Farren pulled up her hood to shield herself against the rough winds that whipped her face, and reined in next to the wooden bridge beside Rendarr. The wagons of supplies crossed the steam, with the squads from Brittlerock in tow.
Although less foggy than the previous day, the sky above remained a murky grey with gusts of frigid wind that chilled the bones, the sunlight weak and ashen.
Some few dozen paces far stood a captain of the patrollers and night archers, making sure the crates of Blood Elixirs got across safely. The attack on Kinallen being at nighttime, casualties among the vampires would be more, and the elixirs would be needed for both sustenance and healing.
"You know the weather has gone truly haywire when the vampires can walk around like that at midday," said Rendarr, watching the captain giving orders to Rohana.
Dark haired and crimson-eyed, she was stunningly beautiful. Deep scars ran down the captain's face and neck, strong arms resting upon the pommel of her cutlass.
"I bet she can walk around in the sun just the same, that captain," Farren said, fascinated eyes on the warrior.
"Who're you calling 'that captain'?" said a soldier from behind, "that's Willa Rivera, sole survivor of the Culling."
Farren turned to the man with a cold gaze. He was of her age, a corporal with light-brown hair and a jagged scar on the chin.
"Oh, it's you, that Clearstrike I was hearing about." He sneered. "Well, can't expect the likes of you to read much of history. Or read at all."
"Listen carefully," she said, hands over her chest in an exaggerated gesture of hurt, "and you can almost hear my heart shatter in a thousand pieces."
The eyeroll the corporal did next must've offered him a grand view of the inside of his brain. Granted he has one.
"Need more than that to dig through that thick hide of hers." Rendarr yawned. "I recommend a shovel, friend."
Farren snorted, then swung her gaze back to the captain.
The Culling.
Whatever the soldier might say, Farren did remember some of what she learned about the Culling in the history lessons they were given during the training. Rodormann wrote quite a lot about it-- the bloody battles that took place when Drisian forces overran the eastern vampire territories of Valston and the massacre that followed.
That was a tale of long ago, older than two centuries.
"I see no reason to pride yourself for knowing about the Culling. The Drisians' dislike of vampirefolk is common knowledge," she said to the soldier, "the same hatred was what fuelled those massacres. That much is known to even street rats such as me."
But a survivor of battles so close to Kinallen? That, Farren had no idea about. Even if the books did mention the warrior, slogging through colossal tomes was not the best of her talents.
The lone survivor was now walking around, giving orders, not more than a few dozen feet from her.
Those scars etched upon the captain's face, what horrific stories did they hold? How many dying comrades did those arms carry? Did the memories fade away with the long years of life her kind, the vampires were blessed with?
No. Such long lives are anything but a blessing. It means you have to live longer with your regrets.
The sound of approaching hooves snapped her out of her thoughts.
"I do not mean to eavesdrop, but some of your words reached me on my way here," said Linder as he arrived, astride his black stallion. He threw a concerned glance toward Captain Rivera.
"I must ask you to refrain from bringing up the Culling in the presence of the captain, as it clearly isn't a pleasant discussion she'd wish to partake in." he added quietly to Farren and Rendarr.
Linder tried to appear stern as his eyes flitted to Farren, as though trying to un-do how he let his guard down to conversate easily with her the day before. He then looked around, the characteristic frown plastered on his forehead. "Where's Karles?"
Rendarr nodded towards where the archer sat on a rock beside the stream, looking at the crossing wagons, bow unslung and an arrow nocked, just in case. Muttering a thanks, Linder led his mount away to join him.
"Never change, Sarge." The light brown-haired soldier clicked his tongue, watching Linder leave. "Being the lone survivor of the Culling and all that, Cap'n sure has had her fair share of people pestering her with their questions, historians and soldiers alike. Sarge doesn't want tactless idiots bothering Cap'n--is all. He is just too goddamn polite to say that to your faces."
"And who might you be, O so wise about ways of speaking?" Rendarr now swung to properly face the soldier, then recognition dawned on his face. "Wait, do I know you?"
The young man's grin was sour. "We fought in the Iron Arena, last year's tournament, remember? Hand-to-hand combat."
Rendarr's eyes widened. "...Gray."
"Aye, that's me alright."
Now Farren took a good look as well. He certainly rang a bell, this Corporal Gray.
Although Rendarr had won the match Gray had to be one of the best fighters to have set foot in the Iron Arena. Farren had been barred from such tournaments for obvious reasons, but that didn't stop her from shouting herself hoarse cheering on Rendarr's victory.
"Your skills were admirable, I must say," said Rendarr.
Gray looked more than taken aback, if the color rising to his face was any indication. He regained his composure fast enough, though.
"Thought the same about you," Gray said, "but now that I see the company you hang around with, I'm not so sure."
"Oh, don't mind me." Farren gave an off-handed wave and a grin. "Don't let my insignificant presence sully the start of a beautiful friendship where you bond by knocking each other's teeth out. Truth be told, I'd love to see that."
"Precisely," said Rendarr, then turned to Gray. "Wouldn't mind a not-so-friendly match of strength some time, would you?"
Gray crossed his arms with a smirk. "You can count on that."
The train of wagons was on the other side soon after, and they got moving. Karles and Linder rode just ahead of them, still in a conversation Farren couldn't hear over the sound of hooves and carriage wheels. When Karles joined Farren and Rendarr again, his expression was dark and tense. Rendarr threw a tentative glance to Farren, but both knew better than questioning him about it now.
✦✧✦✧
On top of the watchtower of Kinallen's encampment, the scorched flag of Midaelia rippled in the wind, its pale blue mottled with black. As Farren waited before the wooden gate, waiting for it to be raised to let the reinforcements in, an ache clawed at her heart, the sort she hadn't felt in a long while.
She wished she had bothered to look at what her brother had sent her in the mail, wished she hadn't tossed the package aside without a second look because she was too preoccupied with something else. Farren could only hope the flames of the Drisian Firemounts hadn't engulfed it.
But it was soon proven how insignificant those little aches and pains were, as they filed into the camp and the rows of bodies outside the infirmary came into view. To one side lay the ruins of what had once been commander Karyk's office.
Foxward sat leaning against the threshold, head sunk into his folded arms, probably asleep; his hands black and blue from exhausting his reserves of magic. Inside she caught a glance of Eliora, still working tirelessly to heal the wounded soldiers.
The village's Witch-doc had arrived to assist them. The quiet Velan man laid out his assortment of potions and concoctions upon a bench, free of cost for anyone who might need them.
The Witch-doc looked up as she dismounted and approached, Rendarr and Karles in her wake.
"The healer wants to speak to you. Inside," he said in a thick, Velan accent. From his tone it was clear that it wasn't going to be something she'd like to hear.
When Farren stepped into the deathly silence of the common hall where many beds had been lined up, she knew full well what news awaited her. Her eyes fell upon a figure in one bed, covered in a sheet from head to toe. One arm dangled from beneath the sheet, charred and blackened; so scorched and burned it was, it barely resembled a human limb. It sickeningly reminded her of gnarled tree barks.
Farren could see why the rest of the body was covered.
"Commander Brianus Karyk is no more," said the old healer, her eyes sunken and arms bruised to the fingertips. She had exhausted her magical reserves as well. "There was nothing I could do--nothing at all."
In battle, she'd seen her fair share of severed limbs and grisly wounds, yet Farren did not want to see the commander in the form of this barely recognizable corpse. She pulled her gaze away from the body. Rendarr's hand gripped her shoulder tightly. She felt him shake with silent sobs.
Lieutenant Evander looked up from where he sat on the floor beside the bed, his face like stone.
"You've arrived. Good." His voice sounded so hollow, she wished he hadn't spoken at all.
She was dying to know from the lieutenant how this had happened. Countless questions piled up in her mind, but now was not the time to ask them, not to someone who had lost an old friend. Nor did she have the heart to question about the package.
Farren sat on the edge of what remained of the porch of the commander's office, fiddling distractedly with the Quarleen mask. Rendarr had wandered off somewhere without a word, and Karles was nowhere to be seen. She wanted some time alone too.
She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there like that, but a gentle touch on her shoulder broke her trance. Klo looked down at her, dark eyes tired yet filled with concern. No words exchanged, she sat quietly with Farren, one arm loosely resting over her shoulder. Although the day had been bleak, dusk had painted the sky crimson.
"Come on. It's getting late," said Klo at last, "let's grab a bite to eat."
As Farren got to her feet, the mask clattered off her lap and rolled off into the rubble; she got down and waded through the pile of splintered wood and shattered planks to reach it.
Among the heap lay something that caught her eye; a scrap of half-scorched wrapping paper, the sort that was used to wrap parcels.
But what shook Farren to the core was the name upon it.
"What're you doing down there?" Klo called somewhat impatiently.
With trembling hands, Farren snatched up the piece of paper and read in the dying light of the dusk.
Finnian Clearstrike.
Farren dug through the pile frantically, and found a shattered box of what must've been baked confectionaries. This was the package Farren had received that day from her brother, there was no doubt about it.
If this one's mine, then whose is the one I left at the dormitory...?
"Look!" Breathlessly, she raised the remnants of the box for Klo to see.
Klo gave her a serious stare, perhaps concerned about Farren's sanity for digging around in a pile of rubble.
Then it hit her as well.
"After the lieutenant was done talking with us that day, which package did he take with him? There were two on the table, yours and--" Klo cursed. "Sweet Mother Draedona, Farren..."
Boots thundering against the gravel, they sprinted to the dormitory.
✦✧✦✧
New entry added! Check out the place where the massacre of the vampires took place two hundred years ago, known as The Culling :