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The forests between Eastpool and Martha’s Rest, just beyond the border of Rosaria and Sanbreque, were deceptively quiet. The last of the leaves which yet clung to the branches wilting where they hung, their colors-once as vibrant as Phoenix down-now mottled brown and gray, leaving the branches sparse and naked; lending a falsehood of empty openness to his surroundings. But Gav had been in the game of tracking, and of avoiding detection himself, for long enough to be aware just how thick the undergrowth remained regardless of season. And just how much even a glade picked clean by coming winter could manage to hide.
It was slow going, especially when an added effort had to be made to silence his footsteps against the dried leaves lest he disturb the settled stillness and risk tipping off his quarry, but nothing he wasn’t used to. Time and again Cid had made good use of his talent for sneaking, leaving him with a wealth of experience to fall back on in both recon and rescue, as well as numerous tools to use in hopefully getting himself out of even the stickiest situations.
And if all else failed, there was always the blessing of wind that Clive had granted him as one of his Shields. Nervous as the thought of using it made him, on account of the Curse and the hell he’d seen it put Cid through, if it came down to that or taking a sword the magic was the better option. And the small handful of lessons he’d gotten from Biast on the matter had given him confidence enough that he’d know how to use it, if only on the simplest of levels.
Speaking of Biast, Gav would have had to admit-if only to himself-that his absence left him a bit disappointed. When Jill had sent him off on the mission to survey the invading force of Imperials that had been sighted, he’d hoped the bearer would volunteer to provide him a little bit of backup. Yet, despite looking less than pleased with the matter, the other boy had remained silent. Simply seeing him off with a nod and a grumbled encouragement not to die.
By this point he was mostly convinced that the Arch Duke’s adopted brother wasn’t quite as dangerous as his exterior suggested. Provided, of course, one didn’t find themselves standing on the opposite end of whatever blade was in his hand.
Though it was likely for the best, in the grand scheme of things, that the other man hadn’t come. Though his ability to move with an uncanny silence was without question, having managed to get the drop on him several times, Gav wasn’t certain how well ‘look but don’t kill’ would sit with Biast. Nor how able he was to keep his steps quiet in terrain as difficult as this.
Failing that, he’d have appreciated a bit of four legged company. Torgal, or ‘dog’ as they’d known him at the time, had accompanied him on several such adventures and proven more than able to keep up. But the great hound had known that his master would return soon and hadn’t wanted to leave the Keep. So it had fallen to him to go alone and thus here he was, carefully picking his way through a stand of woodland with the knowledge that enemy soldiers could materialize from around any trunk at any moment.
But his luck held out, at least for the time being. The wind carrying to him the scent of wood smoke from a burning fire and the muffled sounds of voices. The distance was too great for him to make out any words but it served well enough to signpost him forward with more solid direction than ‘amidst the trees’ and he forged onward. Slowing as the voices grew more audible with each step until he could see the Imperial contingent through the close-grown trunks and was left to advance at a slow, cautious crawl. Crouched low with his hands pressing against cool, wet soil.
It was a small force, from the look of things. Likely the spearhead of a larger contingent coming from the direction of the Empire’s former capital in Oriflamme. No doubt many more would be flooding in behind them before long, accompanied with dragoons and dragons at the very least, to mark the first full scale efforts by the Lesange Dynasty to steal back what wasn’t rightfully theirs.
Several provisional camps had been erected, sparse and encircling open pits of flickering fire. All with dozens of soldiers around them, huddled against the cold and laughing amongst their comrades over shared rations of else caring for their weapons. On the far side of the encampment, two men clashed in a friendly spar. Their cloth wrapped swords ringing against one another, muffled by distance. Around another fire, set just far enough away from the others to draw his notice, sat four men. Bearers, as evidenced by their poorly cobbled together armor and the dark brands splashed across their faces. One of them familiar, despite the darkness which had blurred his features during their last encounter, for his missing eye.
Tiamat, the leader of the Bastards.
They’d dispatched bearer soldiers as well. No doubt in some effort to leverage Clive’s previous efforts to avoid killing anyone marked if he could against him. Gritting his teeth against his anger, as well as a dull surge of tingling fear which echoed up from his last encounter with the assassin in one of Rosalith’s alleys, Gav continued onwards. Slinking toward the only tent erected in the entire area, marking it as certain to contain the leader or leaders of the contingent. And something interesting in regards to information.
Slipping around the back he paused to wait, straining his ears against the background noise of forest life and soldiers to ascertain if there was anyone inside. Curling his fingers under the canvas and lifting it up, slowly, once satisfied there wasn’t. Just enough to stick his head inside, followed by his shoulders, and slip beneath it.
Gav had never been what one would consider a traditional soldier, not like Cid had, so he didn’t really have a firm grasp on what was a large space for one versus a small space. But at first assumption the room in that tent seemed generous, at the very least. Allowing space enough for a proper cot, though it was a wonder how such a thing managed to be moved along with them, as well as a desk that could be broken down into pieces and reassembled while still having plenty of room to walk about in.
The desk in question was scattered with scrolls and documents, several bearing wax seals in various colors, the most recent of which to arrive was still partially unfurled; one corner pinned down beneath a heavy candle holder. Gav glanced toward the door of the tent, just to reassure himself that no one was coming in at just that moment, and picked it up. Opening it with the crackle of wax flecked parchment and quickly scanning the content with his eyes. A swooping dread filling him an instant leader.
“Odin’s black bumhole and Ramuh’s saggy balls, this isn’t going to be good.” He hissed, to himself and mostly under his breath, hastily shoving the parchment into the little pack on his belt. Doing his best to get it inside quickly without smashing it entirely and then secure the ties behind it.
Not quick enough, it seemed, because just as he got the tie in place the flap was flung open. Blinding him with brilliant sunlight and causing him to freeze on instinct.
“ Oi! Who the hell are you!” The Sanbrequean commander was a tall, broad man with a severe mustached face, wearing armor inlaid with sapphire and white. Gav could make out little more of him than that against the glare as he spun on his heel and dove back beneath the canvas of the tent. Hoarse bellows of ‘ Stop that Dukal scum!’ ringing out behind him as he ran. Feet thudding against the cold hardened ground. Breath coming in sharp gasps which tore at his ribs.
Not fast enough to outrun an arrow.
He heard the twang of the string and the hiss of the projectile coming toward him but only the impact registered. Not the pain. The force of it enough to send him careening forward onto his front,momentarily knocking the breath from his lungs and forcing him to scrabble among the leaves for purchase. Lifting himself at last back onto all fours. Crawling forward a handful of paces in a desperate effort to get back to his feet and keep going even as heavy footsteps closed in on him.
He wasn’t in any position to fight just then, not with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Even if he’d had a more substantial weapon than the short sword on his belt. Not when he was out numbered to this degree.
Nothing for it, was there?
Leveraging the element of surprise to his advantage as best he could, Gav spun around in the leaves like a snake. Throwing everything he had into channeling his magic and focusing on what he wanted done. Certain he heard a gleeful shriek ring in his ears as a sudden downburst sent the imperial soldiers flying in all directions. The same wind lifting him up off the ground and propelling him forward with such speed and ease it were as if his feet had sprouted wings. Carrying him back to Eastpool in far less time than it should have, allowing him to reach the safety of settlement before the pain truly set in.
Lady Hannah wasted no time in dragging him into her home and sending a stolas to Rosalith. Wrapping his wound as best she could while they waited for Tarja to arrive.
It didn’t take her very long to do so, making the ride across the Dutchy in approaching record time herself, though it was immediately evident that she wasn’t alone. Biast barreling through the door in her wake with all the thudding anger of the dragon he’d been named for, static crackling in the air around him. Oscar slipping in behind a moment later, treating his fellow Shield to a nervous stare.
“You can see he’s alive and mostly well now, just as I told you he would be. Enough with the static, Rosfield. You’re going to make it impossible to touch anything without shocking the poor bastard to hell and back.”
It was only with great effort that Biast removed his golden stare from the arrow shaft sticking out of his back to glance at Tarja. And even then his eyes remained there only momentarily before he dismissed her from his attention again in favor of stepping forward to address him.
“Who did this?”
Just when Gav had been convinced the other man couldn’t get any scarier, he started sounding like an angry gorgimera. It took him a moment of eyeing him warily to muster up the courage to respond.
“It was one of the soldiers at the encampment I was sent to sniff about at. Could be any of them to be honest.” He said. “I got caught while going through the commander’s things. But made off with a document Clive will want to see, so it wasn’t all for naught. If you could take it back to Rosalith-.”
“Oscar will.” Apparently the other Shield hadn’t been prepared for a sudden assignment of delivery duty because he looked at his comrade in further alarm. “That’s not what I’m here for.”
“Rosfield-.” There was a warning tone in Tarja’s voice. The same familiar one that she got whenever she knew Cid was about to run off in pursuit of something stupid, or dangerous, or more than likely both. Yet again Biast didn’t react, almost as if he hadn’t heard her at all. That reptilian stare boring into him, deadly and intense.
“What did they look like?”
“The soldier who shot me?” Gav asked, incensed. “I dunno. It could have been any of them. They all look the same in their bleeding armor.”
“What did the Commander look like?”
He hadn’t really gotten a good enough look at him to answer that question with any confidence and the helpless look he sent the bearer in response seemed to serve to communicate as much. With a muttered comment of ‘I’m sure the Bastards have found their mark with less’ that was more than likely meant for himself rather than any of them he turned and left, vanishing into the latening afternoon before anyone could act to stop him.
“Honestly.” Tarja said with a huff. “Blood or not, he’s as bad as Clive when it comes to you.”
Biast had never been shy of violence, but there’d always been a measuredness to it before. Not like that; storming off with only a vague description and an entire forest to search through. It was frightening to think that the man could so quickly go on the attack, especially knowing that the results would be fatal for someone, and yet the thought that such a reaction could be caused by what was all but assuredly a flesh wound was somewhat endearing.
Greagor’s graces, he might very well be becoming unhinged himself.
Gav was pulled from his thoughts by a sharp stab of pain and jumped. Glaring half-heartedly at Tarja, who ignored him in favor of continuing to probe the area around the arrow shaft with practiced fingers.
“Don’t wait around on my account. Send Murdoch off with whatever you found so it can get to Clive as soon as it needs to. I’ll get this out of you, and have you patched up in the meantime.” Turning to address the young Shield herself, she said “and let them know Gav will be staying the night here. The wound seems minor from the face of it but it’s better to avoid any further strain than necessary until the wound has settled. And that won’t happen until after I remove this.”
Reaching into the folds of her robe the medicant pulled out a small vial of pale liquid and uncorked it, filling the warm air with the astringent scent of healing herbs.
“Once you’ve finished, drink that. You’ll need it.”
That sounded ominous.
Gav thought he knew well enough what was coming, considering how deep the arrow had sunk itself in. No doubt, the process of removing it would not be pleasant.
Forcing thoughts of the matter aside, and careful to use his uninjured arm despite the awkwardness of the resultant motion, Gav opened the pack at his belt and reached into it. Pulling out the scroll he’d stolen-crumpled by his fall but thankfully not having been lost somewhere in the forest-and pressing it into Oscar’s hand.
“Tell him he needs to read that right away. It’s not good news, for all that we expected it eventually, and they all need to know. We can’t let the Imperials catch us by surprise.”
“I understand. I’ll return to Rosalith right away and see to it that this missive finds its way directly to the Arch Duke’s hands. The Lord Commander’s at the very least.” With a hug and a quick farewell to his aunt, the Lady Hannah, Oscar was gone. Mounting back up on his Chocobo and riding off toward the capital.
“ Drink , Gav. Or you really aren’t going to like this.”
She didn’t need to warn him twice, for all that he knew full well how unpleasant the pain tinctures were to the tongue. Steeling himself, he knocked it back in one go and held down the urge to grimace, setting the empty vial aside.
It didn’t remove the pain, but it made the process of Tarja snapping and cutting and pulling the damned thing out of him bearable. Though not enough so they Gav would be anything near keen on repeating it. Eventually, though, he found himself wrapped up in yet more bandages to slow the bleeding and left to lay on the little cot in the guest bedroom to rest.
Worry kept him from finding much of that, as the hours passed by and Biast failed to return. A storm rolling in as the night latened, drenching the Rosarian countryside with rain and making it impossible to tell if the distant flashes of lightning that he saw from out in the trees were natural or a product of the younger boy fighting. Eventually, though, exhaustion caught up with him and he was pulled down into a fitful sleep.
Though that didn’t last long before a horrified shriek woke him. Gav snapped awake, confused and half-convinced of an attack underway; groping for weapons that weren’t there. It took time for his vision to refocus on the scene before him but when it did he was met with a sight that was as much macabre as it was comical. A small box-sodden with a mix of rain, mud, and blood and no doubt taken from amidst the little Imperial encampment-was lying, overturned, on the floor. Its contents-a severed hand, still inside of its recognizable blue and white armored glove-lying, pitiful and forgotten, on the wood. Biast had returned and, in a rather cat-like move, had brought with him a piece of his kill as a trophy. And much like a cat being scolded for bringing such a thing into the house, the bearer was backed into the corner in an effort to prevent Tarja from swatting him with what looked to be a rolled up mat. His short-shorn black hair and Shield armor both dripping with rain.
“I can’t fathom what in the name of the Graces you were thinking! Bringing that back with you! Let alone into poor Hannah’s home. The mess you’ve made! And while Gav is already injured; are you trying to terrify him?”
He couldn’t recall a time where he’d seen the other man look quite so panicked and was unable to keep himself from laughing. Wide golden eyes shifting toward him in response, desperately pleading for rescue.
“It’s alright, Tarja. At this point I’m starting to get used to his, well…how he is.” Though the thought of the grisly result of the gesture still made him more than a little bit queasy. Forcing a smile onto his face despite that, he addressed the younger man as the medicant ducked out of the room again. “I appreciate the sentiment. But next time, your word will be good enough proof for me to believe you. I’m not looking to make a collection of severed body parts.”
Biast stared warily after her for a moment, as if uncertain she wouldn’t come running back out to try and smack him again, and then dipped his head. “Sorry.”
“I’ve talked with Clive and Cid. I’ve started to understand now that you, uh…have a different idea of what’s normal.” He said. “We can work on it. Together. Since you’re helping me with figuring out the magic.”
Once more those golden eyes rested on him for a long moment, the expression behind them indiscernible. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Biast nodded. His mouth curling up into a small but genuine smile. “I’d like that.”
“Aye, but you won’t like this. Unfortunate for you that you made the mess in the first place.” Tarja dropped a pale of foaming water at his feet with a crash, followed by a hand brush. “We’re not leaving until that’s well and truly out of the floor boards. Get to it while I get rid of that severed hand before our poor host sees it.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Even as he crouched down to begin his work, calloused fingers curling around the backing of the brush, the shadow of that smile never left his face.