The Wait of the World

[Logan]

“You’ve focused so long on everyone else, Logan. Perhaps it is time to focus on yourself,” the Empress stated matter-of-factly as she joyfully oiled the barrel of her rifle.

Vincent couldn’t help but laugh before he chimed in with his own two cents, “She’s got a point, Logan. Over the last few months the Tarot turned into Logan McCloud’s one-man army. Between you and John, I’m not even sure the rest of us had anything left to do.”

Logan smirked. Alyssa Snow and Vincent Cain, the Empress and Emperor of the Tarot Hierarchy, had a point. Over the last three or so months, the entirety of the Tarot’s activity resided within the work he and John had completed, both in recruitments and other various excursions. Even the battle with Moxxilus, which neither man knew the other joined until well past the point of no return, ended with both men joining forces to accomplish an impossible feat.

He glanced at Alyssa and then at Vincent. “I have been wanting to visit Marshal Stormcrow to see how the rebuilding of the Ranger Outpost in Concordia is progressing. I guess now is as good a time as any.”

“Maybe they can teach you to actually shoot that thing,” the Emperor said as he pointed at the talymer longbow in the corner of the room. Vince had taken the bow from Logan after a rather unfortunate incident which nearly saw John lose an eye to a misfired arrow.

“Maybe. Does this mean I can have the bow back now?”

Vince grinned from ear to ear as he nodded.

“Just learn to fire the damn thing correctly. We don’t need you taking out our own members. There are plenty enough enemies to handle that without you adding to the numbers,” the Empress said with a genuinely kind smile.

The psion stood, snatched the bow without another word, and left the House of Cards. He didn’t bother gathering any further supplies. The bow and his swords were all he needed, especially for a short trip to the rebuilt Corone Rangers Outpost in Concordia.

[Logan]

The last time the telepath made his way through the Concordian forest he was accosted, albeit temporarily, by a small group of would-be bandits. Unfortunately for the bandits, they were unaware of just whom they’d taken captive, and their deaths were quick. A large part of him was not fond of killing, but the whole of him understood the necessity.

Althanas provided simple truths, such as kill or be killed. It also provided a stark reminder of how the lines of morality blur when one’s life is on the line. The instinct for survival is the strongest instinct in the known universe, and for some, such as the psion, it was far stronger than in most others. Such was the way of life within the lands of Althanas, and if anyone wished to dispute the fact Logan would gladly point them in the direction of Haide or Salvar.

Thankfully, the trek into the forest was relatively boring. He was accosted by a large animal, but unlike with humans or intelligent beings, the psion merely had to remain patient until the beast grew bored of its prey. The distraction added another couple of hours to his travel time, but even that wasn’t much.

Dawn bled through the tops of the trees, and lit the leaf-covered ground offering a clearer indication of direction. Not too far ahead, the glorious sight of the wooden fortress of the Corone Rangers Output rose from the ground, piercing through the top of the treeline to signal its resurrected prominence.

At least the Rangers are keeping themselves busy.

[Logan]

"Hold! Name and purpose here,” a voice shouted from among the trees a half mile or so from the entrance to the nearly finished wooden fortress.

Logan glanced up, shielding his eyes from the rays of bright light piercing the tree tops from the mid-day sun.

“Logan McCloud. I’m here to see the Marshal,” the psion yelled back.

He heard a rustle from where the voice came followed by whispers in a language resembling a hybrid of Aleran and Akashiman. There was a commanding beauty in the hybridization of the two, and he made a mental note to query StormCrow about its origins and purpose among the Rangers.

The whispers ceased, and the forest grew eerily silent. Even the small woodland creatures quieted their murmuring. The silence lingered longer than he liked, but it was suddenly broken by the whistle of a volley of arrows aimed at his location from seemingly everywhere.

There was little time to react, but that never seemed to stop the psion. He rolled to his right, avoiding a large swath of the arrows. A couple screamed past his ears on either side. Another couple narrowly missed his feet as he deftly dodged one way and then the other. The entire forest seemed to groan as he spun to his right, the shortswords at his waist unsheathed and swinging with such speed and grace even the most accomplished swordsman would blush. The final arrows deflected every which way with such voracity they exploded nearby trees into nothing more than splinters.

Logan’s spin slowed. His swords returned to their sheaths as his fingers gripped the hilts readying for a second attack. The first was always a mere warning of what would come next, but as he stood and panted heavily, no second volley arrived. The veteran took a deep breath to both calm himself and catch his breath.

An idea struck him. His fists slid from the hilts, and his eyes turned to the spot in the foliage where the whispers began.

May Jomil have mercy upon your souls.

Hands balled into fists as he concentrated on the spot. Moments passed into minutes, and then a lifeless body fell to the ground a hundred yards from Logan’s position. He released his fists as he stepped toward the fallen unknown enemy. The fresh corpse of his unknowing victim still clenched its own neck, and its face showed the desperation for breath of its final moments.

A small unspoken prayer from the psion filled the emptiness of the recently formed small clearing as he pulled the eyelids down. Even his enemies, numbering well into the hundreds if not more, deserved respect, and his own desire for honor would not allow him to ignore the fallen no matter their sins.

It was then he felt the sting at the back of his leg. While no arrow had landed true, one did manage to wound him. He checked for blood, but none shown.

Then the world went black.

[Logan]

Silence. Enduring, lingering, never-ending silence.

A dull ringing started as his mind attempted to clear the cobwebs from whatever had knocked him out, crescendoing quickly to an unfathomable roar. The veteran warrior blinked his eyes once, then twice, attempting to focus enough to see something, anything. The clearing around him was faded, blurry, impossible to make out.

Ugh, what happened?

The world spun violently around him, throwing off his equilibrium. He stood to his feet, he stumbled one direction than the other. His hands moved to his head, squeezing at the sides of his cranium attempting to stabilize the spinning. He continued to blink trying to adjust and focus, but failed miserably.

By Jomil's hand...

The focus finally came, but he secretly wished he remained unable to focus or to see or to hear or to...well anything. All senses overloaded simultaneously.

The clearing was now miles upon miles of nothing. The forest around what was the clearing no more than ash and desolate, charred land. The Corone Outpost no longer stood, replaced by devastation. Bodies -- more like Haide-torched corpses -- littered the landscape. He took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it. The acrid smell of soot, and the stomach wretching aroma of burning hair and flesh filled his nostrils. Each breath forced the pit of his stomach to wretch, nearly knocking him down, but he managed to hold strong.

Logan pulled his coat closed, huddling as much from the shock as against the icy, wintry wind that buffeted him. His hands fumbled into his pockets, ineffectively seeking refuge and warming comfort.

Stormcrow! The realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

He took off at a full sprint, dodging small lakes of fire and small pits of ash as he ran. Every step the soles of his boots seemed to burn hotter and hotter, and eventually he removed them and tossed them aside. As he did, he caught a glimpse of the soles. The leather was singed and showed signs of cracking.

As a feeling of desperation kicked in, he pulled his hands from his pockets, clenched his fists, and focused. Nothing happened.

Logan released his fists, and shook his arms out. He clenched his fists tighter, and focused harder. Still nothing.

What the...?

There were no possible scenarios where the psion couldn't call upon the water below the surface to well up, but he couldn't in that moment. Something changed, but what?

His eyes darted about once more, truly taking in the sheer levels of destruction...and death. Corpses moved, perhaps by nerves still firing, perhaps thrashing as muscles exploded from the intense heat, or perhaps by something...less than natural. The area smelled of sulfur, and his body felt strange. His stomach gurgled in ways he'd never experienced. Even Madison Freebird's poisons couldn't force that sort of reaction.

His body itched and stung like ten thousand red-hot pins digging into his flesh. Every breath brought with it the weight of thousands of pounds of pressure. There was only one thing left he could do.

Alyssa.

His thoughts turned to the Empress. Devestation and chaos on this magnitude would surely have reached her and probably the House of Cards. Was she safe? Was Tarot safe?

ALYSSA, he screamed telepathically, seeking out his self-adopted younger sister.

No response. Nothing. Sheer, unbroken silence echoed in his mind over and over.

His chest tightened, and his breath grew weak and then ceased entirely. His body fell limp to the charred ground below, and his flesh began to melt joining the ranks of the disfigured remains of so many others. His eyes closed.

Everything went dark.