Innnnnnnnnn. Annnnnnnnnnd. Outttttttttttttttttttttttttt.
Tarra exhaled as she folded over, arms falling overhead as she tightly clasped her toes. Mentally, she massaged the small burn in her leg – shamefully marking where a minor grunt managed to knife her.
Truthfully, sustaining only one minor injury during such a complicated assault was a unilateral success; however, she hadn’t become one of the greatest Paladins in history by accepting silly accidents and acts of mediocrity.
She swiped away irritably as her frazzled hair fell over her face – normally kept tied while she stretched. Stretching was her outlet, the way she found balance in herself, akin to a ballerina gliding one-legged across a ballroom.
Being stuck in Iye had been harder than herself would’ve ever expected. She hadn’t expected to feel so… claustrophobic. Years had passed since the cool breeze of the ocean wind blew across her face, and the golden sunlight shone through the broken windows of her hometown monastery, drowning her in a sea of warmth. Years passed since she had felt anything except the whispers of haunted souls that propagated within this living tomb.
Tarra’s reverie was interrupted by the tent entrance flapping open: a petite young woman briskly striding in, shifting nervously on her feet before standing to attention. She wore a gray uniform, with a small flame patch sown above her left breast.
“Paladin Tarra! Please excuse my interruption. Captain Coriven requests for your presence to begin the meeting.” The newcomer kept her voice steady – a wasted effort as Tarra could see the nervousness form a halo around her soul.
“All right,” Tarra replied as she bent down into a plank position.
The officer waited a few moments, before realizing that Tarra was making no motions to follow. “He requests immediate presence, my lady,” she eventually squaked.
Tarra groaned as she stood from her plank position and moved into a squat. “A request is simply that, a request. I am under no obligation to match his schedule. He can wait until I finish.”
----------------------------------------
Coriven flickered a small light in one hand as he contemplated burning their meeting tent down to the ground amidst the bickering.
Where the fuck is that steel-plated bitch?
Group work had never been his forte – Coriven considered himself a ‘lone wolf’ type-a-guy. However, his time with the Valvashoth had taught him at least the basics.
Such as listening. Communication. And, importantly, not immediately incinerating a colleague for voicing their opinions.
That last part was always the trickiest. When he was king, one dared not suggest he inhibit his desires. Now, unfortunately…
“No.” MaRae hissed, ice coating her every word. “We do not ‘eat the male’ following ‘the deed’ as a “mating ritual’. However, I have no qualms about eating stupid, dead metal toys.”
“Interesting,” Isshi replied, sliding past the threat without a hint of acknowledgment. “I assume it could have been a practice held by some long-ago ancestors…?”
“We have no such… cultural events in our recorded history.” MaRae spat.
Oh, Isshi said, eyes lighting up. “If you have any –“
The Ishara eyed Coriven, the bloody murder seeping from her eyes warning of imminent violence.
Coriven said nothing, simply staring straight at Isshi; not bothering to mask his own barely contained irritation and fury.
Their eyes met, and Isshi clamped his jaw shut, rolling his eyes and letting out a small “tsk” before quietly slumping back into his seat and fidgeting with his hands. Had it been anyone else, Isshi would have happily played coy, baiting them into joining the conversation. Unfortunately, such blatant disrespect around Coriven is how one ended up like Paul.
The outcome of which was… appalling.
----------------------------------------
The clearing was split into three camps.
Camp A – Base of operations and residence of their military.
Camp B – Residence for the freed slaves.
Camp C – Sorting and sifting of Relics and information.
Currently, their meeting was being held in Camp A, under the protection of a white tent. The camp had deployed four such tents; two medium for logistical support, one large for injuries, and a small one booked for this meeting.
Their meeting was well lit, as crystalline light filtered through the tent covers, providing a surprising amount of natural light. Enough to entirely forgo the use of torches and lamps.
Inside, a large time-teller sat by the entrance. Unlike the smaller time-tellers, this one was imprecise, adding a bar every few minutes rather than every minute, or second as some of its siblings could.
Thus, it spoke volumes that the object accumulated another four bars while the seven leaders and their aides sat waiting for Tarra.
A table sat in the center of the tent; rectangular and seating seven people, although it held a capacity for eight.
Coriven sat at the head, the seat directly across from him empty, silently collecting dust like a grandmother’s hand-knit sweater.
Jermaine sat to Coriven’s left: feet kicked up on the table and balancing a pair of knives on his nails. He was a large, muscular man – sporting a green bandana, gleaming silver breastplate, and a long, narrow blade hanging along his hip. His scruffy beard and well-defined jaw – coupled with the myriads of scars and bruises running across his face – complemented his black, freeform locs, which fell to his shoulders beneath his wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat. His eyes were covered by a pair of dark-tinted aviators, icing out the look with two earrings and a necklace.
MaRae sat between Jermaine and Alex – bristling with barely contained fury and murderous intent; her entire body was stiff, eyes full of venom. She was a Basilisk Ishara, easily identifiable by their smooth skin – consisting of thousands of tiny, interlayered rich-brown and deep verdant scales, cascading in a pattern of tight whirls and swirls – or their vertical-bead slit pupils – which they used to paralyze weak foes and see in the dark. Black, flowing robes of intricate design (that Coriven didn’t recognize) entirely covered her long, slender body; the wide hood used to create a shadow over her face, accentuating her eyes. Hairless – like the rest of her ilk – the Ishara also had a high-placed nose (a pair of slits more than a nose) and no ears as far as he knew. She wore a hooded cloak, using the hood to create a shadow over her face to accentuate her eyes.
Isshi – the fool who drew MaRae’s ire with his pointless conversations – pretended not to notice the barbed glares as he played with a golden stopwatch hanging from his coat pocket. The man was slender, choosing to don a simple white coat, grey shirt, and thick, rugged pants with over two dozen pockets. Those pockets were either extra-long or rune-enhanced, given how Isshi always managed to pull some new contraption. Save for his gaunt eyes, there was little to discern Isshi from a crowd. Messy brown hair, dark eyes, and a light-olive complexion. He looked like a normal person. Unfortunately, Coriven suspected that was where the normality ended.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Finn – the only one to attend these meetings without an aide – sat to Isshi’s right. His emerald hair was half shaved off; the rest neatly combed over. He wore a loose-fitting robe that exposed his well-defined chest and the tapestry of tattoos etched into his skin. The blank tattoos inking the skin contrasted well with his olive complexion, further enhanced by the hundreds of golden piercings running across his body (including but not limited to: eyes, mouth, nose, jaw, skull, and… nipples) gleaming under the white light. At the moment, he was engaged in an idle game of Rock-Paper-Scissors with Caruso.
Caruso – the second in command for the operation after Coriven – for his part – was only half engaged in the match, the other half of his attention divided by the clipboard in his lap. Clad in a large, black overcoat, under which he wore a white uniform (a series of unrecognizable gold symbols running across the front) and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. Caruso kept his hair slicked back neatly, numerous scars running across his face cutting through his thick white beard and bushy eyebrows. Aside from Tarra, he was the only one personally recruited by Coriven for the operation.
Finally, there was Alex – situated to MaRae's left – engaged, crossed-legged, in meditation. Outfitted in black combat pants, a white shirt, a beige uniform, and a pair of brown sandals he looked more ready to swim along the beach than engage in deadly combat. Nevertheless, a sword rested on his lap, the other leaning against the back of his chair. He kept mostly to himself – not uttering a sound since he arrived, simply taking to his seat and meditating to pass the time. Coriven knew Alex the least, yet his demeanor and calming presence reminded him much of The Shephard and Avalan, to his dismay.
And so sat the seven of them; Coriven, Jermaine, MaRae, Isshi, Finn, Caruo, and Alex – rolling tides of contemplative silence following the storms of conversation as they waited for Tarra to arrive.
----------------------------------------
Unfortunately, the comforting silence was once again interrupted by the drones of an unabashedly bored Isshi, who set upon his Ishara ally with renewed vigor, a dastardly smile flittering across his lips briefly as he posed the question.
“Were you there, when the empire fell? What was it like, failin-”
This time, there was no warning before MaRae’s tail whipped across the table, tightly squeezing Isshi’s throat like a juicer taking to a ripe lemon. Ishi began to gasp – the sound like that of a fish gargling as he futilely tried to scream. His nails bounced off her tail, nary a scratch as he desperately clawed at it. Her squeezing continued – her eyes substituting for her voice as hatred, pure and unadulterated, burned like a wildfire until Isshi’s face began to balloon like a tomato, all shouts and screams sequestered as he squeezed precious air into his lungs.
Everyone watched the exchange in silence, Alex cracking his eyes open from his meditation to look at Caruso. All of them could have jumped in to help, but Isshi needled all of them at some point during the journey, and so watching the man squirm brought them a profound sense of catharsis.
Finally – after a full minute or two of Isshi's suffering – Caruso jumped in, finally taking control of the conversation once he felt Isshi was taught enough of a lesson. Coriven may have designed and led the operation, but there was no doubt as to who ran it.
“Now, now, MaRae, I think Isshi has learnt his lesson.” Caruso interrupted, straightening his chair and setting his clipboard to the side. “We’re almost at the finish line, my friend. It’d be a shame to screw the pooch just before we cross it.”
MaRae ignored him. Caruso crossed over the table, gently resting a hand on her tail.
“MaRae, I understand – I really do – but we need Isshi.” He spoke gently.
They stood like that for several moments, statues envious of their anchored forms. Then, without warning, she released Isshi, and he hit the table with an audible thud.
Isshi choked in lungfuls of air as he rubbed down the abrasions cascading around his bright red neck, panting like a pack mule as breath after breath wheezed in. Finally, he regained control over his breathing again, lifting himself off the table, dazed.
“Isshi shut up,” Caruso ordered. He drummed his fingers silently on the table, eyeing the group – eyes lingering on MaRae and Isshi a few moments longer than the rest. He knew finding a conclusion to their argument was an irreconcilable folly, and instead opting to treat them like children.
“I think it would be prudent to get this meeting rolling. Tarra has already renounced her share of the relics, so rather than begin with our casualties and mission reports, we can get to divvying the relics. Agreed?”
MaRae sat silently, hatred and fury still blazing off of her like the bonfire for a fallen emperor. Meanwhile, Isshi was staring daggers at MaRae as he massaged his throat. Tension rippled, and for a moment Caruso worried they would reject him.
“Agreed.” They said in unison. The rest of the table nodded their own agreement.
Caruso smiled, the expression slicing devilishly across his face – although internally, he felt relief wash over him.
“Alright then. Now, Mahir, how approximately how many relics did we pick up?
Attention rapt on the clipboard in hand, Mahir – Caruso’s aide – stepped beside Caruso’s seat he silently catalogued the relics picked up during Operation: BREAK. His unibrow scrunched in deep concentration as he continually moved his triple-lensed spectacle back in place, never quite finding a foothold atop his broken nose. Rhythmically tapping his pen, he reluctantly broke gaze with the alluring paper. In fact, the olive-skinned man was so reluctant that Coriven had to cough twice (the second more a bellow than a cough) before the spindly man took notice.
“Ahem.” He shifted on his feet, realization finally cracking through his ivory skull. He cleared his throat nervously. Coriven wondered why he even bothered, given that his mouth was stitched completely close.
“So far, we’ve counted approximately a thousand to a thousand five hundred relics. Of course, without a master appraiser, it is difficult to identify and categorize them all in such a short time.” His voice came out as a high-pitched sound from the back of his throat, a small echo reverberating.
Coriven waved his hand in annoyance. “Generalize.” He barked. Their short time together had taught him that old age would have taken their soul had he let Mahir ramble on.
Mahir shifted uncomfortably, and in response, Caruso glared Corvien down, glares which fell on an icy exterior. Mahir bowed his head slightly to Coriven in acknowledgment.
“A quick examination of the relics, we expect about half will end up Mercantile. As expected, no Automata relics, or at least very few. In terms of weapon an-“
“Let’s skip to tha pertinent shit, shall we?” Jermaine interrupted. “Info Relics, how many?”
Mahir shrugged, stepping awkwardly from foot to foot. “Hard to say. With all the blessings, it is difficult to accurately differentiate the categories of relics. Our best estimates, maybe ten percent?”
“Hol’ a minute, back tha fuck up. ‘With all em blessin’?” Jermaine replied, incredulously.
“Ah yes. I was getting to that. Now, take this with a small pinch, or I guess in this case a somewhat large pinch of salt – actually I’m not sure what the salt measurements mean now that I think about it. Either way, what I am about to say is subject to change, however, we are somewhat confident in our – admittedly brief – review of the gear.” He shuffled through his pages again, more to calm his nerves than to find information. He already knew what the reaction would be, he was just vainly hoping he wouldn’t have had to deal with the barrage of questions that was certainly to follow.
“From what we can tell, around four in every five relics are blessed.”
The table completely shifted, their once lackadaisical and wandering attentions transforming as the entire table sat straighter, leaning forward in interest.
“You’re joking!” MaRae hissed out.
The entire table sat in silence, contemplating the new information.
When Coriven – and by proxy Caruso – assembled the eight of them, at most they expected to secure maybe five hundred total relics, with only about five percent blessed. That in it of itself would’ve been a worthwhile haul. To hear that they managed to obtain over thrice that, with over eighty percent of them being blessed…
Well, let’s just say greed didn’t earn its reputation by lazing about in the hearts of men.
Mahir shuffled to another page. “Unfortunately, we found few – if any – Automata relic, as expected.”
Jermaine shrugged, the first to shake away his shock. “Better blessed anyways. Them Automata shit don’t work right half the time. How long to cat’log em?”
Mahir shrugged again, the action quickly developing into second nature. “Four hours was our original estimate, back when we expected far fewer blessed relics. We’ve already sorted most of the rest. Now it’s just all the blessed ones, but with how large our stock is… least a week. Safely? Double or triple it.”
MaRae shook her head. “Can’t wait that long, even four was pushing it. I obviously don’t need to point out that we can’t wait here a week.”
“So what do we do?” Finn’s voice entered the fray for the voice time, the sound almost squeaky.
At that moment, the flaps to the tent flung open – a muscular woman dressed in white entering, a glowing bandana wrapped around her eyes.
“What did I miss?”