Interlude I: The Wolf of the West

Some time ago

The village burned delightfully.

This was unsurprising; The Wolf had developed something of an expertise in the field over the course of her illustrious career. She was a poet in the discipline of sowing terror, a savant of slaughter, a virtuoso of violence. Or so she'd been told by lesser men; these were not ways she would describe herself.

She would simply describe herself as "efficient".

That wasn't to imply she didn't take a certain pleasure in the screams of the townsfolk, the weeping of families bound and separated. She appreciated them as signifiers that her work was effective. But she did not delight in inflicting pain. She merely had a job to do.

In front of the blaze, on the beach, the bodies of those who had resisted the Federal marines were stacked like cordwood. There weren't many, and most were of an aberrant geneology- covered in scales, with pointed snouts and towering frames. Some called them dragonkin, though the Federation frowned on the term. The Wolf agreed; she had encountered a dragon before, and knew how faulty the comparison was. No dragon would be cowering on the beach, begging for its life.

Yet, that was exactly what the survivors were doing. The "Dragonkin" who had not stayed in their rudimentary village had fled down to the very beach she had landed her troops at. Unsurprising; the rest of the tiny island backed up onto sheer cliffs. She was hardly complaining, of course. Her job ended only when the final heretic was dead or converted, and she had a distaste for spending days in fruitless manhunts.

She stood on a small rock, overseeing the proceeding, keeping a vigilant eye out for any trouble. Two ranks of Federal marines, holding rifles stood in tight order behind the presiding chaplain, Lt. Erebus. Fifteen adults were bound to posts, with oil-soaked kindling at their feet. The children were bound, but in no such danger; someone had to spread the word, or else what point was there?

"You stand accused of practicing theistic practices, against the law and teaching of the Federation," Erebus droned. He looked bored, heedless of the pleas and terror of the bound figures. "Federal doctrine is clear: there are no gods. Any force masquerading as such is a fraud, a demon, a cosmic aberration, or something else of immense evil. Veneration- not worship- of the Arcanes, as befits their contributions to our society, is the only acceptable form of devotional practice. Fortunately, our society is just and merciful. All those who repent and recant their blasphemous theism will be spared. Do you recant?"

Nobody spoke. The dragonkin looked down in sullen silence. A boy wept. The Wolf scanned the bluffs overlooking the beach. Had she heard something? Or was that the wind?

"The Shieldmother watches over us still, Federale dog!" One of the dragonkin spat.

"Blasphemy! Still you blaspheme! Very well then; light them." Erebus nodded to two of the soldiers, who nodded and stepped forward. They began casting simple flame spells, igniting the pyres below the figures.

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A shot rang out.

Or, not quite a shot- a thunderclap that rang in the air, like the crashing of a dozen bells at once. A blast of pure-white light shot from the burning village, scattering across the chest of one of the marines. He recoiled in pain and fear as white blades licked across his frame, opening a thousand cuts in a hatched pattern, ignoring his armor entirely. Blood began gushing forth, as a torrent that turned quickly into a puddle. The Wolf looked up with a hiss of frustration. There he was- the head of the village, a strapping figure in early middle age, holding a talisman of some kind. He stood defiant on the bluffs, silhouetted by the blaze of his home, a mere twenty feet from the assembled marines. He said something quietly, and a shimmering wall of yellow light flickered into being in front of him.

The headsman laughed deeply as bullets scattered uselessly off the barrier "My god protects me, godless filth. Do your dead wizards protect you?" Another blast from the amulet scattered into the crowded marines, who held disciplined ranks still. The Wolf could see them wavering, however. A third blast was thrown her way. "And you! The Wolf of the West! We know your bloody reputation well here! Does killing the innocent fill you with joy? Is this your act of devotion?"

She threw up her cloak in defense. The treated kraken-hide absorbed the blast harmlessly.

"How?" The headsman sputtered.

"Magic is magic. Men, continue to fire." Calmly, she loosened a hatchet from her belt, aimed, and threw it. The hatchet was rust-red, seemingly assembled from junk. It lodged, oddly enough, in the air, sticking headlong into the golden barrier.

The headsman seemed to regain his calm. "Magic is magic? Well, it seems mine is stronger than yours."

The Wolf merely smiled. Wolfishly, one might say. She whispered the activation word. And the hatchet exploded.

The detonation ripped the spell-wall apart, sending shards of golden magic raining down like strange rain or pollen. It was stronger than she had expected; no shrapnel made it to the headsman himself. Yet, the dispelling effect did its work. A volley of fresh bullets impacted bloodily into their target, rending a dozen holes into the blasphemous mage. He died on the spot. This was perhaps a kindness, compared to his burning companions.

She held out her hand. The shards of the hatchet flew towards her, reconstituting itself in her grasp. "I suspected we had missed one." The Wolf muttered. "Back to work, men. We'll search the village later." She looked down. Erebus too, was dead, consumed by the allegedly divine magic. His shredded body sparkled cheerfully in the reflected firelight from the pyres. "Forget the ceremony. Just burn them. They know why."

One of the dragonkin who had not yet been burned, a younger man, raised his voice. "Wait! Wait, I repent! I'll convert!"

She snorted. "You missed your opportunity. May your false god have mercy on you."

. . .

As she sat and brooded on the ashes, a marine approached and saluted. One of his ears and eyes had been replaced with a crude Magitectural device. "Ma'am. Arcane message from the Admiralty."

"At ease, Rojan. What news?"

"A new assignment, Captain. They want us to report to Seren va Llynder. Apparently, a nobleman has been murdered."

"And? This isn't our specialty. Let the Blueheels handle it."

"Apparently there's a link to the Menagerie. Admiralty thinks that this is our chance to crack down, possibly catch the Shackled Queen herself." Left unsaid was the political angle; a new Governor was sure to be elected soon, and the Fleet Admiral wanted to stay in the running.

The Wolf cursed internally, though kept composure. She loathed city politics. "Very well. We'll disposing the bodies, and then we'll head back to the Maelstrom." She looked back at the ruins of the tiny heretic village. "And then, we'll go send a message."