someone especially attuned to magic, his soul might sporadically feel fainter than usual, and spells cast near him weaker, if they don't fail by unraveling and fading away entirely.

Name: Prince
Species: Horse.
Sex: Male (gelding)
Age: 8
Physical build and appearance: A "white" horse - actually gray, as indicated the off-tone of his mane, tail and socks. 173 cm or a notch over 17 hands tall. Allegedly Thoroughbred, though Yanin suspects he's quarter draft horse - too stocky for a full Thoroughbred. As it makes him better suited at carrying him and his equipment, his owner does not mind. Jordan is inclined to agree on both points.
Associated equipment: A well-made horned black leather saddle and saddle bags with matching stirrups and bridle. Silver details. A light blanket and a winter blanket, both silver-trimmed black. In addition, there's a blue-and-red light blanket, trimmed in copper and black - the Glades' family colors. Prince is shod (studded). In addition, a feeding bag, brush, comb, washcloth, lead rope (stored).
Note(s): Effectively Yanin's 16th birthday present.

Name: Bread
Species: Mule
Sex: Female
Age: 4
Physical build and appearance: A bay mule with a darker dorsal stripe standing about 150cm at the withers.
Associated equipment: Has a blanket, harness for bags, bridle, a feeding bag, brush, comb, washcloth, lead rope (stored).
Note(s): Bought recently, when leaving the guard outpost.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Name: Madara

Ethnicity and species: Rodorian, half-human, half-palanter (human father, palanter mother)

Sex/gender: Female/woman

Age: 47 (comparable to 30-year-old human)

Physical build and appearance:
Standing about 182cm (6') tall, she appears a touch uncanny, but altogether quite pleasant-looking, with waist-long well-cared-for straight black hair, pale skin and eyes that will look amber in strong light and hazel in dim conditions. She speaks in low, almost melodic mezzosoprano and, at rest, moves with an almost rehearsed fluidity. There is overall something very pedantic about her mannerisms out in public, though she usually makes clear she is not adverse to amusement, if it's the sort that pleases her. The sharpness and slightly off proportions of her palanteran heritage tends to, however, lend for the impression that she's just as likely to sink her nails into your flesh with just a slightly too fanged smile as give you a good time.
Indeed, her nails are longer, stronger and sharper than those of a human, and when arms are held straight to the sides, her fingertips reach noticeably past mid-thigh, with lean-muscled arms and broad shoulders, strongly protruding collar-bones and deep chest to go with her not so modest bosom, contrasted by an almost disproportionately narrow waist.

Languages:
Native Rodorian speaker, can read and write decently enough, though predominantly uses writing just to record business affairs and make trade notes.
Has some general knowledge about most of the languages from the surrounding areas and their inscriptions, and may recognize a word or a name here and there, but can't read any of them in a meaningful sense. Would have dictionaries and people to ask back at home, but has no access to such away from home.

Magic:
Presumably has enough innate talent to be able to become a passable mage if she seriously dedicated her efforts to it, but has no formal training and next to no experience actively using magic past directing her magical energy into select few pre-prepared spells. She does have knowledge of a fair amount of magical runes, some about spells and types of magical items, be it from encountering them when dealing with alleged or true magical artifacts or otherwise. Keeps an otherwise completely unremarkable notebook on the matter. Incidentally has found out that she has affinity to ice. Current magical power of her soul would be about 0.38kWh.

Usual attire:
She has a rather wide assortment of clothes, meticulously fitted to her form, with preference to deep, rich colours in simple one- or two-colour schemes, albeit often with elaborate contrast stitching. Whether her choices are to show off taste and skill or just her personal fancy is anyone's guess, but she is nevertheless not overly willing to sacrifice function for fashion, at least not when traveling or working.
Since being on the move tends to rather sharply limit the amount of garments she can carry along without overly inconveniencing herself, her wardrobe is currently cut down to an assortment of white undergarments (3); a long dark green female tunic with a simple, yet elegant cut and decorated with silvery embroidery, along with matching dark pants; a slightly more elaborate female tunic, this one in deep blue and copper, similarly accompanied by pants (albeit more purplish-blue black than dark blue); tall, dark brown leather boots, optionally binding her legs in straps; something akin to slips, likewise optionally bound to her legs; long dark brown leather gloves; and a rather heavy hooded coat, warm, light gray and trimmed in the dense fur of some manner of aquatic creature.
Most of the time, she'd have two large, soft leather pouches tied to her hips with a belt, all three pieces embroidered in both green and blue, only the buckle of the belt appearing coppery. The contents of such aren't clear to simple onlookers, though the amount of storage is certainly significant, and in use. The only apparent weapon on her is the dagger attached to the left on the same belt, in a similarly dark brown leather sheathe. The blade appears to be steel, but otherwise quite unremarkable, with a single-fullered 27 cm blade, a bit of a guard barely wide enough to hide a finger behind, a full tang handle wrapped in leather that looks quite similar to the one Madara seems to have in her attire. It's quite possible she has (had) it re-wrapped at some point. The pommel bears some marks that may have been the original maker's signature.
There's also a backpack to host anything her pockets can't fit, often left at her current resting spot rather than carried along.

Other carried equipment, rations and clothing:
598 rodlin, securely wrapped and stored in her pockets.
"Memory Sphere" spell, permanent. Looks like a small brown leather notebook or a folder with no loose pages. Generates a small spherical visage capable of storing sound and image that can be sent (at roughly double messenger pigeon speeds) to a designated destination to replay it, optionally with additional conditions to its activation.
Actual small brown leather notebook. Copper quills. Ink.
Distilled spirits.
Soap.
Bandages.
Set of various threads, in a small linen pouch.
Set of various needles, in leather.
Set of scalpels, hooks, and other implements, rolled in leather.
A dozen small bottles with various liquids, rolled in leather.
Two dozen small vials, also stored in slits cut in leather and rolled up.
Flint and iron.
Small whetstone.
Knife and sheath.
A small mirror.
A small hairbrush.
Tea, herbs.
Salt, spices.
A copper mug.
Dried venison, about 4kg.
Folded waterproofed fabric, usable as tent.
Half a dozen beeswax candles.
A blanket.
Three small jars with some kind of ointments.
One slightly larger bottle with some kind of thin, mildly scented oil.
A flask of water.
Embroidery set.

Social status and family ties:
Palanteran mother (Ayera) presumed alive at the age of 87, human father (Roger Bennett) presumed dead, though she has no contact with either after moving out of their original village in Seclyr. No known full siblings, though Madara knows her mother did have at least two additional daughters from a full-blood palanteran father. Madara herself might have a 25-year-old quarter-palanter son (Hara) somewhere from her Seclyr days, left behind with a dear friend of hers (Derek Rand) when her lover and son's father (Grant Whittler) was killed. Current status and whereabouts of her son are unknown.
For the last twenty-three years, she has been running a shop in a small Nemhim town of roughly eight hundred remaining inhabitants, comprised mostly of palanteran tradesfolk and human farmers. One might call it a moderately well-off quaint little place that has greatly benefited from the transit between Nemhim City and Wenal City. In particular, being on route between the much larger settlements has facilitated additional variety and quality of services in the town, though more recent years have seen it through the same hardships that plague the rest of Rodoria. The streets have grown quieter, the humans weary and distrustful, and the palanters restless.

Madara's a seamstress and occasional surgeon of some local recognition, as well as an opportunistic vendor of various magical and otherwise uncommon wares. As long as it's not outright illegal or provably stolen, she will consider dealing in it. Recent years have changed the trade, but one way or another, people still need things and services; she has about six times as much as she carries in straight rodlin and other coin, and double that yet again in various wares.
Her store (and home) takes up about a center third of a wooden two-storey structure on a main-adjacent street, recently whitewashed and with three six-pane glass windows on the lower floor. Sandwiched between a toolsmith and a shoemaker's front, Madara's window displays a green dress, though the plaque above the door also specifies she deals in sewing up people as much as she does with clothes. The bottom floor of her section only has three rooms - the front counter, a storage room, and what was once probably a kitchen but now could be considered her surgery (albeit it currently also hosts a third inhabitant); the top floor, accessed by a set of narrow stairs behind the counter, is Madara's and her assistant's living quarters.
While Madara's away, her assistant is in charge of the two more obvious trades.

Additional notes on abilities and skills:
Naturally, she is well-versed in clothing design and materials, and good at sewing and embroidery, and that's a lot of what she spends her time doing when she isn't researching whatever item has caught her interest, dealing with a client of any type, or out for more resources. She can disappear for weeks when doing the latter; her assistant is used to it.
On the other side, she is most familiar with palanteran physiology of any form, being half of one herself and, ultimately and bluntly told, palanters just tending to be much harder than humans to bleed out, so they have the ability to show up at her doorstep in much worse condition than you could hope to find most true humanoids alive in, and subsequently permit her to practice which tendon goes exactly where. The other people in need have been mostly human farmers, as well as a couple deigan and, somewhat to Madara's dismay, a few of their animals. But if good relations mean that she needs to reconstruct ambulatory food for food of other food, then so be it...
All in all, she believes she could work on pretty much any humanoid, beast or other mammal- or reptile-adjacent being. They're all mostly the same bits, anyway. Figuring out which substance is toxic to what animal, though... That's trickier. So if not dealing with a palanter, human or deigan, a fair amount of her chemical or herbal aids would be off-limits if there's still something to lose.

From Downfall ReRisen

Day ??? of year 384 Post-Downfall
Sunstorm imminent

The Aftermath

[[Tarena Igna, Ezek Caendar, Edrik Marax, Uwe Straldast, Aidren Recker and Eris Geran(deceased) are Trenian officers.
Jerech Hayden Trent, Rayne Devien and Yan Terev are missing Trenian soldiers.

Eideren Naught is a nearby Trenian military base.
Angan Tirez is a Trenian civilian settlement, recently assaulted by Anderekian forces, an event that partiallly provoked the roll-in in the beginning.
Relevant outpost currently lacks a name.]]

60:00:00 LNT

With a jolt, Uwe's eyes snapped open, met by a metal ceiling. It took a couple of seconds for his mind to win over itself and finish what had been started by the "alarm" - a tactile notification, really, soundless and only triggered once with no need to switch it off. Waking upon an external stimulus tended to come with a sense of annoyance, yet he had decided to drag himself up before his shift, and thus he did. He didn't like being bothered while he slept, but he also didn't like dallying.
At 66, his shift begins, Igna's officially ends; at 99, Igna's shift begins, Caendar's ends; at 33, Caendar's shift begins, his ends. Two officers awake at any time, at least one of whom would have been on shift for a while. In an ideal case, it'd have been three pairs of officers having overlapping shifts, but Geran was dead, Recker was more or less fully removed from the game, and Marax was just about out of it enough that he was variably able to keep an eye on things if he gritted his teeth and focused, but wasn't able to functionally do much, so he wasn't formally assigned to anything. Yet, said Marax had managed to find his way over to the command center and station himself there regardless. Uwe wasn't sure whether it was dedication, stubbornness, or both, but either way, he was impressed. Positively or negatively, he didn't know, but impressed regardless.
Even Tarena had checked out after a hundred and twenty hours on her feet (shifts tended to become more flexible during actual combat and the immediate aftermath), yet this fellow had opted to keep going about as soon as he was conscious enough to do so. If it had been anyone else, he'd have expected his singlemindedness to be the result of being partially disrupted, but Marax had always been like that. Bit aloof, perhaps, but notoriously duty-bound and seemingly unshakable. Some said even more so than he was, though Uwe himself insisted that it was more a matter of him being part-reptile, in contrast to the beacon-of-light ideal Marax represented. Both of their business involved making sure people got done what needed to be done and, preferably, did not die. Just with a different disposition. Uwe's tended to be more disruptive.
He stretched - which was to say he first straightened himself with his arms by his side, then slid those up over his chest and folded his fingers above his head, elbows out. He was a tall man, even among his fellow soldiers, and a powerfully built one to boot. There was nary more than two centimeters between his shoulder and the ceiling when he was lying on his side, and maybe a hand's width of space left over his head with his toes touching the footboard. The space was wide, though; two of him would have just about fit side-by-side. Nevertheless, felt a bit too much like sleeping on a shelf. Probably sucked for anyone with as much as an inkling of claustrophobic tendencies. For him it was just mildly physically inconvenient.
In what was by now a practiced motion he pulled his elbows against his sides and his shoulders in and rolled to the side, legs thrown over the guard first, his torso sliding over after hands gripping the guard to slow his descent, ensuring a soft, soundless landing. It was useful to remember where you slept before you tried something like that; the landing would have been quite jolting from a middle or lower bunk. The same way, it was useful to remember which openings were just barely tall enough for you to fit through during normal operation, since the same would probably not apply if you were wearing anything with thicker soles that day. Contrary to popular belief, most vertically-challenged passages were more hindrances than hazards to someone his height. It didn't take much brain-power to not walk directly face-first into a wall.

Sent by the metallic thud and soft hiss of the APC's doors, Uwe sauntered over to one of the carriers. Fifteen tonnes of all-terrain truck, fully loaded with forty-five tonnes of mostly food, water, ammo and medical supplies. And that was just one of them, not counting anything crammed in the APCs or other more purpose-built vehicles. With the people left, the food they'd taken with them alone could last them the better part of a year. As long as they can go outside and the trucks stay intact, it would be a long time before they'd have to pry the floor liners loose from the APCs and lick them clean of any miscellaneous crumbs.
The good rations would be gone long before that, but such was life; at least they had all the variety the category of "can last a decade and needs only boiling or no preparation" could offer. Seemed excessive. Either someone expected them to hold out longer than originally anticipated or they just sent what Angan Tirez no longer needed. On the flipside, showers would be dependent on rainwater or be restricted to wet towels for the foreseeable future. Last night had dumped enough water on them to last a week, but past that... If they didn't get mowed down sooner rather than later, there would probably be days where they could be quite grateful that all air they breathed was fully filtered as long as they stayed suited up.
For now, blood and burnt metal overbore all, mixed with the vague scent of damp foliage.

60:07:12 LNT. The seconds raced by, but even with a few packs of food gathered in his arm, there was still plenty of time before his shift proper. All the more convenient; even at times like this, Igna or Caendar would have less to say about things he did with his time off. If he won them back some of what had been lost, all the better.
The mood in the mobile command station was oddly stiff. People forcing themselves to be optimistic and distracted, but a sliver of anticipant fear remained. There were only so many times you could try and optimize the position of your drones and units, so many times you could organize supplies, so many things you could talk about before ultimately realizing that most people on location were just waiting for impending doom to materialize. So they tried to stay busy and not think about it.
As far as Uwe was concerned, busy just felt a lot less tedious.
"You're early," one of the commands remarked. She was a couple years younger than him, about Marax's age, with only a few battles behind her, with this one being the first that was on-site with a mobile station. She was fit, with a slightly rounded face and a tendency to smile when nervous. Chatty, but not intrusive enough to be annoying. Who wouldn't have liked someone like her, appearance-wise or otherwise?
"I brought food," he pointed out, dropping the rations on the table and taking seat. For the first time since some time last morning, he actually removed his helmet and gauntlets, running his hands over his face. There was a faint trace of a scar not quite fully faded on the left side of his jaw. You could try scratching your nose against the inside of your helmet. It always felt like there was, somehow, exactly half a spot you missed. "I also assume not much news since I last dropped by?"
"Ezek dropped by and ordered some drones in position. Y'know just to cover our bases for as long as we still have some sight. Considered manned and wired recon for the same reasons, if we have any to spare. And we discussed some, eh, alternate strategies. Should about cover it."
"I see," Uwe tore one of the packs open, finding a wet towel to clean his hands and inspecting his options. For storage and compactness, most things were also very decidedly rectangular, be they fluids, sweet or savoury. Pretty much everything was very calorie-dense, for minimizing the effort you had to make to carry on for however long necessary. Lugging around forty kilos of equipment over terrain, and sometimes more, meant you spent energy like there was no tomorrow.
For many, there wasn't.
The labels (if you didn't read the small script) were delightfully descriptive. Meat #47. Taking a bite, it ended up like tasting like lightly salted jerky from some nondescript farm animal ... except, somehow, it had almost pate-like consistency. The former civvies had informed him that rations made no logical sense. Dried was not supposed to be a taste. It was not actively unappealing, though, and that was that.
"I meant it, by the way. The food's for taking and you can't know when you don't have time to eat anymore."
"Ahh, thanks," the female command actually got up to gather a share, before quickly retreating to her chair, not unlike a child expecting to be scolded by her parent. "It's strange, you know. I know humans should eat. I know I haven't eaten... But I don't feel the hunger. But I suppose I will ... try?"
"Adrenaline or whatever the hell it is, makes your body kind of forget to feel things for a while. Should be normal."
"I guess. It's not strictly a part of first aid, but I suppose someone might have mentioned things like that." She smiled sadly. "How do you lot get used to ... well, battles? It's not even my first time, but it still doesn't feel ... real. Like I'm back in training."
That, Uwe didn't know an answer to. "Some never really do. Others never really need to." He contemplated his share of rations for a bit. "I suppose I'm one of the latter."
The female command gave him an apprehensive look.
"Never looked at the personnel files for this mission?" Uwe's gaze was intense as he looked at her. It always was. "I never was a civilian. Grew up on base. Studied in a military compound. Saw the men and women coming back. Eventually, went out myself." Well, that was one part of it, anyway.
"There are ... were, well, I suppose still are three hundred and sixty of them."
Uwe raised an index finger. "Only six officers."
"But ... I guess, never having had a ... regular life. I suppose I can't really relate to that. I suppose it is all you're used to." She tried nibbling on her food and obtained a thoughtful mien. "It does taste like cake. A cake someone has squeezed into about one tenth of its original size, but a cake regardless."
"The uncompacted one didn't fit in the package. Sorry 'bout that."
The woman snorted, mirthless.
The male command had kicked his entire chair loose and rolled over to take his pick.
Marax managed to look a bit forlorn. "Thank you for your offer, but I've been sentenced to hospital diet." IV bags, then.
"I suppose the same could be said for those guys?" Uwe asked. There were six additional people in the room with them. Soldiers, not regular command station inhabitants.
"I think so ... yes. They're here because the hospital ran out of space, kind of. And they're good enough to not need constant medical attention anymore, but not good enough to get back to work."
In a place like this, if you were injured? If you couldn't save yourself, you wanted to be in something that could hightail out as soon as possible. The mobile station could pack up, the tents couldn't.
"Good thinking." Anything that might have been too sensitive for non-officers to overhear could be communicated through the screens, anyway. Even with the helmet off, a more careful observer might have noticed a thin, near-transparent layer over Uwe and the commands' eyes. It took more pressure to work with the control panel without the gloves off, but it recognized him either case.
Just a few missing pieces. "If I am not back by the formal start of my shift, then I'm trying to recover some of our missing soldiers. And run those cables. The worst thing we can be once the drones whiteout is completely blind." Shielded physical optics fared somewhat better than any other medium available for them. "I've given seventeen points. Default to fallback."
Putting the helmet back took just a couple dozen seconds. "Until then, good luck."
"Hope we don't need it," remarked the male command.

61:38:00 Uwe was just about the only one currently on site who had brought a personal vehicle in the ordinary sense of the word. The drivers would probably object; they lived, and died with their vehicles. Feelings notwithstanding, they also had much less freedom to choose where to point them.
Uwe's vehicle was a modified dunerider. Camouflaged, vaguely wedge-shaped, about four and a half tonnes heavy, five meters long, but only one point two wide, and a single meter tall at a rest. It carried four autocannons and usually only the center-seated driver and computers. You could seat two more if they didn't mind being their backs against wheel wells and their legs stepped over any time the driver wanted to get in or out (at least there was enough leg room for anyone under three meters tall). Three, if the person in the middle didn't mind getting closely acquainted with the two other passengers. It sat low to the ground when stopped, wheels fully concealed under its armoured shell.
For uncharacteristically sentimental reasons, it had also been dubbed "Argent".
The Trenian officer made a short detour to grab a sizable medical kit from the transports, tossing it in the center back. Screens awoke even before he had finished strapping himself in. (It was remarkably easier to perform harsh maneuvers if you didn't have to hold onto your seat yourself.) The dunerider's targeting system drew an alien image of the surroundings. Whatever their helmets and armor had was ultimately still limited by size, power and weight, and couldn't be easily adjusted on the fly - a vehicle didn't have such restrictions.
Argent "stood", acquiring nearly half a meter of clearance, and headed for the lower plane, the ground, heather, needles and branches crushing under tyres the loudest sound it made.
It seemed quiet on the verge. Medium-sized erratic markers, probably wildlife. Too obvious to be humans in armour. Aberrations that could be attributed to plants (turns out that some plants ran hot; who'd have thought). Quite a lot of noise Argent's computers could no longer filter out, static from high-powered particles. A distant stronghold to the west. And an incoming vehicle, a small, not a particularly concealed carrier.
Larecrom? So close to what it was guaranteed to know was an active site of conflict, on a path infringing on a neutral faction's outpost? Well, be he damned, but it made a part of his job so much easier... Bloody opportunistic scavengers. It was highly likely this carrier was piloted by a human... Commander-overseer Larecrom seemed to like being the only machine mind around, and its reach was not liable to hold this far for long in this weather.
The dunerider sped down the steep path, disappearing amid the tall tree trunks at its foot. There were only so many things Larecrom's minions could be looking for here, but Argent was faster.

The awareness of the lone figure was abrupt. Mere human senses could have missed him entirely, but the enhanced version from Uwe's armor made him conspicuous closing in and the dunerider's targeting systems lit him up like a beacon. Armor was for protecting you from detection as much as fire and projectile. Seven hundred and forty four meters slightly to the right. Fourteen kilometers down from the base. Good thing the wanderer had stayed away from the thicket; would have made it a pain to get through to him. And yes, it was indeed one of their missing soldiers.
There was a weird sway to the figure's gait, unchanging, slow, mechanical, even as the dunerider slalomed closer, slowed, and turned to intercept him. Looked like at the very least, Argent reached him before Larecrom's grabby pincers.
J.H. Trent only seemed to vaguely realize something once the dunerider's wheels deposited a generous helping of conifer needles on his boots and, perhaps more importantly, its metal frame physically blocked his way forward. There was no recognition, no understanding, only momentary confusion as he halted, bloodied, pale face lax and gaze losing focus again.
On the other side of the vehicle, Uwe swung himself out sideways, using the dunerider's frame as a swing-bar. That was more or less the only way someone his size could get in or out quickly, and it only worked if you were fit and mostly uninjured. The other was a slow, awkward clamber. Didn't bode well to trying to pack mostly unresponsive severely injured people in.
This one merely blinked as Uwe reached his side and drew the other door open. Unsteady, looking through the bulk of steel in front of him, breathing shallow, whistling, slurred, intermixed with soft clicking, like bubbles popping.
"Trent?" Uwe inquired, as he reached out a hand in an attempt to steady the apparent walking corpse.
Whether it was his name reaching some shred of consciousness still keeping his body upright and overwhelming it, or sheer coincidence, but it was as if a thread holding him upright snapped. All muscles lost tone at once, forcing Uwe to rather harshly grab the shoulder he had been reaching for and clasped his other arm around the other's ribs in an attempt to stop him from crumpling to the ground.
Well, he certainly wasn't making his job any easier.
The body convulsed once, as if to protest the rough treatment, but fell limp again. Lucky that the Trenian officer's reactions were good enough to avoid the worst of the injury. If it weren't for the continued short whistly breaths, one could have assumed Uwe had been just about exactly too late. I truth, it remained unclear if the injured soldier was even any less conscious than he had been a few minutes ago, trying to continue his trek to ... where exactly? How long would he have lasted like that? Minutes? Hours? A day? If he had not been stopped, would he have indeed continued until he was dead even before hitting the ground?
In the end, Uwe resorted to simply sitting down on the dunerider's doorjamb, and half dropping himself, half crawling backwards while dragging the other with him, propping his torso against the right wheel well, hanging the extra rifle to the back of the driver's seat... The snaps of small branches and fallen needles noted the arrival or Larecrom's carrier. It wasn't perfect, but they had this far defaulted to neutral standing, so Larecrom was not likely to authorize an attack and voluntarily turn their undefined relations turn hostile. Better yet if the machine mind was out of reach entirely; its minions wouldn't risk instigating on their own.
Uwe guessed he should count it good enough that he could not only precede the machine mind's lackey, but even had an extra moment to try and get the injured soldier settled in. He climbed around and over the driver's seat, then reached out to lift Trent's legs in and close the door on that side. For a good few seconds, he contemplated just hightailing out of there. He wasn't certain Trent would survive the trip back at potential chase speeds through a forest without being strapped in and some secondary aid. Unfortunately, he was borderline obligated to have a nice pleasant chat with Argent's and the small carrier's autocannons mutually pointing at one another.

He swung himself out and stood next to his dunerider, but didn't point his own rifle at the carrier. Looked plated enough to richochet the smaller bullets off, anyway, so it would have been nothing more than an impotent declaration of futile aggression. "Uwe Straldast, Trenian officer on duty. That is one of ours who appears to have gotten slightly lost. I'll be taking him to the field hospital now."
The silence dragged uncomfortably. Uwe was about to consider silence as the permission to proceed, but unfortunately, a soft hiss of seals releasting foretold a hatch sliding open and a metallic figure stepping out of the small carrier. Much like the blatant carrier, that armor was anything but subtle.
"Is that so?" it said in a feminine voice. Didn't bother with even the base level of introductions.
"Yes. Do you mind if I proceed?" Best to keep it simple.
"And then what? You patch him up enough so that he can hold a gun again, and tell him to kindly die with you?"
"I don't intend to die."
"Most people don't. At least not until they are too desperate to see no other way out. Don't you think he might have wanted to leave, rather than die?" There was an unusual sharpness to the 'leave'.
"Leaving is not forbidden for common-rank soldiers and civilians. It's coming back that may not be allowed. Hand over your bigger guns and armor and go."
"So let him?"
"To do what? Be taken in by you?" What was her aim? Kidnap their soldiers for research or experiments? Was she doing what Larecrom asked of her, or was she acting on her own? Did Larecrom even permit its subordinates that much agency?
"For example. Our medicine is more developed than yours. No risk of sunder syndrome, no risk of remaining a vegetable for the rest of his existence. No risk of crippling PTSD. Or are you saying that your little outpost is in a such a bad way that you hope even one person who might be able to be propped up for a day with some tissue grid and a chemical coctail could make a difference?"
"Unless he himself says otherwise, he is with us and as an officer it's my job to take care of him. I don't have a reason to suspect there's anything permanent enough to require your superior technology. May I?" Larecrom's approach to the medical field was one of the reasons why people were often not permitted to return. You didn't really know who - or what - you were really getting back donning a mostly familiar shell. Uwe's reaction to the realities of it all was perhaps not quite as visceral as most others, but the very concept of being just replaced as soon a something went more permanent than a week ... well, if you thought of humans as anything other than wear components of a machine, it went against the whole concept of medicine. Larecrom was a machine, so it wouldn't understand - but even it would point all of its not-so-insignificant firepower at anyone else who wanted to pick at its internals.
"How convenient we can't just ask him, isn't it? He was headed our way, if I'm not mistaken."
"Or just away from the battle, and the rest is sheer coincidence. He disappeared midway through; there is no reason to suspect he knows there's not a merry band of Ardeks just waiting to score another straggler."
The metallic figure audibly scoffed.
"And I could try asking him if you would kindly stop holding me up for half an hour." Pause. "Well?"
"Very well. Do whatever you think you need to." For some reason, the figure seemed to take it as the permission to walk closer, stopping just a couple meters from the dunerider and positioning herself so that she had a clear of the dunerider's interior. "I'll be waiting." She didn't appear to carry any weaponry, but with the vehicles doing the stalemating, it was not needed. If anything, she was no longer standing directly in front of Argent's guns, but was right behind Uwe's back once he entered the dunerider.
"Just stay clear of the dunerider," Uwe notified the woman as he dropped in.

Not much had changed with Trent's condition; the main issue was a fairly straight-forward large-caliber gunshot wound, from mid-back to almost next to the neck (had he been leaning forward?), taking out parts of a lung, bones, muscle and blood vessels on the way, luckily (if such a term could be applied) seeming to have torn most of it out rather than leaving a mess. Internal bleeding, trapped air and shards couldn't be passively managed; blood loss mostly could. Supplemental oxygen might be a good idea, but at least he seemed to manage to breathe with what he had left.
No mistake, the same injury without being suited up would have caused a person to completely bleed out in less than two minutes, now ... well, that was probably still less than eighty percent of the blood you definitely needed to stay alive, and maybe half of what there optimally should have been. The other half was mostly kept in by a thin layer of glue. If there was burst damage or internal tears, they were wont to be quite minor. At least blood was easy enough to replace.
Midway through being inspected, Trent's eyes widened a notch, and he definitely looked at the officer, rather than somewhere through and past him. His lips and tongue moved, but no discernible vocalizations escaped. The brief recuperation period had probably enabled him to to regain enough awareness to remember something, but the broken body already brought long past its natural limits refused to cooperate. "Wait a moment," Uwe told him. The injured man slumped, coughing softly.
Having gone over what he could see and copied over the backup personal tracking information, Uwe opened the medical kit. He wouldn't be doing much with the injury - that one seemed stable enough - nor touching the armor. Restoring people was the medical staff's job, and he was liable to do small mistakes that caused the dedicated professionals no small amount of additional headache. Removing pieces of the armor was strongly advised against for the exact same reason; even lying mostly down, removing pressure at the wrong time could evidently drop blood pressure just enough to be the final straw. (The entire first aid training carried the same tone; to anything too much, too little, or in the wrong order, and you'd just be killing the person yourself.)
The metallic figure did her best to look at what Uwe was doing without stepping closer, even as he was merely placing a hard patch over the damaged armor on the injury site and attaching a port to his neck. Finally there was some use of him having lost the helmet in advance. Anything necessary could just be injected through the neck and Uwe didn't need to worry about accidental internal spinal severing by losing the neck brace. He had lasted this far without one.
Shifting through the kit, he picked out four remarkably large syringes of slightly dark bluish, translucent fluid (four should be enough, he had been told to leave a reserve for the drip). Uwe hit the back of one against his knee with an audible snap. The flid turned milky, light blue with the container warming up.
"What is that?"
Uwe halted. "Blood substitute, more or less." Hardly anything she needed to know. Still, it wasn't going any harm to answer, and the question was more likely from the human than Larecrom. He resumed, repeatedly lengthwise turning the container over before de-capping it, attaching it to the port, and pulling the plunger back by just a notch. No bubbles. A small tendril of blood floated up through the now-opague fluid, glancing against the clear side of the container. 'Inject it slowly at an uniform pace.' Well, he tried. This far, he hadn't found out what kind of adverse effect or type of sudden death failing to do so would have. One down, three more to go.
"What would happen if you replaced a person's entire blood with it?"
"I am not a doctor, biologist, or bioengineer," Uwe pointed out, activating the second container. "Live, I figure. Look slightly more greenish or blueish than usual."
"And why not?"
"What?"
"Be a doctor, biologist, or engineer."
"Too impatient."
"I feel you."
"This is not a typical job for you," Uwe stated, matter-of-factly, briefly focusing as he checked the connection of the second container.
It shouldn't have been possible for a full set of armor - possibly with reproduced, and therefore easily modified voice - to be visibly taken aback, but the woman clad in metallic gray (if it was a woman) seemed to be. "No. I mean, yes. Why?"
"Small talk. People sometimes do it amid shootouts and standoffs. Takes the edge off if there has been a lull for too long. I don't ordinarily expect the perpetrator to be the one trying to initiate it, though. Not that I'd have much of a sample group." If the others were not sure what they were doing, assume control. "You also didn't introduce yourself. I know the carrier is one of commander-overseer Larecrom's."
"Erida Madrek. Guard. Eastern Gate."
"Sounds decidedly uneventful. It's no man's land, isn't it?"
There was a longer pause. Perhaps she was thinking. Or hesitating. Or communicating with someone still on the carrier, even though Uwe didn't outright pick out a short-range transmission of any sort without looking up from what he was doing or consulting Argent. It was only two dozen meters, after all - it'll be many hours until the flare tied to the impeding sunstorm reaches whiteout levels for such a short distance. "By which you mean?"
Perhaps they were still trying to conduct an interrogation of sorts, and the less meaningful chatter was just a distraction. Third one. It was not probable he could have somehow messed out the counts, having set the correct amount aside at first, but enough time and you automatically counted - and recounted - everything. Bullets. Magazines. Enemies. All the same.
"No man's land. And no machine's, for the matter. A stretch between factions most units don't tread and defenses aren't built since setting up camp where one can shoot another could be seen as needlessly provocative." But every now and then, you found the occasional scourer, drone, carrier or observation unit testing the waters. See if someone had accidentally left anything behind. Or anyone.
"I figure it could be called that. I don't see much action; wasn't even on-shift for the fireworks last night."
It had probably been a good long while since anyone had taken a shot at any of Larecrom's people, not just her.
"If you want to give the closest Anderekian outpost your greetings, be my guest."
"We are not seeking a war."
"Neither are we. I am reasonably certain the Ardeks already decided you're at at least one, anyway, should you want action. It would be quite unfair if watching was all that was left for you."
Trent attempted to lift his head.
"Hold still. I'm not done yet."
The injured man dropped that particular effort, but lifted his left arm enough to slide it over his chest and weakly rake the fingers of his glove over the patch now covering the right upper quadrant of his torso.
"That's something I'm leaving for the med techs. It is not a concern right now."
Trent's hand had moved further up, trying to feel the side of his neck and the site of the port, so Uwe unceremoniously picked it up and dropped it back at the man's side.
"Ah, and in case you haven't quite realized - we have a visitor," Uwe pointed a thumb over his shoulder. 'Visitor' felt like a more neutral term than 'company'. Strange, that. "That's Madrek, one of Larecrom's. I don't suppose you've talked with a outsider before."
Trent tilted his head enough to see the figure looming a short distance from Argent, brow furrowing slightly. He swallowed, but rather than try to speak, simply halfway lifted the hand and lower arm Uwe had just dropped for a few dozen seconds, fingers spread.
Uwe activated the fourth container, pointing the thumb of his free hand at the downed man in turn. "Trent, soldier. And now you have actually met. Hope it's mutually pleasant."
As his hand moved closer to his chest, visible only to Trent, Uwe's fingers briefly formed a brief succession of signs, which to the wholly uninitiated might have appeared as a brief attempt to prime stiff joints, but if Trent was sufficiently alert to comprehend words, should have been enough to explain the situation. Caution. Scavenger. Comms insecure.
"Good to see you're back among the living so quickly," Erida offered.
"Not trying to burn reserves at half capacity does that," Uwe shrugged, briefly focusing on attaching the container.
"He is right there, you know."
"I know. That part you actually get used to quite quickly, the med techs chatting about random things while working on you. Sometimes about you, too. I imagine they're a lot less reserved, should you be fully out of it."
Trent's right hand moved. Acknowledged, request for extraction, medical aid needed? There was no need to tell him to get out of here as soon as possible, so... He had not been alone? All the more reason to wrap things up.
Uwe nodded, as if confirming to himself that he was done, turning to try and find an isotonic drip, oxygen canister and lined (that part was easy enough), and pick out what else he suspected he needed, from replacement painkillers to anti-emetic to ... at this point, he wasn't even sure he didn't count as a medic, anyway, with the absurd amount of things you had to take account of. (Good. Now do it without reference, using just your memory and the script on the equipment itself.)
"You've been awake through it all?"
"I have. They have blockers for that, it's not like you feel much. It is entirely possible to sleep through it if you aren't a particularly light sleeper - and most soldiers have had a lot of practice being selectively heavy sleepers. War medics don't always have the time and resources to do it otherwise, but otherwise you could simply request to be rendered comatose, if you wanted."
Uwe had picked out no less than eight ampules and seemed to be contemplating over them before injecting different measures from seven of them into the drip, hanging it to the driver's seat and setting up the lines to both it and the supplemental oxygen. The eight ampule, they said, had to be used between two and four hours after everything else ... so that one had to wait. He pocketed it and a syringe for easier finding once it was needed.
"Regained your ability to speak yet?" He asked.
Trent swallowed, closing his eyes to focus. "I 'hink so." Weak, hoarse, unprojected, but understandable enough.
Uwe turned his head to look at Madrek. "You had something to ask?"
"Where were you intending to go?" Erida inquired.
Trent furrowed his brow again, as if something was bothering him, but seemed to be in no hurry to reply. Please don't say anything stupid.
"Well?" the woman hurried him on.
"Let him gather himself," Uwe said. "In his condition? Talking is still effort."
"Ge' help," Trent said. "Fo' us."
"For the Trenians?" Erida specified. Convenient that she most likely hadn't had much experience interrogating, either. She was feeding answers.
"Yes." Trent's reply was prompt. Take the gifts you are given... It did confirm beyond doubt they were hurting, but Larecrom had been watching, anyway, so it was probably as harmless line of questioning as it got. Probably. It had to have known something else was going on, or it wouldn't be lurking about as brazenly. It had to have known that they already had some help. Good thing? Bad thing?
"So! Do you have any, or are we dismissed?"
"I am not authorized to make any decisions, but I will discuss it with commander-overseer," Erida said. "In an awful lot of hurry, are we?"
"Naturally," Uwe said. "Trent needs some reassembly, and I am on shift and have work to be done. Let other people rest for a change. I believe I don't need to share our coordinates with commander-overseer Larecrom if you had something further to discuss."
There was a pause.
"Farewell then," Uwe concluded before the woman found something else to say, saluted, and drew the left side door shut.

"I will consolidate your path with the rest of the data," said Uwe as he reached over to strap Trent in. "I reckon it overlaps with the target of our rescue mission?"
Trent nodded.
"Alright." He shifted over to the driver's seat, finally able to stretch his back ever since climbing in. Good thing he was still young. A dozen seconds passed. "Same place you set up camp?" Uwe turned his head enough to be able to glance behind his back.
Trent nodded again.
Argent didn't lurch forward. Argent simply obtained momentum, circling around before disappearing into the woods. Uwe drove more calmly than he would have if he were alone; the pneumatic suspension was built for maybe three, four times the speed over a much rougher terrain. Larecrom's small carrier didn't follow. Besides a few megaraptors and one signature that might have been a direstalker, there wasn't any sign of a being too big to fit a palm.
As he neared the location Trent had indicated, Argent's targeting systems pointed out a gun, but didn't mark it as a threat. It was one of their own. As he neared the weapon, climbing onto what felt like a fresh landslide exposing more of the towering cliff of the plateau, it became evident it was just a gun, stacked up upside down between some rocks on the sheared-open entrance of what felt like an old compound of some description. A decoy?
The place had probably been buried for centuries, and already there were plants trying to bury it again, half a meter long tendrils fighting for their right to life on the freshly exposed soil. Plants were no less brutal than animals or machines. They were just slower. Sleep in the wrong place for too long, and some of them would probably try to strangle you and keep you for fertilizer. Fair enough. Humans ate them, too, and used them in refining.
Old ruins weren't safe. If the obvious threat of aged structures weakening and yielding wasn't enough, plenty of them still had remnants of defense systems, waiting to serve masters long dead. Argent didn't seem to be picking up anything else, so if their camouflage wasn't supreme and they weren't just faulty enough to fail to detect Trent but still detect him, it was probably safe enough.
In any case, it was worth recording and syncing the place. Whether it was just barren abandoned concrete, slag to melt or a great discovery of untold riches remained to be seen. If it went deep enough to be non-bustable, they might yet be coming back here even before any resource-recovering operations...
Argent had stopped left side facing the decoy, yet nothing detectable past increasing quantities of electromagnetic noise continued to happen. The dunerider's left door swung open. There was thunder in the distance. The air was uncomfortably still, and even through the suit, felt charged.
"That the place?"
"Yes."
"You were lucky it doesn't seem to be live."
There was something eerily reminiscent of direstalkers approaching fresh battlefields in the manner Uwe moved forward after exiting the dunerider. Slow, meticulous, helmet turning as if it would help with listening, but producing no sound himself. It looked like a concrete entrance hall, a waiting room before a security gauntlet. There did appear to be a door on the far end, a sturdy stainless metal hatch that was probably dozens of centimeters thick. He wasn't going to investigate further at this time, just pick up the motionless figure laying on the ground not far from the entrance and go.
Kneeling down next to Trent's helpful message, there didn't seem to be any visible damage to the armor - on the side he could see, anyway -, nor was there any record of a breach that was not one particularly potent shockwave. Disrupted, then. Fuck.
There was no telling whether this man was alive in any other sense than having a heartbeat, and even that was bound to only last as long as the active state of his armor lasted.
Not much he could do besides making sure his body didn't drown itself before that point and leave the rest to the already overworked med techs. Given that Devien obviously did not walk here, Trent must have dragged or carried him the entire way. Must have taken the last of him, and even recovering a small part of it, he still hadn't given up. Must have taken no small amount of dedication when he could have just written his friend off as a lost cause - which he, rationally speaking, probably was - and just try to save himself. Though, who knew. People were weird. Sometimes, they were fully accepting that they were done for, but give them a task to aim for, and they took themselves far past what you thought possible. Didn't even have to be a logical task.
PLEASE HOLD ON.
WILL BRING HELP.
J. H. T.
Time to get out of here. Regrettably, Devien hadn't had the decency to walk right up to the dunerider, so Uwe had to pick him up and carry him to Argent himself. Trent observed him setting the other man down in the opposite side of the dunerider, face seemingly impassionate. Certainly more aware than before.
"No' good ... is it?" he asked as Uwe briefly turned his back and tore the third gun out of its makeshift nest to hang it in the vehicle.
More aware as not always a good thing. Some people just didn't do well with reality finally hitting them. Game over, time to resign.
"Probably not. Time will tell." Uwe didn't see a point in lying. Trent was going to have to come to terms with it, anyway, and the only logical takeway from postponing cluing him in would have been the realization that Uwe couldn't be trusted if the situation wasn't convenient for him. "I am genuinely impressed you managed to drag him all the way down here."
Trent sighed, looking up the the ceiling. "Had to ... try." There was a loud bang, similar to small caliber gunfire, and he flinched.
"I apologize," Uwe muttered. No helmet. Loud sounds would hurt. Needed to crack the suit for a drain; now to tie him in place and that was that.

The second leg of the journey back took place in similar silence as the first, the dunerider only slowing down once it had to navigate between people and vehicles back at their current outpost. No sign of Terev the rest of the way, either. The vehicle came to a halt in front of one of the medical tents. One of the nearby people - one of the drivers - scurried off.
Uwe wasn't in immediate hurry to get out, simply looking behind him and watching his slightly more lively passenger. Trent had lifted his left hand and was watching it with a vaguely concerned expression on his clammy face, clenching and unclencing his fingers. Even despite the glove, it was clearly evident it was trembling, its voluntary movements jerky, almost spastic. Well, it had been more than two hours now.
"If there is something more you'd like to say or ask, do it now. The next chance will probably be more than thirty hours away."
"Wha' now? Wha' will happen to me?"
"Overload of sorts. Still not medical personnel."
Trent closed his eyes for a dozen seconds and jerked his head, as if trying to deter a fly. "Not that." He attempted to gesture with his left hand. "In... After. In general."
"Some reassembly. Then... Recker seems to be pretty much out of commission and Geran's dead, so it's pretty much just me, Igna and Caendar now. Ah, and Marax seems to have assigned himself to be permanently in the command station, not that he could leave under his own power at this time. Given the circumstances, you might as well be stuck with me for the time being. Any objections?"
Trent contemplated for a moment. "No."
"Good, so that's decided. I will give you an overview of the situation once you're back."
"Can ... they do tha- that? Fix ... him?"
"Who, what?" Ah, he somehow remembered that part. "Larecrom? Can it fix total disruption? The same way replacing a vehicle's computer fixes it. Since it hasn't had a long time sitting around watching him, it has no chance of even pretending it's something else."
Trent dropped his hand and sighed, visibly deflating. "Do you have ... anything ... drink?"
"I am afraid the med techs might literally whack me with the nearest item if I give you any."
Trent closed his eyes. "Pity." Pause. "Tha's all."
Argent's both doors slung open simultaneously. Uwe stepped over Trent's legs and, once outside, knelt next to him to detach the drip and inject the contents of the last ampule he had earlier pocketed. No reason to not finish that part; who knows, otherwise they might even try to interrogate the poor sod. He set a hand on Trent's left shoulder, even as a set of footsteps approached and stopped behind him.
"Explain." Caendar was not in an overly good mood. Not with his arm and no one running the camp in his stead.
"More visitors," Uwe informed Trent, patting his shoulder before raising to face the other officer on duty. For the height difference, he was actually looking slightly down at the other. "Found two of our missing men." Not even a full moment had passed since the formal beginning of his shift. Didn't seem like a bad result.

66:07:15 LNT

From Downfall ReRisen

Day ??? of year 384 Post-Downfall
Sunstorm imminent

[[All time is given in (local) normal time, with works in steps of 100, rather than 60/24.)
One NT second is about a tenth of Earth-time second.
One NT minute lasts about ten Earth-seconds.
One NT hour about 16.66... Earth-minutes.
One NT day is about 27.7... hours or 1.16 Earth-days.
One Qatrainian year is about 0.31 Earth-years]]

The Lone Survivor

74:04:15 LNT

Kay had not immediately followed, so he was well and truly on his own now, to be inspected by the locals as if he were a snake they were not quite sure whether was venomous. One of them even looked ready to shoot him just for the simple crime of being there, thankfully shut down before getting around to penetration testing Notrau's armor. All he could to was remind himself that everyone was going to shoot him if he failed to ignore all provocations, and just keep pretending that this Gramps of Kay's was an Anderekian officer and he was simply waiting for further orders.
And so he just stood here after his introduction, alert and impassionate, tensely waiting as Gramps delegated his tasks to someone else before introducing himself in turn. "Wary" would have been a more apt descriptor than "weary".
“Let’s talk in my quarters. Food was one of the first things we packed up, unfortunately, so I can’t offer a proper meal just this moment, but I think I might still have some crackers in a cupboard, or some cookies. And I’ll make something to drink. Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
"Acknowledged." He wasn't not at all comfortable with the thought of indoors. Entering was easy, but coming back out? Who knew. For a dozen seconds or so his mind kept trying to decide between following protocol with a superior and simply speaking to a fellow soldier. "Tea, I figure. If you don't mind." That's the second time in a rather short span an Eighfourian had offered him food. Was that, too, an unspoken protocol of some kind?
Even with his armor, one might notice his shoulders relaxing when Dee-A asked Kay to come with them. Thank fuck. Unless...
He hadn't put her, too, in some form of dire danger, had he?

The tension returned as they reached Gramps' quarters, with the man formerly known as Notrau coming to a full stop on the doorstep, turning his head to take in the room. There was something in his demeanor that made it seem as if he expected a full firing squad to be hiding in the small space next to the door hidden from sight until you stepped in. But it was just a room, and quite civilian, if a bit more makeshift than the Trenian ones he had seen.
For now, it felt safe enough to comply with the request to take a seat, rifle against his side and arms loosely folded in front of himself. Once it was down to just the three of them in private, it quickly, and rather predictably, began feeling much more like an interrogation.
“An Anderekian soldier who actually had enough independent thought to realize that your faction couldn’t care less whether you lived or died, and that before you got yourself shot or lost any of your equipment. If you’d be presumed dead and lost there must’ve been a battle. Probably with the Trenians. And the Anderekians lost.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose you know whether the Anderekians or Trenians use AI?”
"I wouldn't know what fate awaited renegades if I were the first to try," Enn said simply, visibly raising his shoulders to shrug. "The rest was luck. That, and being in position to lose equipment and dying being mostly synonymous to begin with." He doubted the Trenians had brought anything that could score a direct hit on an infantryman and not leave you with new and improved body plan. "But you're right about the gist of it." Surprisingly well-informed, all things considered, but one could expect something like that from someone who had been described as former trader.
Enn-que sighed.
"I haven't seen any evidence of an independent, autonomously-acting machine minds among either Trenians or Anderekians. That's what is said to reside in the west. But I believe they - Trenians, I mean - sometimes use AI-assisted targeting. A human wouldn't be able to shoot like that."

74:04:75 LNT
(early evening)