[Journal] Letters home.

[Hammersmith]

Using this as much as anything to strip the rust off my writing skills after a loooong gap.  It's not going to be a traditional journal, but that doesn't matter much.  OOC critique/commentary is welcome but run a question past me in PMs first if you feel the need to add something IC or otherwise in here eh?

 

 

 

 

VphsZ233kkI

 

 

"Geezer! You pulling guard duty tonight or you going to let us do our job for once tonight?"

 

It was a short sprite of a sellsword doing the yelling up to some hulking monstrosity on top of one of the baggage wagons.

 

"Think I'll let you young pups piss in the sand tonight kid.  I got letters t'write."  There was a lit lantern alongside Hammersmith.  The giant's hand was moving over a sheet of red paper with a blackened brush.  Slow and short lazy strokes were painting a picture of words to someone as of yet unspecified to the postmasters of the world.

 

"Didn't know you could write Geezer."  The young sprite of a guard immediately regretted their choice of words as a glass inkpot dropped onto their head.  They sputtered and cursed as the monster on top of the mountain chuckled at their plight.

 

"Toss that back up to me and go wash up, Inky.  I ain't got time for your shit talk and you ain't getting paid by the word."  The elder thing of the wagon went back to the short strokes and careful thought it had been pretending to before the conversation had started.

 

"Old asshole.  Who're you writing too anyway?  You could have posted that before we left.  Would have gotten wherever it's going before we get to port with this load of goods."  The guard spat a gob of glossy black into the sand to punctuate the point before leaning down to scrub sand against the stains in their skin.

 

"That'd make sense if I was writing something I intended delivered kid.  I got a habit of writing letters I don't want read."  There was, suddenly, a mad red star in the heavens above the guard.  It was the giant's one good eye staring down at them from the top of the wagon train. "Y'know what? Stick around.  Might do you good t'see how let words loose when y'dunno where t'say em."

 

The guard stared as the ancient roe leaned back into it's work.  Their nose wrinkled as they started to scale the cart's slopes  "I smell glue geezer."

 

"Course y'do.  Sure yer mum taught yez how t'make a floating lantern.  Need paste for it."  The giant was moving a different brush over a different surface. A framework of sticks and string bent into arcs and circles.  "And paper."

 

The guard didn't respond.  Their eyes were moving over the wreckage around the boss of the caravan.  Pages of writing.  Pages of careful, composed writing and the box next to the huge roe held enough string, sticks, paper, and corked inkpots to repeat whatever ritual this was hundreds of times over.

 

Hammersmith shrugged at the silence and began pressing the letters against the frame.  A lantern laced with words.  Black words in the silver light of the moon.

 

"So what does this do Geezer?  You don't seem the type to just waste stuff like this."  The guard managed to find a spot to sit on top of a crate, still watching the giant work with his overlarge hands and slothlike care.

 

"M'not.  But m'also a creature of habit at heart.  One of those habits is always paying one newfish to be in the guard for caravan runs mostly made up of veterans.  So little shits like you learn from those better than you."  The younger guard winced there as the giant set the lantern aside and pulled a set of matches out of the box where the writing and sticks had been kept. 

 

"Other habit is this.  Mom taught it to me.  Way of saying prayers.  Way of getting words out that're clogging up your damn soul and sending them out.  Sometimes they get found.  Sometimes they get answered.  Sometimes they catch fire and explode. Most of the time they just vanish into the damn aether.  But they're out there and you don't have to worry quite so much because at least they got said somehow."  The giant struck a match and held it to the candled cup inside the lettered lantern.

 

"But why?" Asked Inky

 

"Because sometimes it's what you need.  Sometimes it's all you need.  Sometimes doing it tells you what you need." The giant whipped his wrist until the match died and the hand with the smoking stub up in front of the younger accomplice. "Now shaddup n'show a lil respect."

 

The lantern pulsed as it caught.  Turned bright in the lunar silver light as it caught tinder.  The ink marks in the paper cast words over the pair that were watching it.  Painting old scarred skin and fresh new flesh in words unsaid but scripted.

 

It began to rise into the sky, taking the words with it.

 

In the deserts of Thanalan a lantern sailed into the sky.

 

Carrying with it things best left never heard.

[Hammersmith]

7nqcL0mjMjw

 

 

 

"So.  What do you think?"

 

Keep an eye on the sky here.  It's cold and wide and empty of anything except the azure beyond.  A blue void with nothing but the sun pinning it in place.

 

"I think one day he's going to run out of hair for this trick."

 

Nothing except one small red dot drifting on a lonesome wind towards a voice that was sharp and bright.

 

"Admit it. You're secretly afraid you're going to wake up one night with him staring at you with a knife in one hand and your braid in the other."

 

Maybe that lone lantern dot can hear the voices.  The one made of bright steel and the other made of smooth, sparking brass.  

 

"No.  I'm not worried about finding him at my bedside any more than you are.  We both know if he had any intention of actually looking for us he wouldn't be sending up that old trick of his."

 

Maybe the winds just like blowing words back in the faces of the two fur-clad bodies perched on the hill.  One has a brass spyglass pressed into a slit in the leather where an eye might be, tightly bound against the cold.  The other was more sleekly swaddled in white furs that matched the pristine slopes and harsh climate.  The need for mobility on that one's part was obvious once you noticed the long, wicked rifle set against their shoulder.  The long-arm's barrel was following the far off dot as the bright steel voiced rifleman spoke.

 

"He's been sending a lot lately."

 

The leather and fur wrapped turtle with the warm brass voice laughed, though it's focus never shifted from that far, lonely lantern sliding through the sky.

 

"He has, hasn't he?  Sure you're not worried?"

 

The rifle bearer shifted their stance, the barrel lowering.  Maybe waiting until the dot drifted closer.  Maybe acknowledging the truth of what had been said with a glint in that cold voice. 

 

"No.  You know the rules.  Don't get involved."

 

The warm, telescope bearing one with the brass voice bobbed in their leathers and furs as an acknowledgement.

 

"Think this one's going to make it through?  Would be nice to get a letter for once."

 

The sky split as something dove from the sun towards the red dot.  The rifle followed.  Followed the decent of the dragon, followed it snatching the lantern.  Paused as the fragile red letter was shredded, torn, partially devoured.

 

The brassy one snapped the telescope shut and put heavy mittens over their ears. The steely one's weapon screamed fire and fury.  In the distance the dragon turned from a thing of grace to a thinly spread mist of gore and ruined sinew.  The rifleman spoke even as the echos of the shot peeled off the mountains around them.

 

"If he wants a letter through he can use the post like everyone else."

 

On the side of a mountain two fur swaddled figures began to move.  Both of them silent.  Both of them patient.

 

Far away, in a haze of blood and wind, fragments of paper scattered.

 

Finally free.

[Hammersmith]

XESreJjGx-I

 

 

 

 

"MAIL CALL"

 

Work in a merc company in Ishgarde was hard to come by.  

 

"Rutgar!"

War Dogs with a good contract tended to hang onto it with a death grip.

 

"Calna!"

 

Those who had reliable work tended to have ties or contacts that vetted them with the houses employing them, or the See itself. 

 

"Red Fish!"

 

Some had favors owed and spent them getting their assignments.  Those tended to be big favours, if they were far enough outside the Ishgardian curve of acceptance.

"Trouble!  TROUBLE. Get over here I'm not even going to try to say your full name.  Don't care what it says on the package."

 

The person who pushed through the crowd was tall and head to toe in standard Ishgardian winter gear and cloak.  Tall, broad, but with most of that in the shoulders and hips.  They moved with a silent step and they'd fashioned a snow-blind goggle and mask set out of brass that covered the face and gave their sharp voice a metallic knife edge when they spoke.

"I don't get much with my whole name on it these days Sargent.  You sure this isn't someone's joke?"

 

The quartermaster shook their head, pushing a long, heavily wrapped leather case across the mail-room table. 

 

"Doubt it.  The men remember the way you solved the last 'joke'.  No one wants to repeat what happened to Tonesome."

 

The masked figure laughed behind their coverings and pulled a knife as they worked at unbinding the package.

"Bullet Tooth Tonesome you mean."

 

The quartermaster groaned. "Don't remind me.  That was a bit much.  Most people don't respond to a prank by beating someone senseless, pulling one of their teeth out, and then hammering a lead slug into the bloody socket."

 

"You forgot the part where I paid off the medic to heal the thing shut still lodged in his jaw.  He's got a good nickname now, and everyone else knows better than to play silly buggers with my drinks."

 

The so-named Trouble shifted the package and reached into it.  A blackened, lacquered thornewood club.  Long as a man's arm and stained red at the head.  Someone had set a  small brass tricket to the striking point of the head.  The quartermaster let out a low whistle.

 

"Fancy shit there Trouble.  You order a cane?"

 

Trouble held the staff up close to the mask and the goggles. Fixated on the brass trinket nailed into the bloodied head of the weapon.

 

"No. I had a broker in Limsa.  Kept me up on events back home for a fair sum of coin."

 

The desk Sargent motioned for the cane and pulled it into his grip when it was offered.

"Who the hells lacquers over bloodstains?"

 

"Someone who wanted to know who the broker was working for and I'm guessing, given that I have this little gift, that they found out." Trouble had already turned, heading for the door as the quartermaster finished their examination. "If you'll 'scuse me Sarge, I need to pass a warning to some of the border guards.  Going to be someone they'll want to keep out.  Gonna need to get my fire-arm just to be sure." 

 

 

The quartermaster was left running his thumb over the brass 'embellishment' set in the bloodstains.  A polished, intricate cast of a hammer crossed over a rifle.

 

"Keep that thing safe until I can get back and burn it alright?" shouted Trouble as they stepped out into the cold and the dark of the Ishguard night.

 

The quartermaster didn't understand what the weaponized gift meant, beyond the promise of violence.

 

He did know the message was personal.

[Hammersmith]

G4lTMOmH8Dw

 

 

Guards, at boring posts, did predictable things.  They gossiped.  They huddled in the way-stations in the walls and refused to come out unless someone was shouting.  They resented someone interrupting their games of cards, their ever escalating tales of derring-doo, , and their grognardian need to grumble about their lot in life.  In short: For every two guards you could see, there were at least five more, secreted somewhere in the walls, losing money at games and lamenting loudly current events.

 

Take the guard room at Trouble's Ishgardian outpost.  Several stone rooms along the walls.  Fires inside.  Warmth and men shuddering against basic labor and basic odds.  Outside, two who had lost, lamented the fact to Trouble.  Inside, however, the guards mixed with the merchants who were willing to spread coin on cards.  They ate gossip from outside the walls and drank tales of politics from outlander cities that dealers cut through with their caravans.  

 

Watch this group, inside this stone station, at this stone gate, and you'd see a familiar figure.  Large and wrapped in furs against the chill, in spite of the fire in the hearth.  One red eye glaring at a hand of cards, sat Hammersmith.  Judging by the sounds he was making, he was losing his hands, between glancing at the window that overlooked the gate and, now, Trouble talking with the two guards on active duty as one of dozens of merchant carts in a caravan squeezed out the gates and back onto the open roads beyond Ishgard's borders.

 

"Should know better at m'age t'play cards with gatekeeps.  Yez got nothin better t'do all day.  One yez bound t'actually get good at the damn game." Grumbled the giant roe from inside his pile of wool and fur.

 

"And yet you're still doing it" laughed one of the guards.

"Mistakes were made.  Coin doesn't hurt t'lose right now though.  Figure yez boys'll get a use out it iffin I ain't taking it from yez."  The giant leaned back in his seat, shifting a long stemmed pipe set into a break in his scarves. "Sides.  Need something t'do while they get the carts up and out fir the trip home."

"You're a right shitter, being in here while they pack, hitch and haul in the cold."  Grunted one of the guards at the table.

"Never claimed t'be much otherwise."  Murmured Hammer, his eye still watching the conversation between Trouble and the gatekeepers just outside the frosty window.  "Hey Bullet-Tooth.  How many more games I gotta lose fir yez n'yez mates here t'say I went out the south gate, when yon Trouble comes knockin on yer door?"

 

One of the guards grinned wide.  One of their canine teeth was a rough, ugly grey.  "Few more Geezer.  You leave your flask of moonshine and we won't mention her lantern you've lugging around."  Tonesome, he of the bullet tooth, flicked his chin towards a sack with a plain, brightly polished, lantern hung on it.

 

"Noticed that did yah?"  Grunted the giant.  "No fun in that.  But iffin yez promise to make a rookie take a belt without a warning, you got an agreement.  Deal me in."  

 

 

Hammer's one eye stayed on the window and the guards at the gate.  They were yelling towards the inside of the outpost now.  Trouble was nowhere in sight. He scooped the cards up as they were dealt without checking the hand.

 

"So why the lantern geezer?  Trouble's got better gear than that." said Tonesome.

"Yeah, like that gun she shoulders." grumbled one of the other guards.

 

"Because that's my bloody lantern.  Technically my gun too.  But I dun take gifts back.  Bad manners"  Hammer sighed a cloud of smoke and tossed a few bright coins into the middle of the table.

 

"You been at the table long enough, we know you don't got manners Geezer."  Chuckled one of the younger guards.

"Yez know I don't take kindly to thieving either, eh?"  The young guard winced and flexed a bruised hand as Hammer grinned and tapped a finger on the piled cards. "Still got the stairs to the battlements running up from here, right Tone?"

 

"Yeah." Nodded Tonesome as him and the group tossed coins and plucked cards out of their hands. "They put a door in once the cold rolled in though."

"But you don't lock it when yer all down here."  Muttered the giant, piling a few coins on top of the forfeited pile of cards.

"Why bother.  No reason to lock something on the second..."  Tonesome looked up from his hand to behold an empty space where Hammersmith, and his sack, had been at the opposite end of the table. "..story.  How the hell does someone that big move so quiet?"

 

"I don't know, Tonesome."  Came a voice behind the bullet toothed card sharp. A clear, sharp, steel voice from behind a brassy mask. "You tell me..."

 

Out on the border of Ishgard a caravan trundled away from the gates and the frozen Holy Lands, from which were coming the hard, flat, packing sounds of fists against flesh and, maybe, against bullet teeth.

 

Outside it's holy gates a fur swaddled roe rolled out of a snowbank near the walls and sprinted to catch a caravan.

 

A sack on his back. 

 

A lantern shining in his hand.

[Hammersmith]

QibsogpPEc8

 

 

 

Two people can share a strange bond.

 

Take the two on the road out of Ishgard.

 

We've seen these two before. 

 

One too tall, too graceful, a brass-fitted snow-blind goggle and mask set.  Their hood had blown down in the winter winds.  Behind them a long blonde braid twisted and scrabbled in the wind for escape.  Against her shoulder sits a long rifle. Beautiful thing.  Deep coloured wood, brass set into all the fittings, from the cover of the shoulder butte, to the patch-box set into the stock, to stylized coils of of fire blowing back over the barrel that had been shined to a blinding bright gold in the dim storm light.

 

The other too large, too heavy, braided hair white as the snow in the air rising off his head from the winds.  The winds had torn his cloak off, revealing a heavy vest of leather and steel set over a chest covered in blood.  A lit brass lantern hung on his hip and the ankle of young Inky from times previous clutched in his hand.  Inky didn't mind.  Inky was quite obviously dead.  Not many people survived having that much of their head sheared away.

 

The remains of an overturned wagon, mostly splinters now, littered the road.   There were chunks missing out of it, as if something had been biting holes out of the wood and hammering metal against the axles.

Maybe that's not far off.

 

But the large one had refused to be bitten, somehow, some way.  Inky, the poor young fool being dragged behind him, certainly has enough holes in his body to paint a set of lines in the snow as the giant moves forward.  Stabbing the air with his free hand.  Shouting.  Baring his teeth.  Snarling words that the wind swallows up but that the graceful rifle-bearer can obviously hear.  You can tell when someone flinches, even in goggles and a mask.  The entire body tenses, rejects, reviles the words that triggered it and even the storm itself seemed a little quieter as the giant's tongue began to scream pure venom and sparking hate.

 

It's not a good thing to listen too, for too long.  Things like that can be a personal expression.  Deeply personal.  They can also distract.  Keep you focused so hard, and so long, that you forget what's around you.  Forget you've still got a trigger to pull.

 

Forget you should have pulled it before the large man dragging a corpse had started running, still shouting. Still screaming.  Still howling words that caught in the air and began to burn the moment they were uttered.

 

Further away, up on a hill, sat two others we've seen before.  Hard to tell apart until you heard them speak. 

 

One murmuring bright, sharp steel words to the other while pointing down at the two figures on the road with their own rifle.

 

The other nodded.  A hand heavy with brass rings pointed at the pair. Warm brass words, soft, warm, controlled and restrained, were sung.

 

The explosion that followed them was anything but.

[Hammersmith]

t8cELTdtw6U

 

Humming.  Not sure if it's my ears or my head or maybe my brain inside my skull.  That was a big blast.  Black powder in the road.  Under it?  Big boom.  

 

Too big.  Not just powder.

 

Humming isn't my head.  Too much pain.  Not enough ringing.  

 

Pain doesn't sing.

 

"Look who still doesn't know how to die proper."

 

Pain doesn't speak.  Especially not in silver and steel.  Hard to forget a voice like that.

 

"Look who still ain't learned not t'drag my corpse out of a fuckup."

 

Sound still hurts.  Of course she'd show up for this.  That means her brother's with Trouble.  We're both hard to kill.

 

"Just stay down for a bit more. You've been wolfing down almost raw dragon meat for the past few days.  They say it's curative"

 

Silver voice.  Humming between the words.  Bright, vibrating steel string of a voice, clear and clarion.  Yeah.  I remember that voice.

 

"What ever happened t'tar n'linen?"

 

Hah.  Yeah.  She'd remember the tar.

 

"Scouts don't carry tar buckets and brushes.  Linen's heavy too.   Doesn't help the healing tinctures we were packing make you puke like a gyser.  Dragon meat gets your meat knitting together but normally that's hard an expensive t'come by. Patching up a big idiot like you is expensive."

 

Yeah, she'd remember that too.

 

"But you n'the other one ain't ever had a problem killin lizards."

 

There she is.  Mouth of the cave.  Long white braid, big brass ring at the end.  Big.  Really big.  Polishing something.

 

"Nah.  We never had much trouble with desert zillas.  Local flying ones got the same method to 'em.  Jekky's not big on that, but he's got a mouth and keep's getting assigned punishment to pop em.  One got yer letter by the by."

 

Sitting up hurts.  Mouth tastes like copper and brimstone and ruby.  Mouth hurts.  Hell.  Everything hurts.

"Y'mean y'let it get gotten, right?"

 

The laugh.  Yeah.  I remember the laugh too.  Bigger, louder now.  Still happy.  Still sincere.  Huh.

 

"We told yah.  Next time we talk, you come in person.  No lanterns. No letters."

 

Ok.  Standing up isn't going to work.  Not if I don't like kissing stone.  Shit.

 

"Bad manners not t'tell someone yez visiting.  Woulda know that iffin yez got that lantern.  Judgin by the blast yez two were waitin. Well.  At least Jekky wiz waitin.  I ain't got a hole in me so it wasn't you who planted that boom."

 

The shrug I remember too.  Because that's my shrug.  Shit.  Guess that sort of thing does get passed on.

 

"You think right.  Niether of y'goin much of anywhere for a bit, as I figgure, no matter how much dragon meat or stew we shove in you.  So it's story time."

 

Fuck. I hate story time.  I regret teaching them that game. Jekky was good at it, knew how to pull wings off someone until they got mad.  Her though? She was lethal and quick.  Never danced around the problem.

"Story's gonna cost yah."

And of course she's got what I needed.  It's what she's been polishing.  Huh.  Guess they did go back to the homestead after the moon dropped.  I thought Trouble snatched it along with the Lantern.

 

"Of course it is.  Never doubted that."

 

Damn if she isn't tall when she gets walkin.  Guess we know who she got that from.

 

"Iffin y'kin pay then yez kin ask then.  Juss make sure y'kin pay."

 

And here I am talkin big for someone barely able to sit up against a wall.

 

"No doubt I can pay.  Way I see this has been coming for a while though.  We're old enough to get told and we got both of you hostage to your own quarrel.  Just like fifteen years ago.  So.."

 

And there she is holding a rifle against my neck.  My rifle.  What they'd called the Voodoo Gun.  Of course Di knew where I woulda stashed it.  Of course she would have gone for it before the Drop.  Blood tells, after all.  She's enjoying this.  But I don't have to say anything until she asks.

 

"Last time this happened I was pulling you out bed with enough holes in you to kill a cart ox.  Jekky went chasing into the Shroud after Trouble.  So now: We're getting both sides of it.  Jekky's got her in another cave not too far off, but far enough t'make running out into the snow a little hard for two old coots who just exploded.  You know he'll get her talking."

 

And there's the gun in my lap.  There's Di across the fire, sitting on her haunches and those clear red eyes staring like beacons through it. Humming as she waited.  Grinning wide as the moon.

"Time to tell Dad.  I know where this started, you babbled most of it out while they were stitching you back together, the parts that weren't leaking smoke.  What happened between you and Mom?"

[Hammersmith]

aSQwI3rDETk

 

 

 

 

 

"You always picked up first when The Bastard and I started singing.  Didn't take much to get you singing and following I limped off."

 

Different voice.  Different speaker.  Sharp and steel and bright like the other one in the cave with Hammer.  Older, sharper, more weathered, all the warmth a reflection of fury.  Matched to someone sitting against a wall with a wineskin in their lap and a brass snow-blind mask perched on their head.

 

"I'm sure it had nothing to do with the bark of your long-arm there and the stench of blood."

 

Different voice.  Different speaker.  All the warmth of sincerity and sorry wrapped in smooth hands and burnished to a bright enveloping shine.  This one matched to a young roe tending a fire in the back of this different cave.  White haired, red eyed, smooth features and a wry smile on his face.

 

"DI ran for the house.  You ran after me.  Mommy's boy.  Daddys' girl."  Trouble pushed off the wall and sat down next to the fire. The face was weathered and worn but the bright blue eyes in it betrayed a certain intensity normally reserved for birds of prey and pack hunters.  Her smile was stained red from the wine and didn't help the comparison to raptors and prey-seekers.

 

"I'm acquainted with the stereotypes and we both know they don't fit.   Besides:  Dad never liked my singing..." Muttered Jekkim.

 

Trouble laughed, shifting to lounge in front of the roaring gold and yellows of the fire.  The elder winced in pain as she shifted position.  The explosion had been unkind.  Most of her winter attire was missing and replaced with heavy bandages and braces around the chest that betrayed broken ribs and blooms of red.  "Which is damn strange considering what you do with it."

 

"Well.  I don't have a lifetime of concussions and love taps to scramble my speech."   'Jekky' popped back onto his haunches and met Trouble's stare.  "I'm thinking if you'd never dented his skull things might have been very different for him." Red and blue with the same intense focus.  Really, the only difference between mother and son, other than the hairy, slightly stronger jaw on the younger roe, was the smoothness of the face, the depth of the smile lines compared to deep crevices on the elder that betrayed a lifetime of frowns, snarls, and scowl as she responded.

"I don't. The Bastard knows where his heart is, out of everyone I ever known he's always been sure of where his blood was running and was willing to eat the consequences of it."

 

"So why'd he run at you?  Yannow.  The night home burned down."  Soft and careful.  Different from the sister who was blunt and knew what was owed.  The brother seems to be the one who inherited what little social graces existed in the two elders.

 

"Wanted me dead." said Trouble

 

"Simple answer." nodded Jekky.  It really was, after all, a simple truth and that he'd asked for.

 

"Everything's that simple with him and me.  How you get to that simple choice is the complicated part and it's noneyah." Grumbled Trouble, pulling generous gulps from the wineskin.

 

"It's more than noneyah.  Otherwise we wouldn't be here."  Jekky pointed a finger laden with brass rings across the fighter at Trouble in accusation. "You put five holes in his chest and he still managed to break your leg, survive,  limp this far along, and get in a fight on you in the frozen end of the world for what seems to be, as he'd put it 'shits and giggles'."

"HAH.  You shoulda seen what I did to him when we first met.  He almost walked away from that as well."  Trouble's smirk was all teeth and confidence.  It was satisfaction festered into a swollen wound of pride.

 

"Oh lords and ladies.  Not this again."  Jekky's own face was contorted in long-suffering pain.  Trouble ignored it.  Maybe it was the wine talking.  More likely she knew this wound and was picking at it on purpose.

 

"For one he still had both of his eyes back then." grinned Trouble.

 

"And then you shot him in the head."  Jekky mimed shouldering a rifle, firing, and then fell backwards onto his haunches in a sitting position. "Yeah. I've heard that even before the house burned down.  Dad's thick skull is kind of infamous."

 

"I'm a good shot, Jekky.  We both know that if I'd hit clean he wouldn't have a head."  Trouble grumbled and suckled on the wine skin again with a mournful sigh. "He knew what he was looking at and was starting to duck and cover before I was was done pulling the trigger.  Quick one, The Bastard.  Already knew what a rifle was, even then."

 

"Not quick enough to avoid losing his eye." Chuckled Jekky.

 

"Har. No.  The lead only grazed his skull and made him mad.  Runs fast when he's pissed and wants to tear someone's head off." Toasted Trouble, raising the wine skin in tribute.

 

"What, like yours?"  Jekky had unhooked a long-stemmed pipe from his belt and was hooking it into his teeth as he chuckled. "You know the only reason you're alive right now is because Di shot his leg out before he got to you, down there on the road?"

"That's your fault for planting your powder packets at poor points." Accused Trouble.

 

"Trying to judge how much boom to use when both of you are harder to kill than a mountain isn't an easy task." Lamented Jekky in return.  This dance of accusation was all too familiar.  Mother and son arguing over explosive content and placement.  Long ago it had been commonplace.

 

"No, I guess it isn't."  Trouble rolled onto her back and turned blue eyes towards a black and smokey ceiling.    "He lost the eye because even if he's fast, I'm faster if I'm trying to recover from a black powder bomb."  A blue eye bored into Jekky accusingly.  "Bullet grazed his skull and blurred his vision.  Got him right in the face with the butt end of the Long Arm as he rushed in.  Crushed most of his face and got him tied up before he could wake up."  She was grinning as she dredged the past up.  Far too fond of forgotten phantasmagoria.

 

"This isn't really answering the question, Mom.  I know you two met while you were getting ready to flay Dad alive.  How's that get us to the second time you tried to bury him for sport?"  Jekkim's warm voice did have a glitter of bronzed edge inside the warmth.  Even the hint of it was enough to make Trouble look over with a questioning brow raised.

 

"Reason The Bastard and I started shacking up is the sweet nothings he whispered while he was hanging from a tree next to my campfire while I played with that skinning knife.  That's where the deal came up and through.  That's why the story matters."  Another sigh at the stalagmites from the blonde elder, who motioned for a hit from Jekky's pipe. "We'd both lost a lot of friends in the wars of the time.  Both of us were short an Oath Circle.  So we agreed to follow this one along whatever path it lead.  The Bastard's honey tongued mush mouth talked me out of pulling his skin off and instead offered me a partner for pulling it off other people for money.  You and your sister are still alive so it didn't turn out completely sour."

 

"Doesn't sound like the kind of pact I'd expect out of either of you. really.  It's almost sweet."  Jekky's time to grin now.  Wide and amused and full of schadenfreude fueled joy. 

 

"Sweet until you understand we both knew we were blood sick and mad as a hatter at the time.  So we agreed the moment we thought things had gone far enough death was going to be on the table.  We'd get our chance for another fight the minute we figured the other had gone 'off their nut' as The Bastard put it." There was an ugly finality wrapped around Trouble's words, squeezing at the implications as Jekky continued to laugh.

 

"Sounds like his kind of deal.  Take it you both had enough leeway to judge for yourself what 'far enough' was."

 

"I'm a little more romantic Jekky.  Give your old mother some credit.  You get your habit for fancy words honestly."  The wink from the crystal blue eye was the kind of thing that gave children nightmares.  The kind of wink that warned the things that spawned you might just be human. Jekky shuddered.  

 

"So what'd you say that cracked it into more than just a deal?."

 

 "I told him as long as we were both alive we'd have nothing else to fear except each other."  The sigh after those words was filled with blood, wine, and joy that still had a little sweetness after years of sitting in the dark.

 

"I think you and me have a different idea of Romantic, mom."

 

"I'd hope so."  Trouble pushed off this cave floor and leaned against the wall again, wincing where cracked rib met bruised flesh and hard stone.  "And then one night it was over and we were both trying to kill eachother again, right where we'd left off.  He thought I'd lost a screw and I thought he'd done what he promised never to do: Gone soft and forgotten what fear was."  The rictus grin on Trouble's face mixed pain, suffering, and hate into a bitter, wine soaked draught.

 

"And yet here we are.  With you two still dancing." Murmured Jekky.

 

Trouble nodded. "Here we are.  Fifteen years later.   I'll give him that much: He's not gone soft.  I think he mighta forgotten what fear is like though.  Who else would pick a fight over a Twelves Damned lantern?"

 

"You feel like explaining that 'why' next?"  Grunted Jekkim as he poked some life into the guttering fight.

 

"Next time, Jekky.  Next time.  Now be a good boy and get me another skin of wine."

[Hammersmith]

5mGALmFlHOA

 

 

 

"So she said you'd be a terrible parent."  "Di" was watching the cave entrance.  Maybe standing guard, maybe watching the weather.  Maybe doing both.

"She wisnae wrong." Grumbled the giant near the fire.  "Ended up carting you and Jekky up to the spine as soon as I could walk under m'own power.  Took better part of a year."

 

"Grandma didn't seem surprised."

The giant snorted a cloud of smoke and sat up enough to hunch over the coals of the fire.  White smoke and burning sparks leaked out his mouth as he spoke again."Not t'see you two, no.  Wisnae happy t'see my face.  Her n'me had n'ugly talk afterwards."

 

"About?"

"About how I should be dead an how she didn't like dead people wandering intae her hearth."

 

He plucked an ember from the blaze and held it against a soggy leaf wrap that might have, in a bad light, passed for a cigar.  In truth it was more of a sodden mix of other dog ends welded together with spit and tar.  It caught fire, after some work, but it took a lot of fussing before the coal was tossed back into the flames.

 

"Feel like you get that a lot." Muttered Di as thick, black, oiled plumes joined the white whispers and wisps that had been floating above her towards the open sky outside the cave.

 

"Yeah, I get that a lot.  But you two needed family and the one you'd had juss broke open, so frankly I didnae care.  Old biddy could go stuff her n'her traditions. I didn't intend t'ae stay."  The giant shifted onto his back and started blowing smoke rings at the ceiling of the cave in a building fit of irritation.

 

"Told her to teach yez two what yez needed.  N'here yez are w'ae a gun popping dragon skulls with lead balls n'there's Jekky, a fullblown brass Brass Singer."  He barked a second word after the title.  It was sharp, bright, full of warmth and spreading heat that threatened but never pulsed over into true burning ignition in the skin and ears.  Where it passed sparks flared bright and threatened to dance in the smoke, burning to a bright nebula of light and fire that died as Hammer snapped his jaws shut on the sound and tore the breath out of it's brief life.

 

Di watched, a pair of red eyes following a living word crawling and dying in the air in a matter of seconds. "You used to sing.  Used to sing a lot.  Jekky got his habits from you."

 

"I did a lot of dumb shit when I wiz a kid.  You two among em."  The giant rolled onto his side and tipped ash off the cigar, lungs still leaking smoke. "Spark Shamans are expected t'sing n'dance n'do a lot...but Ash Singers. Takes a lot t'manage it as a Singer.  Jekky's got more colours n'his soul.  I'm mostly red with a hint o'orange."  A chuckled followed that admittance.  "Had t'explain red t'some chumps a month or so back.  Was a lil drunk.  Mighta used the actual word fir it on em.  Shoulda seen them watch the thing dance in their damn brains."

 

"Outlanders tend t'have that reaction.  Most don't understand Language"  Di's own voice had some skill, a liquid twist of the tounge slipping the capital letter's importance into the enunciation.

 

"N'us  Spine dwellers ain't much of a fan of mages, which is why no one trusts Brass Singers.  Diplomats my ass.  Kid's like you, juss wears fancier clothing and kin lie when sommat asks if he killed someone."  Hammer suckled unhappily on the pipe as the other hand came up with the length of blue steel and brass fitted wood that was the Fire Arm longrifle.  "Surprised I ain't loaded this, put the barrel in m'mouth n'pulled the trigger yet.  S'a fuckin disgrace."

 

"Will make sure to tell him that."  Di was sighting down her own rifle, at something far, far away.  "Can you stand yet?  You've eaten enough dragon meat to kill someone your size."

 

"Yez know how I work kid.  Burn a lil hot.  Need a lotta fuel.  Thankfully yez not a completely shit shot.  Didn't snap m'ankle off."

"Good, because if we don't get hobbling the search party down there is eventually going to spot this place."  Down, far, far away, ants that were people skittered on the road, around the crater, around the corpses, around the strewn caravan wreckage.

 

"N'after m'clear you n'Jekky'll haul Trouble in n'get called hero.  S'bullshit."  He popped his head up off the cave floor to squint at her back. "But as I figgure I ain't in  a position t'ask fir a rematch.  Grab the lantern.  I'll pack 'ere.  We'll start putting distance between us n'the vultures."

[Hammersmith]

iDNtqy0zjJA

 

 

 

Two different caves.  Two different parties breaking camp. Two conversations with two different beasts talking to two different cubs.  Same conversation.  Different trappings laid over the words.  The same raw wounds under them.

 

Listen for a while to the wind as they wind away down two different roads.

---------

 

"Surprised you're in one piece.  You cut down a few men before we managed to get that settled."

 

"It ain't fir lack of trying, unless you missed that entire shitshow down on the road.  Reminds me.  Bury Inky.  Kid didn't deserve that."

 

"You and Dad are the only people I know who could screw up a suicide pact."

"I know how the Bastard deals with debts owed.  He'll keep coming home.  I'll keep trying to blow his head off.  Next time you two better not be involved neither or you'll end up like that kid that ate the first volley."

 

--------

 

"The kid you picked off first?"

"Yeah.  And before you call your old mother heartless hear tell: There's two parts to that.  First got the alarm down before it went up.  Second: Kid was working guard duty.  He wasn't there just to be pretty.  You think you just kill some of the guards in an ambush? No.  Balls dropped or no he was carrying steel and protecting the Bastard."

 

"The kid that you were dragging? Inky? Really?"

 

"Yeah, gave him a name.  He earned it.  Didn't deserve t'get filled full of holes, but he signed on fir guard duty so...risk earned as well.  Just get his corpse home.  Bury it where it's warm."

 

-----------

 

"So what're you going to do when you get over the border?"

 

"Limp fir a while."

 

"That's not an answer."

 

"So what next? You lost a scouting party when he got in close and personal.  They're going to ask questions."

"I tell them we found a bandit raid and they had black powder.  You're both going to corroborate.  I don't mention the powder belonged to you and your sister."

 

 

"Fair deal, I reckon."

 

------

 

"How many more times am I going to have to haul your bloodied corpse back into a town?"

"Dunno.  How many times are you gonna stop me getting the axe where it belongs?"

"Dunno, how many more times you gonna send a letter home before you roll into Coerthas?"

 

"You're both prideful animals.  How long before you figure one of you breaks and the other eats their heart?"

"Should have happened years ago."

"Like I said.  Only you two could screw up a suicide pact."

 

----

 

"You dodged my question, by the by, Mom.  Why the lantern? Why'd you have it.  I know that thing was a wedding gift from Granny.  It's brass and not much else."

"It's a lot of memories of before the world crashed down kid.  Even us old monsters like to chew on something that used to taste good, in another life, at times."

"Bullshit.  You hung onto it for five years.  That's more chewing than you've ever done in your life, and I've seen you eat."

 

 

"He wasn't home while Carteneau was happening.  I came to check.  Maybe settle the score down there instead of making him come home for another challenge, since he'd retired.  Except he'd gone marching again.  Was hanging right where he always hung it in his forge.  No one except us would give a shit about that brass lantern.  Common as dirt they are.  Took the lantern and went home to see if we were all gonna die as the moon came down."

 

 

"You know he's going to keep coming back, right?"

"Good. Next time I'll put a slug in his brain."

 

 

 

"Never said why the lantern Dad."

 

"Check the bottom."

 

"Know what's on the bottom Dad."

 

"Like the hells you do.  There's four names on the bottom there.  Mine, hers, yours, your brothers.  The real names, not the bullshit we feed Outlanders.  Yer granny was good at fine metalwork.  All the names weave in and out of each other.  Form into one large word for what it all used to be.  That's why the lantern.  People talk about carrying a torch, figure that's mine."

 

"You know she'll try to kill you if you try coming home again, right?"

 

"Not if I get her first."

--------------

 

 

At opposite ends of a long road, two children hand their parents off into more welcoming arms.  Neither of them look happy, but maybe accepting.  It's amazing what kind of answers blood will pull out of people.  Both of them are humming a tune as they start moving back down the road towards each other.  One near dancing to the rythmic music, the other under the light of a brass lantern hanging from a gun slung over their shoulder.

 

The parents? Well.  One limps off into a snowy fort and the care comrades in arms.  The other slumps into a merchant cart for the long journey somewhere else.  

 

Somewhere that isn't home.

 

Maybe he'll write another letter.

 

Maybe soon.  

 

Maybe later.

[Hammersmith]

fqJzHcJPomU

 

 

Paper lanterns are funny things.  Especially when they can fly.  

 

Watch this one up in the winds above the Shroud.  One small red light red in an ocean of black.

 

It spins as it rolls through the sea of wind above the canopy.  Always forward.  Even against the wind it goes.  One red light stubbornly pushing onward in the blue cold and the green trees.  Much like the one who'd sent it.  An unhappy crimson burning in a world full of cool colours.

 

It was drifting towards a thin trickle of smoke near the edge of the Shroud.  It was floating down towards the chimney and the porch in front of the primitive, spartan forge.

 

Let's follow it....

 

"BOSS."

She'd been hoping to catch a brief nap before the evening hit and the next leg of what was looking to be an all nighter-job began.  Of course the apprentice would interrupt that the moment.

 

"BOSS LOOOOK."

 

Kidd knew the next words out of the apprentice's mouth would make her regret opening an eye.  She wasn't old, not yet, but she was old enough to mourn losing a rare, guiltless chance for rest.

 

The apprentice had a lantern in their hand.  It was as big as their head, bright red, and...

 

She reached out and pulled it out of his hands irritably.

 

"Where did you get that boy?"

 

"Landed on the porch!" said the Apprentice who was suckling eagerly around an iced treat one of the City Folk had been hawking in the square to children stupid enough to carry coin that was certain to burn a hole in their pocket.  He wasn't a bright child and he wasn't a bright apprentice, wasting money like that, but training the local brats was part of her agreement with the wailers to stay in the Shroud, for the moment.  She was stuck with him.  

 

Who knew what the next moon would bring.   Right now she was teaching kids how to bang shovels out of scrap metal and how to hammer the dents out of Wailer armor without cracking it. 

 

"Bring it here, get the wire clippers too.  And be quick about it."

 

The brat returned with the clipper and more questions.  Always questions.   

 

"Whatisit?"  She'd been like that once. 

 

 Green, rudderless, and directionless. 

 

"It's a letter from home.  No one else is stupid enough to write letters like this."

 

Then someone had decided to pay attention to a street rat who'd built a spring-loaded shit-launcher.  She clipped the wires and unrolled the red paper from the frame of the lantern frame as the child watched. 

"What's it say! It's just covered in squiggles.  Looks like....ants!"   The apprentice was blessedly ignorant.  Though he wasn't wrong.  Of course it was ants.

 

She hated ants.

 

He'd buried her up to her neck next to an ant-pile when she was about the apprentice's age, after all.  

 

For someone so large Geezer had always been quick on his feet and catching a kid on the streets of Ul'Dah was easier when everyone on street moved aside out of pure fear.  

 

Eventually she'd been herded into a dead-end ally.  The entire chase as she remembered it was kind of like a bear herding a scared sheep.  At the end of the ally she remembered being picked up by a mountain of furious flesh...being tossed over a shoulder and then the ground rushing up to meet her.  

 

Who suplexed a 10 year old? 

 

Geezer.  

 

Geezer suplexed ten year olds who threw shit at his door.  

 

That's who.

 

She remembered waking up with one of those damn sticky, sickly sweet iced popsicle melting into her hair and that one red, insane eye staring down at her from a shit-covered face.

 

And then he'd left.  Left her to the ants.  Ants who loved sugar and iced lollies.  

 

His idea of punishment for firing a shit pie at his forge's door.  His idea of punishment for having the bad timing to hit him instead.

 

It had taken her hours to wriggle out of the loose earth and the crawling ants.  More hours to wash the crawling hell-insects off and the melted sugar and fruit out of her hair.  More hours to sulk the pain of the bites off.

Hours to think about what had just happened.

 

Hours still after that she'd been back at the forge door, hammering on it with the remains of the shit-catapult that had been responsible.

 

She'd apologized.  

 

The Geezer had looked surprised.  Actual, brief confusion on the face of the big roe with the crushed eye and the constantly smoking pipe, the terror of the Flame's siege unit.

 

Apprehensive confusion even as he'd asked if she wanted a job and told her she'd probably regret it more than the ants.

 

The memory still brought a smile to her face even as she tossed the letter full of ink ants into the furnace fire.   "It's a reminder kid.  That someone I used to know isn't dead yet.  It probably means trouble and a lot more work for us.  Go pump the furnace, we already have plenty to do." 

 

She didn't' regret anything more than the ants.  

 

He knew that.

 

He was never going to let her forget the ants.

[kharon]

Hi,

 

How possible that holes in the body when you put him out from bed? I think holes will be in the sheet or in the quilt cover?

[Hammersmith]

Hi,

 

How possible that holes in the body when you put him out from bed? I think holes will be in the sheet or in the quilt cover?

((I'm confused slightly by the wording but, let me assure you, it's really, really easy to fill someone full of holes while they're in bed.

[Hammersmith]

hRXb7K7k7bQ

 

 

Two nights before the second set of the Company Tournament.  

 

The roof isn't really made for someone to be walking around on it but that hasn't seemed to stop Hammersmith from getting up there with a pen, some ink, and a lantern frame.  He's busy pasting paper over wire, stuffing fuel into the basket, and humming to himself some ancient dirge with words that are half mumbled.  It's mournful and hopeful.  The sort of thing you hear at a wake.  The sort of thing you start out with to try and dredge up better memories.

 

 

He's still up there as the sun starts to come up.

 

 

Watching that lantern drift into the all consuming light of the dawn.

 

 

Maybe we can follow that lantern.

Maybe we can read what's on it.

 

There's a name on it, so at least we know who it's going to. 

 

Who's Flameson Henkersbeil?

 

---------------------------

 

Hey Henk.

 

Been a while.

 

You mighta heard.  Someone dropped a moon on...Everything.  Reckon where you are you might of had a good view.

 

Shit here is absolute peaches and cream.  Bunch of old vets and wet behind the ears pups rubbing each other all the right and wrong ways.  I can't tell if I'm living in a fightpit or a brothel half the time.  The other half of the time one of the fancy folks are talking hoit and toit and I remember what it was like War Dogging for people who had too much coin and time.

You remember that shit Henk?  First contract we ever signed you farted so hard I'd thought you'd shit your pants.  I had my fucking mouth open when you did it too.  It was like someone had funneled everything filthy in the world and added more, just for giggles, and squatted it out on my tongue. 

 

You just grinned and signed a name on the contract: "Fart Lord of Shit Mountain."  Think you dropped the Fart Lord name at the next contract.  Min, Lihta, and me never really let it drop though.  Too good a name to let die.

 

So, Fart Lord, King of Shit Mountain, why am I writing this?  I think that's a good question, personally, considering you've been dead more than 30 years.  Yet here I am, all this time later, still alive and still writing you letters in whatever version of hell you ended up in, telling you how things are going, and where they went.

 

Bad habit.  But you and I both know I kind of treasure those.  Guy with no vice is a grey, dead husk.  Guy with no grounding is just an explosive waiting to go off.  Vice give you a little of both.  Something to wrap your tounge around and lick.  Something to set you on fire inside.

 

You had the worst fucking vice, you know that right?  It's why you're dead.  You liked other people's shit.  You liked picking fights.

 

It's not THEIR fault you were built like a 4 foot shithouse.  Most people would just haul off one punch, or throw a quip, and let the entire thing buried.

 

Guessin a lifetime of short jokes for a Roe gets old quick though.  Everytime someone opened their fucking mouth you tried to beat them to a bloody, oily pulp.

 

And the three of us had to pull you off before 'tried' became 'did'.

 

Then one evening you got with no one to hold you back.  I guess someone put a beer on your head.  That always set you off worse than usual.

 

They told us you'd killed a LOT of people in that fight.

 

They told us they hung you out in the desert.  The sort of thing you do for the really bad souls out on Mihgo.

 

We told them we hoped they used a short rope and had a wake that evening.  Kept drinking until the short jokes were a crying laugh.

 

I started writing letters.  Min wrote your story and was revising it as a cautionary tale until the day we parted ways.  Lihta just started working on her control.  She turned into a gods-damned diamond hard motherfucker and I blame you for that, I really do.  It's probably why she got caught in the Purge.  No more reckless for Lihta.  Always thought things through, always accepted what would come because of it.

 

Imagine my surprise finding your ass still alive when I was walking back to Ul'Dah nearly 20 years ago.

 

You were supposed to be dead for ten years before that.

 

And yet there you were.  A hole in your lung.  A bigger hole in your gut.  Both your knees crushed.

 

Guessing you met Trouble on the road.  If you'd bothered writing back (I found my letters in your camp you little shit.  I know you don't know how to write but you could have hired someone you absolute little Shit King.) I'd of warned you not to fuck with her. Not unless you were a mile away and behind a big rock.

 

I'm guessing you tried a Stand and Deliver with her. 

 

She probably made a short joke.

 

And then she probably shot you and snapped your joints with the other end of her gun.

 

I'm not sure I was supposed to find you.  I'm not sure Trouble cared.   

 

I sat down while you wheezed, bleeding out from a gut wound and slowly suffocating from a lung that was perforated.

 

I told you what had happened.  I told you where Lihta was buried and what had happened with Min.

 

You didn't say much.  I know you heard though.  Your eyes hadn't gone glassy yet.  Always were tougher than a coffin nail, you were Henk.

 

Kept those eyes open right to the point where I crushed your skull with that rock.

 

Kept those eyes open while I put up a cairn marker.

 

Your eyes open now?  You watching the shit that's happening in these parts, in this time and place?

I bet you are, you fucker.

 

Write back if you can.  Otherwise I'll just keep penning and sending, using that hair I cut off you all those decades ago.

 

Here's hoping you got some rest, Henk.  You always moved too hard and too fast.  You always complained the four of us should be sprinting until we burned.

 

Well.  I'm the only one left.

 

Maybe I should start running again.

 

I'll write yah again later Henk.  Got a fight to do.  Got some shit to make for that fight.

You take care.  I'll see you and the rest eventually.  Don't fear.  I ain't plannin on goin quietly or easy.

 

Gotta keep causing trouble, after all.

 

Last one standing, and all that.

 

-

Flameson Hammersmith

[Hammersmith]

WBQODlM__14

 

 

 

Somewhere, in a room kept locked and, these days, unlived in there's a shelf with stones.

 

 

Stones are boring to most people.  These ones sit in a simple row.  They're remains of masonry.  Some in good condition.  Some with charcoal pencil writing on them noting something.  Some with labels propped up against them.

 

 

There's one that doesn't belong.  It's intact.  It's unmarred.  It's enameled and pristine and it looks powerful, for a piece of stone.  It's from something that used to be impressive.  It's from something that used to be important to a lot of people for a lot of different reasons.

It's important to Hammersmith because of that bloodstain on it and the name written on a bit of card next to it.

 

Who's "F.D. Min" ?

 

 

Maybe the brick will tell us.

 

--------------------------------------------------------

 

The royal gate had always been a thing of beauty.  This was because it had never been knocked on.  No one had ever been able to get this close to the gates Theodoric had had constructed during the Purge.  They were lined with depictions of divine right, divine rule.

All the things Hammersmith resented right now about.

 

He was standing on top of those gates, wedging a part of the white-enameled parapet out of it's setting with a crowbar as he watched a crowd form below.  A brick from this height could do a lot to an armored knight.  Most of the crowd below were simple commoners.  It would likely kill any one of the hairy skulls below, if it found a mark but, for the moment, it decided to stay lodged in it's mortared moorings.  Give it some time.  The giant roe wielding the prybar was very, very good at making masonry give up a steady, stable life.  

 

He was wearing standard issue Mhigan military garb.  Leathers and tunic emblazoned with a similar motif that was emblazoned into the crest over the gate that the crowd, below, was beginning to yell at.  There were several non-standard additions to it though.  Lengths of brass chain, several patches of red sewn into or against the leather and brigantine armor.

 

"Come on Mad Eye. You can't kill all of them."

 

 

There was that Roe from another time, another vision, another place.  Heavy, overlarge book on their back, still completely clad in a leather coat held together with brass fittings and heavy red stitching, several thin, rodlike bangles chiming as they moved.

 

"Fuck off Min." Growled the giant in response.  He'd almost gotten the stone out of the wall, but both of his eyes were fixed on the crowd below.

 

"You know you can't.  So why are you up here."  Min breathed as they drifted up to the wall's edge.  A pair of shaded eyes joined the mad, red ones watching the throng of Mhigans below clamoring for the blood of the King.  Over.  And Over.  And Over.

 

"It's not about killing them.  You know as well as any."  A crack of masonry giving way as the prybar finished it's work on the all too perfect wall.  The giant began to toss the pristine brick up and down in his hand, still watching the crowd.

"You're still mad about Lihta.  That'd explain why you've been playing so nice with the King."  said Min.

 

"Did you come up here to talk or just be a smug shit, Weather Witch?"  Rumbled the giant.

 

"A little of both.  I'm not going to be a part of this.  Regicide's worse than simple slaughter.  One leaves the state standing, on a foundation of blood.  The other means the entire house comes down.  Maybe you've forgotten how to do things any other way.  Maybe the sound of war machines firing and the stench of sulfur's burned your brain out."  Min was already stepping for the stairs.

 

"Then you got about 10 minutes to get the fuck out of here Min." 

Min stared.   "Why 10?"  The furious certainty of the giant Roe gave the shorter one a good deal of pause.

"Because I lit a slow fuse to blow this gate, outward, before you got up here.  It's coming down.  It's going to kill a lot of those idiots down there who didn't listen and clear out when I told 'em how the gate was going to open.  And then they're going to get -really mad-."  Hammersmith grinned, testing the heft of the stone in his hand.

 

"And then they're going to kill the king." Muttered Min.

 

Hammer nodded in response.  "Them and the ones at the other gates.  This is one that isn't manned by the Royals.  King thinks this is the weak gate.  The one that might get him killed.  It's why he rivoted the damn thing shut and welded bars over it."

 

"That'll take most of the wall with it....you're going to collapse the entire wall just to open a gate?  "  She already knew the answer but the question was asked.  Maybe out of habit.  Maybe out of fear there was something worse coming.

 

"I don't do things by halves, Min.  Besides.  All the other gates got Royal Guard that'll be opening theirs.  Nice and peaceful.  Quiet and kind-like." The giant's answer was everything she'd expected.  He looked over the wall, tossing the brick up and down in his hand as the red eyes moved from the mass of meat pressing against the wall, to the herds milling around the Gate further down the wall, some with primitive lengths of lumber as rams.  "This Gate's mob, at least, is going to be full of fury and hate by the time it hits the palace.  A lot of people are going to die and a lot of them are going to be Royals."

 

Min had pulled the book off her back and was scribbling in it. Furiously jotting something in quick, efficient shorthand as she grumbled. "This isn't going to get you revenge for the monks, Hammer, or for Lihta  It's just going to burn the city.  You want that?"

 

Maybe he was.  Maybe he wasn't.  Hammer tossed the brick over to Min as she snapped her book shut as a simple reply.

 

She bludgeoned him with it.  A bloom of red over a virgin white stone.  Hammersmith fell over, face down on a parapet.  She followed up with several heavy thumps from the brass-bound book.

 

The red stained stone was tossed next to Hammersmith's concussed body.

 

Somewhere a fuse burned ever downward as Min walked away, sighing.  

 

"Maybe we'll get lucky."  

 

The sound of footsteps heading down stairs and away from an impending whirlwind of chaos.  

 

The last words between two friends spun off into the noise of the crowd behind the gate

 

"Maybe you'll live through this and finally learn some regret."

[Hammersmith]

o0MIFHLIzZY

 

 

On a roof, under a lantern, a giant slept.

 

A mind filled with the residue of electrical hell.

 

A body twitching in memory of storms long past.

 

Watch what moves a tempest.

 

Maybe learn the song of lightning held close to a heart burned and blackened.

 

---------------------------------------

 

The city is on fire now.

 

The riots are not a surprise.  They were an eventuality.  The explosion at the White Gate two days ago was just one of dozens that announced the arrival of the Garlean "Liberation" force.

 

The Empire was trying to contain the fire but the Poor burn as easily as the rich and flame danced in the garden of everyone's heart here in Ala Mhigo.  

 

Take that Roe in the alley.  The one in the long leather coat and brass tassels, copper chains holding a large book to their back.  She was moving fast.  The brass on her clothing carried hungry sparks of light from the city that was smouldering around her.  

 

She's not the only one trying to be a refugee today.  Thousands are running.  Few will find a place to stop.  

 

Chaos is going to eat this city alive and the smoke that is it's herald twists and howls above Ala Mhigo's battered streets.

 

She's not the only Roe in the Alley though. 

 

Larger roe at another end.  Uglier roe at another end.  A roe with a Brick in his hand.

 

Maybe Hammersmith hasn't learned what regret is.

 

Maybe all either of them have right now is a fury that's going to eat them alive.

 

They're yelling.  Honestly the large, blood crusted, soot-smudged Hammersmith shouldn't have the strength in his lungs for this argument.   The waves of scabbing blood in his white hair would tell you that much.

 

But he's younger and has vigor to sacrifice to pettyness.

 

Min shouldn't have the strength for this either.  Maybe they're tired.  Maybe they're angry.

 

Maybe they're sick of it all.  

 

The smaller roe's voice is getting louder.  It's equal and booming to the giants and the two's voices growl and clash in the confines of the alley's walls.

 

Words.  Some of power.  Some of fury.  Some that won't be able to be taken back.  The smoke grows wings.  Electricity dances in the tempest of cinders.  It's hard to tell if the booms are cannons, or thunder.

 

An arm holding a bloody, white brick up to be thrown.

 

A song of storms and cinders blurring together in screams and shouts and words that run fingers over the brain then down the spinal cord.  Words that make you regret having a sense of hearing.  Words that have power and fury and frantic pain behind them.

 

And then silence.

 

The crackling lightning in the smoke fades.  The ashes and sparks of the choking storm blow on to other lungs and other fatalities to seek.

 

The two turn their backs.

 

They flee the city.

 

They go different directions.

 

The Spark Shaman south.

 

The Weather Witch north.

 

Two friends once.

 

Gone now

 

------------

 

Up on a roof a giant opens his one eye and stares at a cloudless sky.

 

He doesn't know why they stopped.  He isn't sure why the storm didn't strike.

 

Up on a roof Hammersmith sniffs the wind and waits for rain.

[Hammersmith]

L3FfSyzXM44

 

 

In the shadow of someone else's house, Hammersmith smoked and watched.

 

One monk.  One refugee Ala Mhigan.  Both speaking the old ways of a city long since left behind.

 

When was the last time he'd heard that farewell? Walk with the destroyer....

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

Lihta.

-----------------------------------------

The siege of the Destroyer Temple had begun.

 

And two old friends were celebrating an anniversary in it's basement.

 

It was far underground but even down here in the foundation the shudder and shake of weaponry hitting the walls of the fortified temple shook dust loose and rattled stones.  This had been, at one point, a training room.  All the students that should have been down here were up on the walls now.  Helping to shore up the few entrances into the place and dropping oil oil, boiling tar, and, sometimes, blasts of energy down on the lines of the Corpse Brigade hitting the walls and pummeling the fortification with rocks, fire, and patience.

 

Two old friends talked as the world they knew began to unravel.

 

"Every gods damn year."

 

The female Roe.  Large.  Wirey.  So toned and lithe that her musculature, even when handing over a bottle, looked like steel strands under tension, dozens of cuts winding over the weave of power under the skin.  The yellow wraps of a Destroyer Monk draped over the limbs.

 

"Same day.  The day they hung Henk.  Yeah."

 

A large male roe.  Red eyes.  Shirtless.  Covered in dirt. No twisting burn scars yet but plenty of long keloid cuts on the flesh running through folds and rolling fields of heavy muscle.  We know that one.  The voice isn't toned by several decades of drink yet but we know it, even without the coat of scars and an eye that was destined to leave his skull at some point in the future.  He was wearing some sort of red kilt with brass tassels and bells on it.  Mostly he was wearing dirt.

 

"And every year we beat on eachother."  She took a hard pull from the bottle before passing it to the giant.

 

"One thinking the other's gonna learn they're wrong." Muttered the giant before taking his share of whatever had been in the glass.

 

"You regret letting Henk go out that night Mad Eye?" muttered Lihta.

 

"I'm incapable of regret."  Boasted Hammer, setting the bottle said.  "You and me both know he was going to go off one night or another with or without us."

"Yeah yeah. Short rope for Henk.  So what do we do this year?" muttered the monk in return.

 

"Been years at this.  I think we're both kinda afraid to break tradition at this point." nodded Hammer.

 

"Tunneling under a wall in the middle of a siege just to fight me goes above and beyond tradition Hammer.."  She pointed at the edge of the basement wall.  There was a hole there alright.  Small.  You'd think too small for someone Hammer's size but.  Well.  He was here wasn't he?

 

Being on the sapper squad taught you a lot about tunnels and dirty fighting.

 

"Only way isn't it?  Besides.  YOUR fucking Monkey Order sent me off to the Sapper corp all them years ago.  Only fitting I show up using the craft they made me learn."  Hammer pushed to his feet to join Lighta

"...you brought the entire siege corp with you Mad Eye." she said

 

"...yer point?" he said.

 

"My point is the last time we're going to dance.  You remember what we said after they handed us Henk's stuff?"  The female roe's movements were liquid. Smooth.  So much sine wave motion in a figure full of wires tensing and relaxing in unison.

 

"Yeah.  Yeah I do.  Time to see who was right about it eh?" Where as Hammers musculature writhed and quivered with every reluctant shift of weight.

 

"Yeah.  They'd toss me out for this.  Which is why the deal was 'when there's no other choice' I guess.  All that just for once rancid kill."  She held out a hand, smiling.

 

Hammer frowned. "Don't call me rancid.  I ain't dead yet."

 

Lihta laughed. "One fat ugly kill."

 

The giant slapped his midsection in response "I ain't fat either."

 

Lihta sunk a finger into it in response.  "Seige Corp is feeding you too good Hammer."

 

"Fuck you Dancer.  Besides.  They tossed me out of here for less than something like this.  Sooner or later our game was going to piss off the temple.  The temple just pissed off the king first."  The softness in the giant's muscles flowed away, like oil off a piston.

 

"Be fair.  You earned that trip to the tunnel rat squad." The liquid wave of Lihta froze, hand out.

 

It seemed like an eternity before Hammer shook it.

"That smug fucker earned getting his arm broken in five places.  Worth it."  

 

"And it never healed right because you pulled a piece of the break out while he was still screaming." She motioned to the basement room.  "So what now?"  

 

"We dance one last dance and we see who drinks the hardest of violence.  White or black.  Devil Dog Dervish"  The giant thumped his chest. "Or the Wisdom of the Path."  Lihta bowed.

 

As she strode to the other end of the training room she called back. "What...did you do to him anyway?"

 

"Same thing you showed me."  Accused Hammer as he rolled his shoulders and crackled his joints.

 

"I didn't teach you that.  Open the gate I said.  See what happens I said."  The female accused back.

 

"You know me Dancer."  Hammer took a stance    

 

"Yeah." muttered Lihta.  "Never do anything by halves."

[Hammersmith]

8SGVRcJARxQ

 

"Can you really be too old for that?"  She said.

 

Hammersmith wasn't a fan of talking about love with other people.  They wanted complicated answers when really the answers were simple, and answers they wouldn't like or understand until later.

 

 

And later they still wouldn't like them.  Hell.  He'd kept going at it for how long?  

 

 

The infirmary was quiet at this time of night.  Just the nearly dead trying to keep their lungs moving while the rest of the Company slept.

 

 

The giant sloshed the coffee around in his hand.  Stirring an old memory, beloved memory, from it's own slumber.

 

 

-------------------------------------------

 

Coming down off the Spine is cold work.  The ones coming down off it with carts, trade goods, and people, have everything to lose and the mountain?  

 

The Mountain didn't care.

 

 

It even had the audacity to block out the sun's attempts to fight the chill.  Even here in the middle of the morning it hadn't managed to crest the Spine completely, leaving the small basecame in the Shadow of the Spine to continue shivering in the callous cling of winter.  There were fires scattered around the camp and, on the edges a cart mounted forge was leaking smoke into the stark, crystal blue sky.  There was another cart propped up off it's axle near it, the cause of the caravan's delay.  Repairs took time.  Repairs slowed everything.

 

It's the fire near the forge that we're interested in.  Four bodies.  Four Roe.  We've met all of the, one way or another.  

 

One broad shouldered, deathly pale, white haired red eyed kid in smithing gear. There were brass and iron charms hanging off several of the fittings in his work gear.  

 

One tall and wiry, wrapped in bindings and furs.  Even before their apprenticeships they was still androgynous.  Years in the Destroyer order wouldn't change that, just build it into a wire-wound fury.

 

One squatting too close to the fire, wearing brigantine armor and a wild mane of unkempt hair over their back and shoulders.  They were small, but broad, powerful, and visibly impatient.

 

One with an open book on their knees, writing, frowning under a hooded coat with brass sigils set into the buttons and fittings.

 

We know these four.

 

"Can we get this going?  The longer that cart's off it's wheel the longer we're here in the frozen asshole of the world." Muttered the red eyed smith.

 

"We wouldn't be taking this long if you didn't do things the old fashioned way Shaman." Grumbled the short lion maned maniac by the fire.

 

The one with the quill chimed in.  "Just because you're impatient doesn't mean the rest of us don't consider what we're doing."

 

"It's an oath circle.  We all know what we're doing and how it goes."  Shrugged the wire framed ghoul.

 

"Tell why you got thrown out.  Listen to the others.  Decide if they're the kind of people you can rely on to do right by you now AND later.  Bleed if they are.  Not hard." The smith had produced a knife to punctuate the point.

 

"Then you start, loudmouth bastard."  The Lion in Winter sat back on their haunches, staring at the smith with dull, black eyes.  The other two followed suite.

 

"Squeaky wheel gets the kick is it?  Right.  I earned that fir bothering to give a fuck."  The smith reached into the fire with a pair of tongs and pulled a coffee pot out from the embers and flames. "I'm out here in the fucking cold because my brother and I were the only kids and Shamans always throw one out the nest.  Brother died.  Early.  Turns out they weren't too keen on keeping me around as a reminder of that."

 

The giant lowered his red eyes to the coffee as he started to pour. "Why m'here at this fire?  Other than this sort of thing doesn't work without a Spark Shaman and the words?  Because I think you three are worth it.  Even you Fartlord of Shit Mountain."  Hammer toasted his coffee towards the Lion, who flashed a point-toothed grin.  "But the real reason is that when I'm dead I'd rather have a bunch of idiots who cared around my grave than two shitty old assholes who won't throw m'ashes in the right direction after I die.  Well.  That n'pull m'head off if I do something -really- stupid."

 

The wire ghoul opened their mouth to say something but the smith cut her off. "No.  No fucking questions.  That's the ritual.  State.  State Why.  Judge.  Circle. Blood. Name.  Then you're stuck with us.  You judge now or never.  New start.  New Family."

 

The group nodded and turned their collective gaze to the Lion, who stared back with an incredulous loathing at the fact they'd been put on the spot. "M'here because I've got four siblings and all of them call me runt."  The short lion scowled. "I'm the oldest and I'm the Runt.  I stay home -all- of them are going to end up dead.  I'm out here because everyone else figured that out before I got a chance.  I'm here with you cunts because I think you might be able to keep me held down and out of trouble long enough to get something that makes that Runt thing not matter."

 

"What? No 'That's a Tall order.' ?  I can see you thinking it.  But at least you got the decency to keep it quiet when it counts.  No one else back home does."  The self proclaimed runt looked around, frowning.  "Who's next?"

 

The two males stared at the two remaining bodies around the fire.  The Ghoul was the one who picked up the thread and spoke next. "I'm here because they're afraid.  Afraid I'll eat them out of house and home this winter.  Or the next winter.  Or the winter after that.  Worried I won't help, that I talk back too much.  That I don't care."  The brown eyes in the furs stared out at the group.  

 

"I'm here at this pity party because I think you all will keep me honest on that.  Even if it's just to spite them, I could be more than all that crap they were shoveling.  Even if it means pulling his head off."  She pointed at the smith, who nodded sagely.

 

Three pairs of eyes settled on the Scribe.  Who smiled.

"I'm here because I want to be.  You tragic fools need at least someone stupid enough to think going out into the world on their own power is worth the trouble.  Besides.  I want stories.  I want something to bring home when I'm old and grey."  She looked around the group.  "Which is why I'm here with you.  I think you're all going to make a great, long, good story."

 

The three pairs of eyes looked at each other.  Then at the Scribe.  

 

Then the smith spoke up. "I think yer full of shit."

 

"Aye."  Echoed the lion.

"Yep."  Nodded the ghoul.

 

The scribe scowled. "Then you get to see just how full of it I am.  Take it or leave it."

 

The three all nodded.  

 

"Honest enough."  Grinned the smith.

"No more stupid what I've been doing until now." Snickered the lion.

"Maybe we can dig the shit out of your skull along the way." Said the ghoul, offering a hand out to pat the scribe's thin shoulders.  The smith did some work with a knife while they talked and argued.  Exchanging stories.  Upbringings.  All of it freely given.  None of it asked for.  That first tenuous bond among friends.  That first link in a long chain.  The smith's coffee cup was empty.  Filling it's bottom with blood from his palm didn't take much work.  He passed it around to the lion, who did the same, then to the Scribe, who ran the edge over the hand she didn't use for writing, and then to the Ghoul, who passed the thing full circle back to the Smith.

 

"Alright.  This is where we agree we're all leaving.  Maybe we'll come back.  Not as the one who started the trip.  Probably won't even recognize yourself the next time you come up this mountain."  The giant looked one last time at the Spine, grinning.  "So we shed the old names.  Bury the true ones.  Pick something out nice for the trip. Circle of family, made here and now until we're all dead."

 

"We're here around a fire.  You're gonna pour that bloodcup into it.  I say start Flameson for the group end of the name.  Where it all starts.  Us and a fire"  Muttered the lion before the Scribe interjected.  "Flamesdotter. Unless you already forgot there's more than just your sack around this fire."

 

The smith and the ghoul shared a grin before nodding.  "Fine.  Now pick yer own personal end of it."

 

"Henkerbiel for me."  The group gave the newly christened Henk a side eye as he protested. "It's the word for the axe I have.  The one they threw me out with.  Might as well wear it as a brand.  Besides.  Rolls of the tounge.  Flameson Henkerbiel."  Henk grinned proudly.  Eagerly.  "Like it.  Has some weight."

 

"Minerva.  Heard it from a trader years ago.  Always wanted to steal the name.  Might as well take the chance while I have it, hm?"  Nodded the Min formerly known as scribe.  "Flamesdotter Minerva.  Sounds good for a story."

 

The Ghoul shrugged, and crossed their arms to lean close to the fire before nodding. "Lihta.  Sounds like fire.  Has some warmth in it.  Hard sound, light sound.  Fast sound.  Good for people like us.  Flamesdotter Lihta.  Why not.  Easy name to keep."  The ghoul's face split into the first smile seen so far on their face. "My name."

 

And that left the smith.  "Simple fir me.  Got a passion. Got no problem being known by that."  The smith's arm reached out over the fire to pour the tin coffee cup with the mixed blood of the four into the fire.

 

"Call me Flameson...."

 

-----------

 

Somewhere in the infirmary Hammersmith rubbed his remaining eye and muttered a protest against consciousness.