The centurion paused in his tracks. It had been another long, hot, sweaty day in this godforsaken jungle. His breastplate felt like it was cooking his insides, but he refused to take it off; if you can't get the men to wear their armor in this heat, at least you can set a good example. His helmet with its horsehair plume was hooked on one shoulder of his armor. Even Imperial pride had its limits on this oven of an island.
There, he heard it again. Someone was screaming his name, and running towards his small patrol. He made a point of leading patrols himself, to better know this posting. If only he hadn't gotten drunk at the governor's party back in Pyrrhus, he wouldn't have been banished here. Three years down, one to go. He was fit now, leaving off the drink that had brought him here. Determined to do a good job and get sent home with some respect.
He held up a clenched fist. The patrol halted on the narrow path. He walked backwards past the five legionaries , making a mental note of their names. He was furthest from the calling voice and had still been the first to notice it. Kitchen detail for these wretches. Still, on this secret island, days and days from anywhere with decent food or wine, it was the dregs sent to serve out here.
I'm the dregs, he thought.
"Centurion! Centurion Spurious Bellus! Centurion!" The figure came gasping into view around a bend, plunging through the thick brush, heedless of it whipping his face.
"Hold!" Spurious shouted. "Compose yourself! You are a soldier of the Empire!" Even if it despises you, he added mentally.
The solder hove into view and stopped short, gasping for air. Spurious saw his cut-up clothing, punctured with what looked like bite wounds. No armor; he had clearly been surprised in his sleep. This was bad, whatever it was.
"Well?"
The soldier started sobbing, as he wailed, "Rabbits. Giant rabbits. Not a man left alive in the camp. And the prisoners got away."
Sweet bride of fcuk, thought the centurion. Giant rabbits. What's next?
Got to keep up a strong front. Bad for morale to start getting nervous. Or maybe laughing, in this case.
"Alright lads. Bind up his wounds and drag him along. We're going to go to the port to see the priest about this. Reinforcements. Magic. We'll bring them in, and we'll get laurels for it."
"All the way to the port, sir?," asked a sad-looking legionary.
"All the way, soldier. After all, it's the first of the month tomorrow."
"So?"
The centurion leaned forward, put his hand on the reluctant legionary's bare shoulder. The man had stripped to the waist in this heat, against all regulations and common sense as well, with enemies about. Nevermind. Duty first. Write a book about all this later, when you're a governor yourself.
"So, lad, the wine shipment comes in on the first of the month. It's revels and Bacchus for the lot of us while we regroup with the priest to teach these spies a lesson."
The soldier brightened up, and began tearing at his ragged cloak to bind up his comrade.
* * * * *
You're outside the hut where you were bound. Giant thumping footprints recede into the darkness of the nighttime jungle all around the small Imperial encampment and its guard tower. Carnage abounds.
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Even though the camp is cleared, I’m *extremely* apprehensive. The carnage is appalling. Guards everywhere have massive deep incisor gashes out of their flesh. Looks like most have gone to the bone. My guess is the bulk of them died from rapid and drastic blood loss after having multiple painful swaths of flesh ripped from their bodies.
“Can we still do the Crying Starfish?” I whisper.
“It takes 5 arms, and Twix can barely stay awake” whispers Dane. “Anyone with knowledge of the Chortling Otter would be able to painfully decimate us in an instant. Death by the Otter in any form is horrid beyond belief. I won’t take that risk.”
Death by Otter?
That’s it.
Ok, honestly I don’t even know what the Crying Starfish is, I was just going with it because I don’t have any tactical knowledge, but I’ve heard enough from Dane. Up till this point I have been too concerned with survival to really question him, but ‘Death by Otter’? I’m either accompanied by a madman or an extremely dexterous charlatan (because he actually does seem to be able to fight).
“Where the sweet bride of fcuk did you get any of this? I think you are just making up all this bullshit to sound important and profound. Why didn’t you assume the Kneeling Aardvark and pleasure the Imperials to buy our freedom?”
That doesn’t really make sense, does it?
I’ve just seen a platoon of Imperials decimated by enormous lagomorphs.
I take in a deep breath. I exhale. Again. Dane looks at me patiently.
Enough self pity, I guess. Time for action. Time to lead.
“Sorry Dane. Don’t know what came over me.” He doesn’t even flinch.
“I need my stuff… Hef-Lame needs his toy boat necklace so he can continue to be useless, and it wouldn’t hurt if we all got armed again. I’m sure at least one or more of these guys escaped, which always seems to add the element of haste to our tasks.”
“Are we assuming they are all dead?” whispers Bombor.
“Good thought,” says Dane, “perhaps we can save some of them, and possibly question them as to their mission? Why they seem so obsessed with capturing us?”
“I’ll look” mutters Bombor. “Blood never bothered me too much”.
Thanks goodness for that. Just one glance at the nearest casualty is making me ill. We won’t be saving him, his head is nearly severed from his body. The Imperial armor does a poor job of guarding the neck… or if it does he was caught off guard and wasn’t wearing a throat guard.
Armor? Hrm. I practically feel corny just thinking it, but isn’t it always the obvious stuff that actually works?
“Help Bombor. Find a dead one in your size everybody. We are going to disguise ourselves as Imperials.”
Twix
I'm so tired, but sleep is not an option right now. Nothing large had been near the camp, so I'd had to stretch myself further and further until I found the ... herd? pack? warren? I didn't know what they were at first, but I drew them closer to us, surprised at how fast they were.
I almost gave up when I got them close enough to get a sense of what they were. Rabbits. Giant ones, to be sure, but still... rabbits. Probably the cast offs of some wizard's experimentation, grown wild in the jungles.
It was what the rabbits startled that really did me in, though. I saw their souls, agitated and aggressive, ripped them from their bodies and shoved them into the giant rabbits.
Wolverines.
Holding those souls inside the rabbits just about killed me, I think. My body is still soaked in sweat. It was ... unnatural and cruel. Two souls locked inside a single body. Terrified. Panicking.
You don't want a terrified wolverine anywhere near you, even if it isn't inside the body of an enormous rabbit.
I released them when they started to turn on each other, all the other victims being dead or at least seeming so. The rabbits scampered back into the trees, confused and blood stained. The wolverines are dead. Their bodies unable to function without their souls, which are now just floating around angry and purposeless. They never got to die properly. This place will be haunted for a while, I suppose. Poltergeists.
Dane is giving me some armor. I think he wants me to put it on. I look blankly at the hooks and ties and eventually start to don the heavy chain and plate.
My mind and body wake for a moment as I realize that I didn't feel Chip when I found the rabbits. The perimeter would have been wide enough. But Chip is ... was... is so small that he would have been easy to miss. Still, it makes me angry. Angry at myself for not being strong enough, focused enough, to find him.
I can barely move in this armor. I search around for something strong, something nearby, something already dead. The buzzing, angry wolverine souls are easy to find, but I don't want those. Finally, I find what I need. A pack animal that must have been driven to exhaustion by the Imperials and died near the camp. I draw it to me and let its strength fill my limbs.
Everyone is in their armor. Gepetto is looking in all the tents, trying to find our gear. Dane and Heflam are debating which direction to set off towards.
"We need to leave here." I say. The others look at me, clearly surprised that I'm able to stand, let alone move so easily in this armor. "There are a lot of restless dead here. The soldiers, many of them did not die with their souls at peace. It's not safe to stay here."
They continue to stare at me. Even Gepetto has stopped hunting for his trinkets.
"They will try to harm us, once they recover from the shock of being dead."
Bombor's the one who says what must be on all their minds.
"You're not stuttering, Twix."
It's true. Even with my borrowed strength, I'm too tired, too sad, too angry to be nervous or scared.
"We travel that way," I say, pointing off to the jungle, off in the direction I saw Chip fall.
Dane speaks up. "No, it's not safe that way. That's the way we came from."
"Go where you will. My road lies there." With that, I turn and begin to walk towards the forest. No one is more surprised than I am to hear Gepetto wail, "Wait! What about my stuff! Give me a second!"
I guess we go my way after all, this time.
Bombr lets out a heavy sigh, "Wait."
Twix trucks on into the foliage. The rest of us turn to our rotund companion, only to see the damnedest thing.
Bombr tosses chest plate, mail, helm, even boots to a pile on the bloodied earth. He continues until he's standing there, stark naked, arms raised, head tilted back.
"Great Fcuk! Hear me, your humbled servant. Aid us in our search for things lost, that we might ultimately find our way from this retched place and fornicate once again in your name. Let me be your compass, O Great Fcuk!"
And he spins. Round and round. His arms continually raised high, Bombr twirls about, a swirling mass of flesh. His hips thrust forward, his little sailor flies free. Round and round.
Finally, he comes to a dizzied stop, staggering a few steps. He looks like he's ready to pass out. He points - with his finger. "There."
Gepetto rushes to the remains of a trampled tent, tearing through felled canvas.
At this point I shake my head uncontrollably. What am I doing here? If I had wanted children, I would have wed that fig seller's daughter in Bas. Instead, I'm now here, herding cats in the form of two juveniles and two lunatics. Give me the smell of the open sea, with no land in sight, cup of piss poor mead in my hand.
Gepetto slaps me out of nostalgic self-pity by tossing my little boat necklace in my face. My fumbling hands manage to snag it, and I note that he's scooped the majority of his supposedly magic bric-a-brac into his arms.
"Great Fcuk has smiled upon you this day," says Bombr, squeezing back into his armor.
Gepetto giggles as he slips on every ring and bangle, "Fcuk. Fcuk. Fcuk!"
Rolling my eyes, I swat Dane on the backside with my sword, startling him to my attention. "Let's go get Twist and his long-necked bat."
Moments later, we all come upon Twix on his hands and knees in a little clearing in the jungle. As he completes scooping dirt into a small mound, it becomes clear that he did indeed find his dragon.
The rest of us stand around for a few moments. I'm not sure if we're showing respect or what. There's a bit of side glancing and shrugging. Eventually, Twix gets to his feet and faces us, his face calm, almost serene.
"He is here," Twix says, resting an open palm on his chest. "Chip is right here. His spirit lingered long enough for me to absorb him fully. We are now bound and one. I feel his strength and his joy and his determination."
A few more side glances, more silence, a raised eyebrow or two.
"That port we saw from the catapult, it was to the south," he announces. "That is our logical destination." He plops his helmet atop his head. "Let's be off."
He trudges past us, and moments later we are following him. Him! Of all people. Bombr holds stride. Gepetto busts out a maniacal laugh every few steps. I swat Dane again.
"I'm a sailor, not a soldier," I mutter as we pass a worn sign that points an arrow and actually says, "Port. This Way. Imperials Only."
Heflam swats me on the bum again. Sailors. Perhaps I should tell him I am no longer an acolyte. With a shudder I follow the sweaty sailor, being sure to maintain a small distance between us.
It's hot. Doubly so in this forsaken armor. I'm carrying the lone imperial survivor of the bunny attack. Luckily, Twix is moving slowly enough that the pace is easy to match. As I shift the legionnaire from one shoulder to the other, he begins to stir.
"Hold up!" I call, "Our friend is regaining consciousness."
I rest the imperial against a tree and splash his face with water from a canteen. He sputters and opens his eyes as my companions gather around.
"Hello, Frien..." I begin.
"What's your name?" interrupts Bombor, hefting his mace.
"Photius Scipio" responds the legionnaire.
"What is your rank and statio...." I continue.
"What do you do?" interjects Geppetto, twisting a ring.
"S-s-scout. But I'm supposed to be transferred to garrison after the wine shipment on the first of the month." informed the soldier.
"Are all of the soldiers..." I attempt.
"Will there be a party?" demands Twix, plucking at something invisible over the soldier's head.
"Yeah." replies Photius, "The Tribune and almost all of the cohort will be there, usually some of the dwarves even show up. The wine ship also brings supplies and sometimes a replacement centuria."
"You seem very talkati..." I start.
"Why are you blabbing so much?" interposes Heflam, rubbing the tattoo around his belly button.
"Uh, well. I don't want to go back to the legion." asserts Photius.
In response to our incredulous expressions, the legionnaire took a deep breath and continues, quickly.
"No, really. This island is paradise, but the legion makes it into Hades incarnate. The last wine ship was lost when the Passage of Light opened during a storm. The Greeting Tower was burned when the contuberniums went to look for survivors. Now, the dwarves want more slave offerings for the Smith and we haven't been able to round up any more natives. The ones we had escaped. Now the dwarves are demanding soldiers to fill the vacancies. The Tribune is collecting 'slackers' to work in the Smith."
Photius inhales slightly and adds, "So, as a member of a failed expedition and a low performing member of the cohort, I would undoubtedly be sent to produce dragon spheres. No thanks. I would rather be free to live in this paradise and sculpt. I'm actually pretty good. You should see the bust of Centurion Bellus that I did last week. Except I gave him Satyr ears and he didn't like that, so I got a lashing and work in the latrines..."
I put my hand over his mouth and said, "You have a tendency to talk...."
"Do you ever shut up?" demands Geppetto.
I removed my hand and Photius takes another deep breath.
"Centurion Spurious Bellus used to say that he could sail a boat by the breath of my words, but I think...." I cover his mouth again.
"Would you be willing to help..." I try.
"You wanna put it to the legion bastards?" interrupts Geppetto.
As my hand still covers his mouth, Photius just nods.
I point the direction I had begun to take and say, "We're headed that dir..."
But Twix jumps in and intones, "My destiny lies that way."
He attempts to walk majestically in the same direction, but trips and scrambles to recover his helmet. We roll our eyes, shrug, and begin to follow with Photius between Heflam and me.
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