Torain is, for many, the final stop on the way to Mordia - the end of the trade pipeline, so to say. Everything that Lwenn produces which gets sold to the empire next door goes through Torain, and everything that Mordia sells to Lwenn tends to pass through here as well. It’s like so, that, over the centuries, what was at one point just another muddy little village on the shores of Solenna’s Eye grew, house by house and merchant by merchant, into one of the kingdom’s larger cities.
Red woke up at the crack of dawn, under a sky lit orange by the low-arching sun. Miraculously, there are no clouds today, and overhead the great, stretching canvas of heaven shifts from an orange shade in the west to something closer to a deep, darkening mauve in the east. Even in the morning, with most of the sun still shaded behind the mountains, the streetlamps are on. But even if it’s dark, it doesn’t mean that the city hasn’t woken up with her.
Passing the bridge over the rapid whitewater of the Lagan, there’s the lakefront. Here, the stretch of shore doesn’t bleed swampily into the water, but is rather held up by a stone retaining wall, with little wharves and quays jutting into the icy lake, for boats and ships that are for now safely locked away while the waters freeze up. Across the way from the lakeside boulevard, the city stretches ahead for miles between the rivers. Past the lakeside shell of fancy shops and granite architecture, the farther one looks from the old quarter just behind them, the newer the buildings become: stone turns to bricks, roofs become tiled, single-storeys become tall apartments and tenements, and finally at the farthest, eastern edge of the city, away from the glitz and glamour of the centre, the warehouses, railways and worker-lodgings for the trade industry are barely visible through cold winter fog.
There aren’t many tourists in the middle of the winter, though, yet the streets are full of people. Instead of the fancy cars of rich visitors, the slick cobbles of the boulevard squeal under the heavy tires of flatbed trucks, contents hidden beneath the light-blue tarps of the army. And on the sidewalk, strolling between the chilly, heavy-coated locals, Red sees the long battledresses of Lwennian soldiers.
Everything that comes from Mordia must pass through Torain - an army included.
It takes some work on Red’s part to find an opening to cross the street, and even then, she forces a carriage to stop suddenly, and the horses neigh indignantly at her while the driver curses her out. From here, it’s just a matter of walking to the train station and finding the man named Constantine… but she hasn’t visited Torain in years, and in the hustle and bustle of the waking city, orienting herself among the hundreds of soldiers and uncaring locals is a greater undertaking than she imagined.
She realises soon enough, though, that people tend to give her a wide berth. Her eyes shine like the sky above, and it’s natural for many to want to keep their distance from the yellow-eyed witch. Those that don’t mind her eyeshine tend to simply follow the crowd and keep their distance. The dishevelled appearance and wild hair do wonders to make her look like the sort of person one wouldn’t want to bump into.
“Hello?”, “Excuse me.”, “Would you happen to…”, “Good morning, sir!”, “Your hat is lovely, madam, could I please…”
“Sorry, not interested.”, “I don’t have any spare change on me.”, “Don’t touch my coat.” - and those are just from people who are kind enough to reply. Most simply look at her, make eye-contact for about a second, and quickly speed up and pretend not to have heard her. Every once in a while as she walks, she quietly holds out a hand and tries to touch someone’s arm, and that at best leads to them recoiling slightly to the side and carrying on with a quicker pace -- at worst, it leads to a sharp, one-sided exchange of insults while they look away.
By the time she takes a few corners, ending up on some narrower, older street with less cars on it, it strikes Red that she has absolutely no idea where she’s going.
“Well, bugger,” she sighs and kicks a pebble. It’s only been half an hour, though. But every wasted minute is another one Paul could be signing the recruiting form. It’s not like she can just ask for directions, though. She already got slapped once when she thought she had grabbed onto a lady’s hand, but instead accidentally touched her purse.
It was a fancy purse, to be frank. And she did walk away into the crowd fast enough that Red didn’t have time to give her back the ten or so laurels that fell out after she slapped the daylights out of the haggred witch.
There’s a cold sensation against her side for a split-second, before a force shoves her to the side. Red scrambles to regain her footing before she can fall straight into the roadside gutter, but a heavy hand catches her arm before she can.
“Excuse me,” she says as soon as she straightens up, brushing her hands through her coat.
“No no, excuse me. I was absolutely the one who bumped into you, I’m sorry,” answers a voice muffled through a thick scarf and the metal of an army full-helm.
Red turns to face her, and is careful in doing so. She looks up - quite high up, too, this army lady easily has a head over her in the height department - but is cautious to look slightly to the side of her face. An inch or so, so as to not stare directly into her eyes. It’s hard to make out her figure through the thick parka-esque battledress of Lwennian infantry, but she can guess that, given by the raven-stamped cuirass just under the coat, the steel gauntlets, armoured boots and the mighty-looking flanged mace hanging not quite in sight, but not quite out of it either by the woman’s waistbelt, she’s talking to someone who could quite easily pick her up and wring her like a twig.
It’s a good thing, then, that she seems far less abrasive than the people she’d seen earlier.
“You’re okay?” she asks, twisting a foot into the snowy sidewalk.
“Don’t worry, I hardly stumbled. Sorry for staying in your way, though.”
“No no! Sorry myself, I got carried away looking for signs. I forgot to even look ahead of me.”
“Ah, are you headed somewhere?”
“Yes. Something tells me I definitely got lost, though. The roads get far… windier in the old quarter than I first thought…”
Red glances at her arm when she notices it move. The chevrons mark a corporal. She reaches into the inside of her coat, pulling out a beige paper and reading it over. The fingers of her other hand reach up, over her shoulder, nervously fidgeting through a waterfall of hair the same shade of onyx as the witch’s, though far straighter and more kempt than the shaggy canopy on Red’s head.
“Ah. We’re both in the same boat, then,” says Red.
“Also lost?”
“Mhm.” Red nods. “I’m looking for the train station.”
“Oh, that’s where I came from! I can point you there, it’s not that long a walk.” the corporal nods in turn. She folds up the paper and turns to point down a road. “That way, and then once you pass the yellow building, you’ve got to head all the way to the end of the street. Afterwards, there’s loads of signs to point you the right way, but you’ll probably see it anyway. Hope that helps.”
“Ah, thank you kindly.” Red smiles. She pauses, waiting to walk around her, before noticing her unfolding the note and looking at it again. “Hm. Which way are you going? Maybe I can help you look as well.”
I shouldn’t dawdle, she thinks. Then the woman looks down at her, sunlight shining in the black, polarised lenses of a pair of battle-goggles.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry, it sounds like you’re in quite the rush!” she says in a soft, understanding tone.
“Please. It’s the least I can do.”
Red smiles and nods. For a moment, she forgets about the eyeshine - and the woman doesn’t seem to strictly mind. Whether it’s the goggles getting in the way of whatever piercing gaze she’s got, or if she’s simply good at hiding fear, Red has no idea. If she does want her to leave her alone, though, she’s not going to ask twice.
“Well… I don’t know, there must have been some error or… something from above.” ‘Above’, like the gods? I know the gods make many errors, corporal, thinks Red. “Command sent me way ahead of the rest of my platoon.” ah, not that sort of ‘above’.
“Crazy. All alone, then?”
“Yeah. My lieutenant told me something about a cafe I could go to in the meantime. She knew the owner, told me I could get whatever I wanted until they got here. Thing is, I don’t know how to get to it, and, um-” the corporal, here, makes a brief pause, trying to keep her movements subtle as she places a hand over her stomach. “-I’m getting a bit peckish.”
Red opens her mouth in time for a low, guttural rumble to resonate from the woman’s stomach. She knits her fingers over her abdomen in embarrassment, glancing sideways.
“Well.” Red doesn’t comment. “What’s it called?”
“La… um,” she looks at the paper again. “La Roche.”
“Oh. In the grey building, with the red-tinted windows? Big sign on it that says ‘La Roche’? You can smell the pastries from across the street?”
“I don’t know, but that sounds like it quite fits the bill. Do you know it?”
“I passed it on the way here. If you’d like, I could show you.”
“Oh, that’d be very kind of you, but I’d feel guilty. You sounded like you were in a hurry, earlier…”
“Don’t worry, corporal. Come on, it’s this way. It didn’t look like they had lots of yum-yums left, so we should hurry if you want to get any.”
“Oh! Oh,” the corporal tightens her grip over her stomach, then after a moment, she reaches out a hand and grabs Red’s unexpecting wrist with conviction. The witch pauses, glances at her, and nods. “Show me, please!”
Finding the cafe was easy, and though the corporal insisted for a good few moments that Red stay with her to get something, the witch refused. Finding Constantine was the more pressing issue, and the corporal seemed to understand. She happily bid the witch goodbye, and Red turned to rush down the cobbled way to the station.
Saint Solenna Station is the main rail artery for Torain. It’s a daunting way away, too - far longer of a walk than the corporal made it out to be - all the way on the other end of the city from the lovely lakeside. The plaza in front of it is strewn with the blue coats and caps of soldiers, rifles hanging around their shoulders, some walking off immediately, others enjoying the only few hours of daylight with some cigarettes and chatter.
Behind them, a great building of yellowed brickwork and tall black windows pierces a clocktower like a spear into the overcast sky. Behind it, then, there’s three or so passenger platforms shaded under an arched roof of glass and iron, and farther behind them sprawls out the rest of the freight terminal, where locomotives hauling goods wait to be overseen before passing into Mordia beyond. Farther on, tenements and warehouses paint a blocky, low-lying skyline.
It’s a large place. Larger, it almost feels, than the city. Finding one man in this grey network of locomotive steam and crowds and shouting angry workmen seems like finding a needle in a haystack. She begins asking around - and if it was difficult finding someone that would listen earlier in the city, it’s near impossible now. Grizzled, underpaid and overworked rail line workers don’t feel like giving the time of day to some other clueless tourist. Worse, still, most that do agree to look at her tend to abandon the conversation or return their vision to their boots fairly quickly. Soldiers can’t help. The stationmaster and the supervisors recognise the name, and with sideways glances they can confirm that a man named Victor Constantine does, indeed, work at Saint Solenna Station. His whereabouts, though, in all the steam and soot and whistling engines and shouting soldiers and delivered equipment, are lost to everyone.
It’s a slow and gruelling process, dashing through the crowds, addressing questions to those who care to listen while looking at the floor or some other direction, tripping against luggage and the feet of dozens of people.
But, alas:
“Excuse me, sir.”
He works way behind the passenger station, among the train cars and loading bays of the freight terminal. She caught him while he’s busy, though, overseeing two soldiers unloading long, casket-like crates out of a train painted with the white raven of Lwenn.
“Do excuse me.” she insists when he pays her no mind, reaching out a hand and touching his arm. He jolts, takes a step to the side, snaps his head towards her and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something quite harsh. Then she blinks, and in the fog and mist, it seems like her eyes are the thing that shines brightest. He stops, silent, before looking in another direction.
“What?”
Victor is a tall and sinewy man with a pale and almost corpse-like complexion. If Red is to guess, he’s of an age similar to the older gentleman she left her horse with - but whereas time had wrinkled him into a flabby prune, Victor almost looks dried up, skin pulled taut along a bony face and frame that looks like it’s barely got fat or muscle attached to it. Wispy, silver-white hair blows uneasily under a black flat cap.
“What do you want?” he asks, keeping his vision trained away. “I’m busy - you shouldn’t even be here.”
“Well, Bluebird sent me, sir,” she says. Victor tenses up a bit. “Sorry, I seem to have come at an inconvenient time, but I don’t believe I can wait much longer.”
“Great.” Victor groans under his breath. “Fine, then. I’ll ask again: what do you want?”
Red opens her mouth to speak, but can’t fast enough before Victor shouts:
“Boys! Hey, boys! Give yourselves a five minute break. But only five minutes, you saw how much work you’ve got! And then there’s another train scheduled just two hours from now!”
The two soldiers look at one another, then nod. They set down the crate into the snow, one groans and puts his hands against the small of his back to stretch, before they both walk off. At last, Victor looks at Red again - though keeps his eyes trained just an inch or so to the side of hers.
“May I speak, now?” Red asks, with a polite smile.
“Go.”
“I must get to Ravenheart. Quickly. I have no money for a ticket, but Bluebird told me I could get a ride with your help,” she says.
Victor lifts up a hand, rubbing the wilted bridge of his nose with his skeletal fingers. She notices sinewy, elongated ears on him, which taper to a sharp point, stretching longer than her own. Elf-ears, like those on Paul and his mother. Her eyes trail up to his hair, too, watching how the wind bullies the wispy strands of his greying combover. She straightens up, though, when he speaks.
“Fine. But next time you see Bluebird, you tell him we’re even, alright? I’m done sneaking people for him, I gave that up a long time ago, got it?”
Red smiles. What history they’ve got is a story for ears other than hers. What matters now is that she’ll get to Paul soon.
“Thank you, sir, I’ll let him know. What train should I get into?”
“The one that’s arriving two hours from now.”
Red’s face drops. Her eyes stare unblinking for a moment.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t give me that, I’m sneaking you onto a train without a ticket. Do you know how much trouble that can get me into, lady?” Victor groans. “I swear, if the boss gets cross at me over this…”
“Sorry, sorry. I promise I’ll be sneaky as a bat. But what do you mean?”
“I’m not risking smuggling you onto an army troop train. That’s a surefire way to get us both in big trouble. The fastest other way to get you to Ravenheart is a freight train that arrives in two hours. While we’re offloading and onloading cargo, you’ll slip inside, and then be extremely careful not to get spotted until it makes its stop at Ravenheart. Got it?”
Red sighs. “Yes, sir.”
“If the rozzers do catch you, you know nothing about me, or Bluebird.” he seems thoughtful, for a moment. “Though, honestly, you can tell them all about Bluebird if you want.”
“Got it. I don’t even know who you are.” Red nods. “But… What should I do until the train gets here? That’s two hours to kill.”
“Suit yourself.” Victor shrugs. “Be here - if you’re late, you’re on your own.”
Before Red can ask anything else, the man whistles loudly into the wind, and the soldiers return to work. She stays, watching silently for another few moments, and she can see how her piercing gaze makes Victor clench his hands and fidget, though he stubbornly refuses to look at her.
Two hours.
Her stomach rumbles. It’s been more than a day since her last meal, and even those sausages and bread weren’t that satiating in the long run.
A church dominates the skyline with a steeple that spires into the clouds, topped with a brass effigy of the blazing sun, built in the centre of the city as though it stands to pierce into its heart. It’s a massive thing, built of white stone, marble and diacordite - the strongest rock there is, mined from the base of the Hollow Mountain to the east, kept only for the grandest and most impressive structures of the kingdom - lined with stained glass windows and surrounded by pillars and columns adorned with murals to the many saints of Lwenn.
A temple to Solarians, who worship the everburning sun and - in Lwenn, at least - the saints it sends down to the earth. Not so everburning in winter, thinks Red. Her stomach growls and her feet stop, dragging through the sidewalk snow as she passes the massive building.
In the square before the church there’s a tall marble statue, its details etched with patience by sculptors long ago, of a tall and fire-haired woman with a sword in one hand and a basket of fruits in the other. Saint Solenna, the Saint of Saints, grandest among them. Around the base of the statue there are smaller shrines to the other figures of the pantheon, but of course the Saint of Lwenn is given the greatest display of all, and in her penumbral shadow stands a dreary congregation. There’s a dozen sullen faces in the square, swathed in thick coats and shawls, waiting before the open cathedral gates.
Red’s feet drag, and she fully turns to look, now. Part of her hoped, deep down, for food. Sometimes, whenever they find anything to spare in their pantries, and when the winters are particularly harsh, the acolytes of light gather outside to give out bites to eat to the needy. And, sometimes, people like her manage to blend in with the faithful for long enough to snag a few things. But today, there is something else going on. A priest walks into the open, and in whatever weak light filters through the thick clouds from the setting sun, his white and gold robes are a dazzle of colour in the sea of grey and brown coats. Behind him, a handful of acolytes dressed purely in white shuffle out as well, carrying a wooden litter on their shoulders. Bundled up tight in thick, woollen wrappings, a body lies with their hands on their chest, concealed eyes left to stare at the overcast sky. The priest turns, looks at Red from afar, as if he sensed her watching. It’s a thing with eyeshine - look at people for too long, and they will feel her gaze biting into them like someone running an icicle into their skin. Awkwardly, Red looks away.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
A funeral procession, about to begin. There is a murmur in the crowd and the people begin to prod and push to make way. Sniffles and quiet coughs ring between the bulky frames, but Red seldom sees tears in anyone’s eyes. Of course, she thinks. Death’s death.
A couple more acolytes tug to close the church gates behind them, to keep the abominable cold outside. The procession begins to move now, slowly at first, with the sound of a dozen shoe-scuffs against the marble blocks of the square. It’s now that Red realises she’s standing too close, and with a polite cough she takes a step back to let the people pass by her. From among the crowd, she spots a face staring at her: a wrinkled visage, half-hidden under the warmth of a scarf and hood, whose cloudy old eyes stare into hers without a hint of hesitation. The lady tightens up.
“My condolences,” she brings herself to say, as the congregation passes. Nobody regards her afterwards, and she keeps staring for a long few minutes, in silence, as they begin to march down the cobbled street over to the stretch of open field behind the towering cathedral, like an empty park boxed in by buildings. The priest chants and waves a silvered censer while one of the acolytes passes between people, offering lit candles.
They’ll reach the field soon, she knows, where there’s a pyre prepared. That woollen cloth isn’t simply there to warm the corpse; it’s soaked in that powerful, myrrh-scented concoction that she can still smell now, which catches fire like few other things shy of kerosene can. They’ll burn them, whoever they were, and in the brightness and heat of fire will the spirit be free to rise to Sol. And after the myrrh burns itself out, they will gather the ashes and cast them upon the earth, so that for all of the things one took from the soil in life, they shall feed it back in death. That’s what’s done in Lwenn. It’s how Solarians do it.
Solarians are everywhere in the kingdom. Their temples litter the country, from small shrines to the minor saints on the roadsides, to chapels, to grand cathedrals in cities like Torain or Ardglas or Ravenheart for the grandest deities of the pantheon, for names like Solenna, Morgana, Rauel.
But there are few places that would accept someone like her.
Red’s fingers curl, and with the tightening of her fists comes the sound of scrunching leather. Her eyes are hot and stinging. She scrapes in a deep breath, then coughs sharply into the frigid wind. There’s someone she must visit, she remembers now. Someone she hasn’t visited in much too long.
She was only ten, last time. Ten, and alongside someone else. Someone she had to forget, too, a long time ago, for reasons beyond either of their control.
From the lakeside and the piers that spike into the icy waters, far away and shrouded in fog there’s the pupil of Solenna’s Eye: the little island where, long ago, the Hildegards would retreat to. It’s a distant speck of land, perimetered with a marshy coast that melts into mud where the cold water laps at it.
The house, as she expected, is hard to see. Not because of the fog or the swaying yellow branches of a weeping willow in the centre of the island, but because it had begun sinking into the ground years ago. It stands now, crooked, the mossy black tiles of its roof caved in and dipping into the water, windows broken and wobbly chimney topped with the nests of birds that left for the winter. Ivy that has become wilted and blackened coats many of the walls not yet sunken away in the ravenous earth.
“Hello,” Red says, under her breath, to nobody in particular. As if imagining, somehow, that the old house could hear.
There are things yet untouched by time, though. In the garden in front of the manor, surrounded by the dead thorn bushes of the courtyard, there are cairns that reach into the air twice Red’s size, each stone etched meticulously with runes and sigils whose bright red dye has faded into a maroon brown.
“I’m coming,” she utters, and she lifts a foot off the wooden pier. With a cracking thud, her bootsoles land and crack the ice beneath her, but it doesn’t give.
There’s a dozen cairns here, six on each side of the garden, around a cracked and mossy path. Someone waits under each. And under the thirteenth closest to the water’s edge, the shortest cairn of them all, whose sigils are amateurishly hewn and losing their lustre, waits someone very important to her.
Red takes another step, and the ice cracks hollowly beneath her. It’s yet to fully settle. Nobody else dares walk on the frozen eye. Another step, and then-
“Hey! What are you doing!?” a voice she’s heard before shouts from the shore. She freezes up, looks down at the reflection made in the cracking crystal. Like drops of amber floating under the ice, she meets her own eyes, and Red looks ahead again.
“I’ll come another time, dad,” she utters, before slowly turning, looking into the black goggles of the corporal.
“You need to be careful! That ice could break underneath you, hang on!” The titan of a woman quickly rushes down the stone steps of the lakeside, to the jetty, until her iron-soled boots are right at the wharf’s edge. “Here, grab my hand! Be careful!”
Red walks cautiously across the water, retreading the indents her feet made in the ice earlier, before daintily setting foot on the stable ground and lifting herself up, not needing the corporal’s hand.
“A-ah,” the woman seems awkward, now, looking at her unused palm, quickly opting to shove it into a pocket. “Are you okay? What were you doing?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Are you sure you’re fine?” asks the corporal again, setting her hands on Red’s shoulders. The witch looks up, the gaze meeting that of the woman’s goggled eyes. “Here you go,” she says in a soft voice, somewhat muffled through a scarf and an armoured faceshield.
Red stiffens up in confusion when she feels arms around her spindly frame, pulling her into a short - but tight - embrace. The difference in height makes it strange, resting her head on its side against the woman’s cuirass, but the warmth and softness of her overcoat makes it soft and pleasant in a way that, for just a moment, Red freezes, unsure what to reply with.
“Um,” she utters, under her breath.
Suddenly, awkwardly, the corporal lets go.
“Sorry. You just… looked very sad, for a moment,” she explains in a tone as soft as her embrace. “I thought that would help, but I see now that maybe I should’ve… asked, first.”
“No, it’s absolutely okay.” Red smiles. “Thank you. That did help.”
“Oh!” The corporal smiles in return. “Why… I’m very happy it did. I thought you had business at the train station, last I saw you?”
“You recognise me?”
“It’s not that hard, you have a very…” She pauses, trying to pick her words correctly. “...Distinct set of features. Sorry. That absolutely came out wrong, didn’t it?”
“No, I understand. But yeah, my train ride is only in two hours - probably more like one and a half at this point. Still a lot of time to kill, and… I don’t really know what to do.”
“Ah! You could join me, if you’d like! La Roche is not too far away.”
“You’re sure? I don’t want you to have to sit back down after just finishing eating.” Red chuckles.
“Oh, no no. I just went out for a walk to, um… let everything settle. Me, my stomach, well…” The corporal trails off, sheepishly, holding up a hand and resting it against her abdomen. “...I don’t usually say no to seconds.”
“I see.” Red chuckles. “Thank you. I’d be very happy to.”
La Roche is a small cafe on the corner of Torain’s lakeside boulevard, with red windows and ash-grey brickwork, and an ornate raven knocker on the front door. By now, as the young night begins to dawn, the streetlamps light the roads a dim whitish yellow. It’s not even close to closing hours yet, however, and there are still some wandering souls milling about inside, drinking afternoon tea and chatting about the weather. Mostly complaining.
“You said something about getting free snacks?” Red asks, finding a table near a corner and pulling out a chair to sit down. Opposite to her, the corporal’s chair squeals under her weight in such a way that the lady worries she’s about to fall - but it miraculously holds.
“Mhm! It’s the loveliest thing, really. I told the owner about my lieutenant, and he was thrilled. ‘Aaah, you know Klara? How has she been?’ and the sort. It was adorable.” She begins to unfasten the leather straps and belts keeping her helmet on. “He said Klara’s friends get free food, then. Don’t get me wrong. I am absolutely not complaining.” She chuckles.
“I bet he isn’t either,” Red says, in a tone that thankfully goes over the corporal’s head. Glancing at the display-window for the pastries, it’s nearly empty, and less than an hour ago she remembers it being full of the freshly-baked foodstuffs.
“So, in fact, you’ve never-” The corporal pulls her helmet off, revealing a round, friendly pale face with freckles across the nose and cheeks. “-told me your name!”
She runs a hand through her black hair to arrange it somewhat, placing the helmet down on the table too. Then, she makes a motion of wanting to remove her goggles, before glancing at Red’s eyes and opting to keep them on.
“I hope you don’t mind that I…” She points quietly to said goggles, and the thick black lenses that shroud her large eyes.
Red shakes her head: “Not at all. I’m Red, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” Smiles the corporal. “Corporal Fasha Lacroix, at your service.”
“Ooh. An exotic name,” comments Red with a little smile.
“Well, I mean no offence, but Red is not exactly common either,” Fasha retorts, but as Red opens her mouth to say something, she chuckles and daintily covers her mouth with her large, gloved hand. “I’m joking, I understand. My parents wanted something more unique. Apparently it’s… well, I’m not quite sure where it’s from…”
“Aradazian,” answers Red, quickly. “It’s from Aradazia, to the south. I’m not sure what it means, though.”
“Ooh! Have you been there before?” Fasha asks, starting to slip her hands out of the heavy leather gloves.
“Not really, but I read about them in books. They’ve got lots of names like that: Zahra, Nahlah, Zayd, the like. They sound unique and foreign to our Lwennian ear the way names like Edward or Sigwald sound foreign to them. I take it you’re not from there.” She chuckles as Fasha sets the gloves down and daintily grabs a menu.
“Not even close. I’m from farther north, near Liversy. You can probably…”
“Tell from the accent?”
“Yeah, that.” Fasha smiles. “You sound southern, somewhat.”
“I was born just a few miles away from this place,” answers Red, prompting a merry look from Fasha.
“Oh my!” she exclaims. “I got it right. So, I take it you read a lot, Red. It doesn’t sound like you travel.”
“How could you tell?”
“You don’t even know where the train station is, for one.” Fasha chuckles again.
Red can’t think of a reply to that, and she grabs the other paper on the table, which she assumes to be just a second menu. The yellow piece of cheap pulp paper she grabs, though, is more of a pamphlet. Glancing to the other tables, it looks like someone went around earlier and left one on each.
In black ink, at the very top, there is an eagle on the backdrop of a burning sun, sashayed in a strip of parchment bearing the bold words Sol Mit Uns. The crest of the Mordian Empire, somewhat bleeding into the poor quality paper, ink faded to something more resembling charcoal.
★ ★ ★
BRAVE CITIZENS OF LWENN!
THE NEW YEAR DAWNS, YET THE OLD PROBLEMS PERSIST
DO NOT FORGET THAT…
★ EVEN AFTER A DECADE, YOUR GOVERNMENT HAS FAILED TO TRULY REPAIR YOUR NATION SINCE THE TAWALLIAN WAR;
★ THOUGH RICH IN RESOURCES, YOUR COUNTRY REMAINS ONE OF THE LEAST INDUSTRIALISED NATIONS IN ALGADDA;
★ THE WEAK RULE OF YOUR KING IS WHAT LED TO THE UNREST AND TAWAL’S BREAKAWAY THIRTY YEARS AGO;
★ MANY OF LWENN’S DOWNFALLS CANNOT BE BLAMED ON ITS HONEST AND HARDWORKING CITIZENS, BUT ON THE WEAK AND UNRELIABLE NATURE OF ITS LEADERSHIP;
LIKEWISE, DO NOT FORGET…
★ TWELVE YEARS AGO WHEN TAWALLIAN FORCES WERE AT THE GATES OF RAVENHEART, MORDIAN LEGIONS WERE FIRST TO COME TO YOUR AID;
★ THANKS TO MORDIA’S EFFORTS, IT HAS BEEN MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS SINCE LWENN HAS LAST SUFFERED A SIZEABLE RAID FROM THE NORTHERN JACKALS;
★ MORDIAN BUSINESSMEN AND NOBLES ACCOUNT FOR A MAJORITY OF LWENNIAN INDUSTRIAL INVESTMENTS;
★ MORDIAN INTERESTS EMPLOY THOUSANDS OF LWENNIANS, AND THOUSANDS OF LWENNIANS STUDY IN MORDIAN ACADEMIES AND TECHNOMANCER GUILDS;
★ MORDIA HAS AND ALWAYS SHALL BE LWENN’S TRUSTED AND LOYAL ALLY; OUR EMPIRES ARE SISTERS, OUR DESTINIES ARE INTERTWINED;
A PLEASANT NEW YEAR OF 1923 TO OUR LWENNIAN BROTHERS
SOL MIT UNS
& HAIL SOLENNA, QUEEN OF QUEENS
★ ★ ★
All across Lwenn, the Crown calls to its reservists to pick up their rifles and sharpen their scythes. The sound of war drums echoes from across the mountains and the rivers, from the empire west.
“Would you like me to order for you?” Fasha asks, offering the menu. Red puts the pamphlet back down. “It could save you some money.”
“Hm? No, no. I have some money left over myself.” she pats herself down - there were the ten laurels she managed to accidentally pickpocket earlier, and then there are some more old coins from a dusty purse she finds in an interior pocket of her coat, minted long before Lwenn changed to paper money.
“Alright! Well, you must try out the lemon creme croissants. They’re out of this world - oh, and the coffee tastes great! Though it might be getting a bit too late for coffee…”
Two hours pass, and the sky turns dark. Tonight, high up in the arch of heaven, the faint and lavender-coloured moon hangs overhead, bathing everything in a low and mellow light the shade of fingernails. Corporal Lacroix opted earlier to get some sleep, and the two exchanged pleasant goodbyes outside the cafe before going their separate ways.
In the dark of night, there is less traffic at the station, though trains still arrive, even if at a slower pace. It’s not difficult for Red to see at the freight terminal, silhouetted against the yellow light of streetlamps and tenement windows, a dark figure the shape of a serrated scalpel coasting in among the other trains, dragging with it a row of cars behind it, belching thick dark smoke from a chimney wider than she is. That must be her train.
Finding Constantine proves easier the second time around. He stands atop a soapbox half-buried in the snow, hands on his hips, watching the train cars pass by at their slow and leisurely pace.
Red speaks first, and the man jolts: “Hello.”
“Solenna above, don’t scare people like that!”
“Sorry. Did I miss the train?”
“No, no. It’s this one. You’re lucky it’s dark, nobody’s got a chance of seeing anyone get on. And in this cold, the Technomancer General is probably only going to check the locomotive and a few of the front carriages before giving the go-ahead.”
“Technomancer General?”
“The man that keeps the trains running. Pipes burst in cold like this, and if this train’s sprung a leak, you’ll have to wait a few minutes while he gets that fixed.”
“Oooh.”
“Doesn’t matter, though, this train looks fine. Soon as it makes a stop, head over to one of the middle carriages. Not all the way at the far back, that’s where they check for stowaways.”
“Got it. Middle carriage, keep a low profile, don’t be suspicious…”
“And you don’t know me.” Constantine narrows his eyes on her.
“I don’t even remember your name.” Smiles Red. That’s a lie. She remembers a lot of names.
A brief silence dawns, then, as they wait for the train to make a stop, standing in the cold and gentle snowfall, shrouded in the dark shadow that the cars cast as they pass. Red tries to keep her eyes from straying, for fear her gaze might attract attention, and so she glances at Victor’s sharp elf-ears again, then at the wispy hair crammed under his hat.
“I’m curious…” she mutters.
“What do you want?”
“Are you wearing a wig, or is your hair normally like that?”
Victor glares. “My hair looks fine.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, but… okay.”
There is a long, awkward silence.
“I was only curious-” Red speaks up.
“Shut up.”
“I hope that didn’t offend you.”
“Just be quiet!”
“Okay.”
Her eyes trail to the side, towards the caboose of the train. And, quietly moving between the snow-covered crates, barrels and casks, Red sees a darkened, hunched over figure sneaking out of sight of the guards. She directs her vision away from it quickly to not spook whoever it is.
A fellow rat! She thinks. What are you doing here, my fellow rapscallion? I hope you’ve got a good reason for hitching a ticketless ride. Not that I do. Paul’s just been an idiot, and I’ve been even dumber.
Sneakily, not aware they’re being seen, the figure hops up and grabs onto the side of a car, pulling the door open, before slipping inside. Victor appears none the wiser, and Red keeps her mouth shut.
At least I feel less guilty for doing it now.
“Is it safe to go now?” She looks to Victor.
“Go for it. Try not to trip or anything, you don’t want to get run over, and I don’t want to have to tell someone to clean that up.”
“Charming. Well, thank you for all of your help, Mr. I-don’t-know-your-name.” Red turns and makes a short, deep bow. Victor appears to roll his eyes, before sighing.
“You take care out there, and reach wherever you’re going safely.”
“I plan on it. Until next time…”
“Hopefully there’ll be no ‘next time’. Solenna guide you, now be off, already.”
Red nods, before getting a short run-up and hopping onto the footboard of a passing car. Like she saw the figure do, she slides open the door just enough to be able to slip inside, before shutting it tight behind her. She sits down somewhere against what feels like a crate or a cask, and waits until she begins to pick up speed once more.
It’s mighty dark in the train car. There are small openings up in the corners of the metal chamber, windowed up with chickenwire, though the low and gloomy light of the moon does little to vanquish any of the shadow. Red breathes in deep, finds a spot to sit down and wait, her chin tucked deep into the black fur of her coat. Outside, the cold and chilly wind howls like a wolf dragging its claws against the train chassis, and every once in a while the sound of the steam engine at the far front is broken up by the sound of loud, blaring horns.
It’s not long, then, until Red’s eyes shut on their own, and she slumps to the side against one of the casks she shares the compartment with.
Next stop, hopefully: Ravenheart. In the darkness, time begins to melt. Her eyes feel heavy.
Under the frosty glare of approaching Hexentag, the iron railway tracks that have served Lwenn for decades tend to warp in the cold, clawed at by ice and snow and the wheels of dozens of trains. The locomotive goes over a bump in the track, and the entire car Red is in gives a shiver as if it suddenly got cold.
She blinks a few times, suddenly roused from deep, dreamless sleep. Then, like a cat slowly uncoiling out of the comfortable shape it rolled into while sleeping, the witch stretches out her long limbs in all directions, yawning.
“Ahh…” Red rubs her tired eyes, smacks her lips a few times. It doesn’t feel like she slept for long, maybe just a few hours.
She fumbles around in the dark for a minute, trying to get a gauge of her surroundings to little effect. She can tell that she’s surrounded by boxes, but that’s all - and trying to climb onto one of those boxes to peer out of the holes in the corner of the train car yields similarly inadequate results: she sees that the train is moving through the great darkness between villages, under a night-turned-moonless. Exact location unknown, though likely nowhere close to Ravenheart yet.
“Well, bugger…” She sighs, trying carefully to get back down from the crate, wobbling unsteadily with the train’s movements, unable to see where she must set her foot down. “Uh-oh. Whoa-!” Red wobbles for a moment, and then the train hits another rough bump, and the witch comes tumbling down, smacking her shoulder roughly against the edge of the crate.
After about a minute of quiet groaning and soothing massages of the newly-acquired bruise, she sighs and sits back up. The darkness won’t do. Slowly, carefully, she opens her palm in front of her and puts her fingers together in concentration.
It’s not a hard process - but it’s something that requires focus. Not in order to make it happen, but in order to keep it reined, gentle. Let your mind slip for a moment, and it springs like wildfire out of control, especially now, with Hexentag right around the corner, with the air soaked in the crackling energy of magic.
Nevertheless, she pulls it off, and from the black-as-soot palm of her glove, out of the shine of a spark, emanates a small whitish flame, no bigger than that of a candle. It floats, bobbing up and down as though breathing in and out, pulsating like a heart above her fingers. With her free hand, Red pats herself down, lifts up her sleeve to look at her forearms, touches her cheeks to see if her eyes are crying without her knowing.
“All’s well,” she says under her breath, then gives a sigh of relief. “That was a silly idea.”
Using magic for anything except emergencies is a terrible idea. The estate would’ve been silly, too, but Darla was around, and she couldn’t bear to keep a guest in darkness. Bad manners.
Nevertheless, what’s done is done, and it’s had no ill effects this time. “It’s just a small cantrip,” she utters. “Nothing to be fearful of.”
Red holds the flame closer to the crate, curious what she’s sharing the train car with. It looks like when she fell, she knocked the topboard loose, letting her peer inside to see it full of straw for cushioning. And, within, bottles.
“Ooh!” she exclaims, reaching in with her free hand. Carefully, she slides out a… “Janneck 1898. Mordian vintage, ooh la-la…”
She licks her lips. She shouldn’t. She really, really, really shouldn’t.
Nobody will notice a missing bottle or two.
With some effort - she doesn’t have a knife to pull out the cork easily - and another murmur of cautiously-casted magic, the top flies off the bottle. There is the soft, soft scent of grapes, and Red takes a sip.
“Mm. Mmm! Good year,” she says, looking at the bottle again, before taking another sip. “A good year indeed. Man…” Her stomach churns with hunger, and she sets the bottle down to reach into her coat, pulling out a croissant that’s gone cold and slightly stale, snagged from the cafe in Torain. “Maybe this ride won’t be so bad.”
She puts the bottle to her lips again, and this time takes more than just a sip.