No Man's Land

[Inkfinger]

He managed not to snort at the young’un quip. Unless she was remarkably good at hiding her true age, there was no way the woman was older than him. It was close enough to the names he called the Shrikes to be misconstrued as a term of endearment, so he didn’t remark on it.

“That’s a good question,” he returned, heading for the fireplace. The base had once been a dwarven stronghold. The fireplace was huge, and lined with different cooking utensils, things for grilling and baking, frying and boiling alike. The canteen, most of the time, was a free-for-all. You left whatever you could scrounge in the ice boxes and cupboards that lined the cavernous rooms, and you cooked for whatever group you happened to be in at the time. It was madness maddened in the evenings, when everyone was back and wanting the place at the same time.

The early hours meant all that was there was a basket of yesterday’s bread and a bubbling cauldron of the ever-present stew. People just kept adding things every time a patrol or raid managed to come back with food that they weren’t sure would keep. In the weeks he’d been here, he’d seen it shift from beef to ham to potato to clam, and sometimes an unholy mixture of the aforementioned. Today it looked like something poultry-based and faintly green...

We should probably dump that and start over.

He ducked to pull a side of bacon and a couple of eggs out of the ice cupboard instead, using the knife to carve off a few slices. “It's over differences in ideas, mostly.” He watched his fingers as he cut. “The Church hasn't seen eye to eye with most of the people for a long time. They have one set of rules, and most of the people want to live by another. They started as good rules on both sides, mind, don't kill your neighbor, don't sleep with her husband, don't steal their cow...”

He left the bacon where it was, searching down the line of counters for a pan that at least looked clean, still talking. “But some of the people, see, they've got a list of other rules. Leave plates of milk out for the Fae folk or they'll steal your children, don't look at the Northlights too hard, they'll come down and steal your soul..." He finally found a pan that only had a slight film of bacon grease, sighed, and headed for the sink. "Silly, stupid little things like that, things that never hurt anyone, but weren't recorded in The Liand and, therefore, must be burned out."

This all felt so petty, explaining it like this. But petty things had always had a habit of turning into matters of life and death. Especially where religion and faith came into play. He let the pan drip dry as he continued.

“And then the king’s gone and vanished, and…things disintegrated from there. The monarchy’s all but gone, the church is taking over things left and right, and a lot of people died in the changeover. Everyone was so worried about fighting and the different forces managed to requisition most of the food from just about damn near everywhere that a lot of people didn’t even survive the winter.”

He smacked the frying pan into the fire harder than he meant to at the thought. His family had been one of the lucky ones. His brother Ludvik had seen much of this coming, had sent them out of the country before things went to hell.

“Now? Now most of us just want the fighting over with so we can at least start to rebuild something. Next planting season’s supposed to start in less than a month. If it’s not over by then, see, nothing’ll get planted, and it all starts over again.” He dumped the bacon into the pan and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“It’s stupid, it’s overly complicated, and I hate it to hell and back, to tell you the truth.” He smiled tightly at the young woman. “And, to top it all off, I’ve been a horrible host and missed your name. I’m Cael. You are…?”

[Ruby]

“I have many names, but you can call me Ruby - it is a pleasure Cael,” she watched him make preparations for some form of food she didn’t recognise. Bacon was something that only the high echelons of Scara Brae society felt the need to conduct themselves in, and she certainly wasn’t that involved with the regal citizens to be fortunate enough to have tasted it.

She understood him, and his explanation, more than he might’ve realised. Ideological quandaries were ever-present across Althanas, some were open warzones, like here, others, they were more subtle and backstabbing in nature; fighting in the twilight between existence and rumour, legend and terror. As he described the various intricacies of the conflict, it began to sound more and more like the Tantalum’s quibble with the Queen of the city, and their fight with Lucian – the old and the new, vying for survival, whilst striking out in the dark to sedate their enemy.

“A famous old rogue from Scara Brae’s vault of obscurity once said that ‘War is vicious as it is beautiful, as pointless as it is required,’ and then promptly died at the hands of constipation, so you will forgive me If I miss the relevance, but it sounds important enough to recite now,” she ventured forwards to peer into the pan and raised an eyebrow. Whilst she strongly defended her right to not be presumed feminine, he looked like he was going to struggle with the cooking. She didn't trust him that much yet, and she didn't trust the pan from the looks if it.

“But, you know what, my husband swears blind by stew; ‘an army never marches on anything runnier than stew,’ so I will settle for whatever avian delights this pot contains,” she taps it’s large side with a knuckle and goes about ladling the contents into a bowl. The first two brought her nothing but olive water, peppered with what she hoped were herbs and what she presumed to be disintegrating slices of onion.

“If this is a war of ideals then you will need someone who can deliver the ‘word’ effectively, someone who can feign interest in diplomacy. Someone who can captivate audiences with the rabble rousing efficiency of the age of long lost kings – someone, you will be unsurprised to hear, like me.”

The bowl dropped onto one of the long galley tables every canteen the universe over possessed. Ruby slid onto the bench, wiping it delicately with the sleeve of her dress, and scooped a spoon of the stew up to her lips. “Whatever orders or mission you have been given, I am in, I relish the chance to be free of my matriarchal constraints – to, as they say, ‘live a little.’ Obedience does not come freely, I’ll need more suitable clothes and preferably, the knowledge that you’re…” she smiled, slightly possessed in doing so, but enjoyed the curiosity she hoped it would weave in the air between them, “fireproof.”

She swallowed the stew and was surprised, it was certainly better than anything Lilith could cook up.

[Inkfinger]

“It’s gone beyond ideals now, Ruby,” he returned, raising an eyebrow at her food choice. He rarely touched the stew, unless there was nothing else available. He cracked the eggs over the bacon, tossed the eggshells in the fire. “If you’d been here months ago, maybe even years ago, that would have been brilliant,” he held up his ungloved hand with a wry grin, displaying the black and green and blue that was slowly returning to his flesh after the death-pale of the prison cells. His other hand was still that pale color. He wasn’t going to take that glove off, not here. Too many people would know the old symbols and, like Samil, what the brand meant.

“The early stages belonged t’ those with words. There, at least, I knew what I was doing. Now, it belongs t’ whoever can destroy more in the quickest, most efficient way, and the rest of us cater to their whims .” The eggs and bacon smelled like they were burning. Cael eyed them for a second, taking the distraction of Ruby moving to the table to find a spoon. “And…” His mind slowly turned her last words over in his head, polishing them so they gleamed like a warning. “…fireproof?”

His first thought was simple. Oh gods, Thayne and all damned Sway, not another one.

“I’m not…fireproof, assuming you meant that literally, but I have ways…well, friends, technically who have ways, of making sure I don’t get burned. You met them. They’re fireproof.” And they will laugh all the way through the next two towns. They’d been trying to get him to wear one of the helmets since this whole thing started. He hated the things.

As if his words had been a cue, the door swung open and the Fire Shrikes came barging through, chattering to one another a mile a minute. The robes and masks were gone, taking the demonic, soulless beings and turning them into four, simple young men. Cael sighed, scooping out a plateful of the bacon and eggs, and sliding out of the way.

“Do not,” he said icily, as they scrambled for the food, “make yourselves sick. We leave in an hour.” The youngest, Van, turned to say something, but all the color faded from his flushed cheeks when his eyes passed over Ruby. Cael sighed again, and nodded, sprawling on the bench beside the woman. “And yes, we’re bringing her with us.”

That got all of their attention, Ježek looking a moment from angry protest. Cael simply met his gaze and continued, calmly. “Her name is Ruby, and those were Lord Samil’s orders. If you’d like to moan about it, I suggest you do it to him.”

He shook his head, and turned to look at Ruby. “Allow me to introduce the best saboteurs this stupidity can give me. ‘S Ježek, Van, Brian and…Urthur, was it?” The Shrike in question nodded, not looking up from the mountain of bread he was adding to his plate. He lowered his voice so the young men couldn’t hear. “Excellent with destruction, couldn’t fight their ways out of a paper bag.” He managed a weak smile, suddenly not so hungry anymore. “But they are fireproof.”

[Ruby]

Ruby’s spoon was the only movement she made any effort with as she listened to Cael’s reply. She sipped the liquid, occasionally slurping as she dabbled in the bottom of the bowl and pieced together a picturesque scene of modern Salvar. Down to the valleys of sand her fortunes went, drowning in the golden sea of arid waves; she felt a tad disappointed, but as the Shrikes came into the canteen, and he joined the flow of conversation, something kindled in her heart, something she had longed to test in a true environment.

When her spell singing had burst into existence, it was sad for many that several members of the audience had also ‘burst,’ along with most of the merchant ship the Floating Fandango and her crew. Whilst she’d remained anonymous up until now, having been the back end of a cow at the time, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before she was found out, how long it would be for her ‘talents’ to get her into trouble she couldn’t escape.

“Saboteurs you say?” She looked down at Cael and raised an eyebrow, finishing the stew and combining both threads with a neat little wink. She looked back over her shoulder at the five wild sprite like creatures, and noted how ordinary they looked devoid of the garb she’d first come across them in. The Portal and the worlds beyond seemed so far away now. The alienation, the sincere loneliness she’d felt on their journey to the hideout was slowly fading. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it almost felt like a home to these people. Funny how home, how life itself is found in the most desolate of places…against all the odds.

“It is a pleasure to meet you all. Although I dare say if your reputation does not precede you, I have a lot to do to prove myself to you all,” she watched Urthur’s somewhat fortitude testing display of food consumption and rolled her eyes. “As Cael says, we have no choice in our meeting so pray let us work together.”

She flicked her hair from her eyes, adjusted her dress once more and slipped sideways and lifted her legs up and over the bench in a delicate movement. A single red feather fell over her forehead, and she slowly ran her fingers over it. “In case you are wondering why I asked if you’re fireproof, it is because I have an unusual talent that I am…unable to control. The measure of success depends on the dedication to the trigger which causes it, but it is not something I wish to demonstrate here; you might claim that they are fireproof,” she jabbed a slender finger to the group, “but as you say, you most certainly are not.”

She stood up and stretched, her arms arcing over her head and her spine curving like a ballerina with clubfoot. This was the border and the grace note for a new song, and Ruby was becoming tantalised by the prospect of conflict. She had the same thrill during the finale of a play, or when delivering the last stanza of a particularly brilliant poem. The only difference here was that she could make her own fame, write her own story, and maybe stop relying on the empathy and brilliance of others to corner her niche.

“Now which of you wonderful gentlemen is going to find me something more comfortable to wear? I don’t think whatever use Cael or your commander wishes of me will be helped by waltzing around the land in a ball gown; especially one that accentuates certain…prospects. I have already done away with the need to sing for my supper, I sorely don’t wish to have to sing for some sewing needles and wool, you might lose an eye,” she winked at the Shrikes, and looked at Cael expectantly, tossing her head to and fro between the mage and the martyrs of flame, foot tapping on the cold stone floor.