Death Stories for Those Who Stayed Behind - Stitches

The screaming and smell of smoke often plagued his dreams, as it was such a recurring theme in his pathetic, short life. He would put his head down and start stitching the people back together until someone stopped him. It wasn’t until they melted into the ground that he would stop trying to save those poor people. He would wail for those who showed him kindness and quietly sit vigil where the rest of them died. It was when people would start screaming at him, pulling him away from trying to save the little ones that he would be jarred awake. The sadness and rage that filled him was so overwhelming, so confusingly strong, that the immensity of it always made him wake up. This confusion was how he started every single day.

Stitches was walking back towards Steel Horse Crossing on one of his “collection walks” when he heard the screaming and smelled the smoke. Visions of the orphanage filled his mind and he started running. The closer he got to town, the stronger the smell of smoke and the louder his memories started to scream at him. He veered off the slim, barely-visible trail he had been following towards a path that ran along the darker, backside of town. He heard someone screaming and visions of Clapton filled his mind. He ran towards where he thought the sound was coming from, but it grew weaker as he got closer. He feared maybe he was too late and he wouldn’t be able to stitch them back together.

Heavy footsteps were to his left, the side nearest town. They were grunting and the smell of  blood, sour body odor, and burning carried their identity on the wind. Stitches was not as ignorant as most would have imagined, as his experience hiding from danger was far more expert than any of the “normal” people. This poor wolfchild had been hiding from danger all his life, and his acute sense of smell was one of the greatest tools he’s had in staying out of harm’s way. He knew that concoction of foul aromas far too well. He’d encountered it every time he lost everything.

Ducking down behind a rotting ball of tree roots, he quickly pulled some rotting leaves around him. He knew they were fast approaching and he had to hide. However the voice from the back trail whimpered again, hoarse from calling for help. The faces of Liarsberg swam in his mind’s eye and then he started to panic. Who was it? It didn’t sound like Rhea or any ladyperson. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place who it was. Did it matter who it was?

Steel Horse Crossing was the second kindest place he’d ever been. He may have made a friend or two at the orphanage, but the larger people didn’t understand him and chased him away. Liarsberg was the only other place he’d felt like home and they acted as his family. When he came into Steel Horse carrying the remnants of his happy life inside a burlap sack, people didn’t beat him away. Some stayed their distance, but some were kind to him, fed him, and even played with him. He even loved some of them, especially Rhea.

It didn’t matter who it was. He was going to go save them. He quietly snuck out from behind the wall of muddy tree roots and bent over as low as he could before he started running as fast as he could towards the wimpering. It wasn’t far and the bad ones would probably disregard him as some other kind of monster out in the woods. He came up on pieces of people-insides off the edge of the trail. He reached down and grabbed it, collecting it like a slimy red rope. He finally got to his friend who was lying there in pieces. Stitches didn’t know if he had enough thread to sew poor August back together. He started putting the insides-rope in a pile on top of the strange bloody basket the cracked ribcage created. August looked up at Stitches, trying to form some kind of words with what was left of his mouth, but instead he just formed a small smile before he started to sink into the ground. Stitches started to pull at the insides-rope, hoping he could somehow get a few more minutes to try to save his friend from melting away. He wailed with his distorted voice, sounding like a wounded animal.

He howled for not being able to save his friend. He keened for knowing he was going to lose everything again. All the games, the food, and all the nice people who were friends (or at least not trying to hurt him), but especially for Rhea. He didn’t think he had it in him to try to find another home again. He keened for the life and love he wanted because the closest he had ever gotten to it was being eviscerated and burned to the ground. His soul-crushing howls were so loud, so transcendentally siren-like, that the crunching of his bones under a heavy mace weren’t even heard. The silence after his remains were destroyed by a grenade was truly deafenening.

Exodus from Steel Horse Crossing - The Rovers

It had already been a long night, and it was getting longer by the moment.  The small council of Rovers that had met some hours ago were in motion almost immediately, and word had made it to all corners that still had people: It was time to leave if you valued your life.  It wasn’t a message sent easily, or without the weight it deserved, but it was the right thing to do for the moment.  Elder Timothy from the tribes had made his appearance as expected, and was already moving south with the first caravan out to work with the Ironworks in Mill City.  His people had split between working with the clans to sort people, movements and rescues as they became necessary.  The symbiosis between Rover and Natural One melded effortlessly as it had many times in the past, speaking volumes for the closeness of both strains in the area.

More worrisome was the RPM, as not a single Diesel Jock had made their way to the appointed emergency locations.  That spelled out two possibilities.  The first was that they didn’t believe the threat was credible to the town, and the second was that they were already trapped in on the north side of the town, and were unable to make it out.  Dick Berken was bold, and even reckless, but he wasn’t a stupid man.  He would know that this event was too big even for his best fighters, and if he could have made it they would have been here.  No, they were already lost, and there would be no freeing them.  Not right now, at least.

The elderly man, his long white hair flaring in the light breeze, sat on a log thinking in the time provided about all these things and more in the matter of a few moments.  His heavily furrowed brow bore the weight of many people across its ridge, and gnarled old fingers passed thoughtfully across a tattered brown and grey scarf wrapped around his neck, shoulders and chest.  Claus Staghorn had lost much of his family and clan over the years, and they had left him holding the reigns of a many year old peace between the founders of Steel Horse Crossing.  The old Rover could remember those very beginnings, all the way back, despite the cobwebs that hung around those memories.  He was as old as anyone could count, and yet the fates had yet to see him dragged off into his final day.  Until that day, he would hide in plain sight of his own people, the third Elder of Steel Horse Crossing, the only man that could recount the history of the entire region to the day they had all fought for the land together.

“Claus,” a small voice whispered in the darkness, the feel of a warm hand on his elbow accompanying the words, “we need to get you inside.  You’ll freeze out here.”

Claus chuckled softly, a little cough following the noise.  “Greta, at twice your grandparents’ age, you’d think you’d stop worrying about me.  If I made it this far, the cold of my own homelands are unlikely to be the thing that ends me.”

Greta had been one of the few familial survivors of the Staghorn clan, and one of even fewer that refused to let go of that name out of sheer respect for her kin.  Claus was her relative, but she wasn’t sure how far it went back, and how many “greats” had to be attached to the relationship.  It wasn’t important to her in the end, as she’d spend whatever part of her life was required looking after him and she liked it that way.

“You’re being intransigent, you old coot,” Greta teased.  “Come now, others are waiting, and we have so many things left to do.”

The pair made their way slowly to the low, protected fires near discreetly hidden caravans.  Various clans, caravan leaders, and other notable Rovers had gathered here despite their groups being similarly hidden in other locations along the southern reaches of town.  Claus noted the faces in the low light, counting who was still left and where there was someone missing, he counted the number of people that should have been taken with the caravan that was already on the roads.

“Too many still here.  What are we holding for, and do we know if whatever that is will end up making it?”  Claus’ voice was soft, but firm.  This was no time for too many heroics, and anyone that thought otherwise was likely to perish along with anyone they were attempting to rescue.

“Not many left now,” came a deeper voice from behind the shielded fire.  “We should all be on the roads within the hour, and we’ll leave one behind for any last emergencies, as instructed.”

Claus nodded, as did Greta, both acknowledging that plans were being enacted as expected.  Only one last detail was missing, and Claus would see to it personally.

“A small addition to our plans, then,” he commented, as all the faces turned to listen.  “I’ll make my way immediately to Rail City.  This is bigger than just Steel Horse, or even Mill City.  We’ll need to invoke the treaty, and I’m not sure Elder Timothy knows enough of the details.  Dick Berken hasn’t made it to the rendezvous point, so I’ve got to assume they are a loss for the time being.  That means it falls to me to reach the Chancellor and discuss the terms.”

A bit of rumbling came from the voices around the fire, some in agreement that Claus would be the only reasonable alternative while others suggested he would have problems in such a large city with the Ironworks.  While divided, the voices never made demands nor did they ever suggest the statement was invalid.  Their respect was clear, despite the worry that they carried with them.

Claus clacked his teeth together quietly, yet purposefully, while the few voices spoke.  He was of two minds.  Standards suggested he allow them to talk, as everyone should be heard.  Time suggested he skip to the point of importance.  He opted for the middle, and let the conversation happen without him for a few more moments as he processed who was still available on the southern town borders.

“Unfortunately my friends, this talk will not settle the problem of needing someone in Rail City that knows the terms of our contract with the Ironworks.  I am that person.”  Claus spoke as a matter of fact now, bringing his considerable years to bear.  “I will need a caravan ready to move now, as I’ll find my second leg of the trip in Mill City once we arrive.  I also need some letters delivered for those that would be in Mill City, and I’ll need someone handpicked for a task that will take on some matter of importance in the near future.  Have people watched during the discussions to follow.  I need to know who would be astute to take on some matters for the future of the town.”

The others around the fire acquiesced to the older Rover, knowing that his words were to be followed at this point now that his mind was made up.  It would be up to them to all do their parts, in whatever fashion they could make them work.  A few of the people standing in that same circle would never share similar moments again if everything didn’t go to plan, but they knew that for the security of the town and the protection of the Ironworks, they would need to perform their duties as best they could.  It was a group effort to secure the community.  It was the community that must survive to ensure that Steel Horse continued beyond that night.

Greta looped an arm through one of Claus’ as he started to walk off, enacting his plan.  A single voice called out from the fire as it petered out, chasing the pair of them.  “The gods go with you both, and see your safe return.”

Claus grinned slightly, looking ahead at the caravan readied for his departure.  “If I’ve made it through all this just to not make it back from the Chancellor, let’s hope you’ll send Hugo and Muni after the lot of them, yeah?” 

At the mention of their names, two caged ravens bristled and squawked, their blood red eyes trained on Claus as he flicked a finger’s length of raw rabbit meat at both.  “You’ll have formal invitations for the town by the new year, and if you don’t, you’ll know where to come looking for me.”

Death Stories for those who stayed behind - Riley Trent

She wouldn’t budge, not even an inch.

“But I want my momma!” cried the young child, easily loud enough to be heard by local raiders that were willing to eat her, despite her not understanding the concept. Even sleeping raiders might wake for this one.

“Then let’s go meet with them,” they said quietly, trying to calm the child, “they should be waiting for you with everyone else.”

It was a small lie, but one they felt justified in telling. Riley Trent was cautiously optimistic that such a lie might both quiet the child and get them to safety. The truth, which they had already seen firsthand, was that the child’s parents had been smart enough to hide their young daughter while the raiders swept through the small farming village. How she hadn’t woken up at the stir, or been taken already, was a small miracle.

Riley had heard of the raider threat, and had fully intended to make their way out of Steel Horse quickly. It was the families she heard of that were either trapped or likely to be overrun that they felt a need to check on. These families, recipients of the post and generally a likeable lot, had grown on Riley over their time in town. They had been one of very few post runners to reside in town and, by virtue of that, they had also gotten to know many of the town’s outlying families at least at face value. Their own faith drove them to make sure that either the outliers had been overrun or could be, at least in part, saved.

“Are you sure?” the small child asked in a much smaller voice. She hadn’t been entirely reassured, but the words were at least correct enough to staunch the flow of tears in order to speak instead of scream.

The pang of guilt grazed their conscience as they almost frowned, but quickly held their face in check. “Of course, that’s where everyone is going. Everything is very messy right now, and people are missing others they love, but we’re all going to meet up just over there.”

They hadn’t remembered the small child specifically, but could pin the likeness on her parents easily enough. Riley would have put a wager on this particular child being Philip and Erina’s girl, who they had mentioned in passing but hadn’t shown her off to date. They were kind people, willing to help their neighbors and the town alike. They were Sainthood as well, which didn’t hurt knowing that Riley would be helping their own.

The girl snuffled into the long sleeve of the dressing gown, clearly handed down to her and a bit larger than a proper fit. Riley took a quick assessment, and reached their hand out offering it to her. The child took the offer, and without too much urging, the pair was on the way to meet others heading out of town.

“I’m Riley,” they said cautiously, barely loud enough to be heard, “and I deliver the post to your mom and dad. We have to be very quiet while we run, okay?”

The mention of the post, and both her parents, seemed to take the child’s mind off the jaunt through the darkness. Riley’s light made a small dent in the blackness of the path, while the moon was clear overhead and gave a bit more help where it could.

The young girl, now keeping up with some effort, breathed out, “Hi Riley, I’m Annabelle. Momma calls me Belle.”

For some reason, the notion of this explanation made Riley crack a wry smile. In the middle of the woods, avoiding certain death, a small child found it important to reveal not only her name, but seemingly her favored moniker. Only children could have this innocence, and the sudden realization that coming back for her was both fortuitous and almost fateful. A flash of a younger girl streaked across their mind, someone important. Someone from their past, long ago, that they couldn’t quite reach. They were almost at the edge of the light where one of the caravans was held up waiting for the last few survivors to catch up.

“Sister?” they found themselves whispering, as their mind raced to find purchase on the face or the thought itself. The fleeting moment seemed to be sprinting away when Riley’s foot gave out from under them.

“Go Belle! That way,” Riley pointed toward the light as they tried to pull themselves upright.

The small girl looked back, her eyes growing to what seemed to be twice their size, as she let out a shriek only a child could make. She turned and ran as quick as her legs could carry her, as her guide thus far had almost made it to her feet. Riley turned their head over their shoulder, not expecting to stop given Belle’s reaction, but was hit in the throat and felt their windpipe collapse. Their feet, ready to move forward, seemed not to react. Something was wrong.

Taking another moment, a required moment, to check their right leg, it was clear someone had cut straight through the heel. While Riley hadn’t felt it at the time – I swear, that face – it hurt like hell now. The scream, trapped in their throat when the small band of raiders emerged from the trees, felt like it had claws, ripping away at where the air should have been escaping at that moment. The last thing they remembered was a pair of shields emerging at the edge of the light, a pair of bodies. Bartok was there, and Belle would be safe. Everything went a painful black soon afterward.

Exodus from Steel Horse Crossing - The Diesel Jocks

The constant crack of gunfire ripping through rounds at a furious rate was the first sound that was made in the ensuing fight.    The whine of a motor coughing out the power to spin the cylinder emptying those rounds wasn’t far behind, but other guns had picked up where the first left off.  The tense calm that existed only moments before was shattered, and every last person that knew what those sounds brought with them leapt into action.

“Raiders, north side!  Prepare the spikes, man the guns!”

The voice called out, faceless in the dark, but the call echoed down the line of the massive compound.  The Diesel Jock clan within the walls didn’t hesitate, as each of them took up their post and began their assigned tasks.  More voices began to mark calls to some order or another, and eventually the air was thick with screams.  Screams of orders, screams of battle, and screams of death.

“Lights,” grumbled an older man from relative darkness.

It was all that needed to be said, and suddenly the compound was lit up like the sun was sitting just above the compound, its brilliant light shining outward.  The man issuing the order stood up, shifted his hefty frame around the small office at the back of the garage, and peered outside.  He nodded once in a matter of fact fashion, seemingly sated by the immediate results.  The tactic had made two very distinct points, which he saw had eluded the two other RPM members attending his immediate orders.

“You see,” he said almost wearily, gesturing at the lights facing outside the compound, “this is why we clear the area around the Boneyard.  They have to fight into the lights and be blind, and we get to see them coming clearly to make sure they don’t make it to the wall.  And if they do…”

The middle aged man in front of his elder took the cue, which was quite the initiative for him.  “If they do, we run them through with the traps and the wall spikes?”

Pleased, though he’d never have admitted it, the president of the RPM gave another simple nod at the fellow.  He deserved a bit of recognition when he was finally smart enough to figure things like that out.

“Right.  And if those fuckers think they’re getting the better of us, they missed the fact we’ve been here prepared for them for just about as long as there were raiders around these parts.”

The fighting had let up briefly as the raiders outside the walls regrouped.  The light had slowed them down, but it was a temporary situation as the charging, screaming bodies were replaced with rifle cracks and the occasional glass breaking.  The situation would turn again, but there were plenty of surprises left in store.

“Panhead,” a voice called from around the corner, “where do you want the artillery pointed?  Main forces?”

Dick Berken frowned for just a moment before he spun his girth around to face the new voice.  “Keep the shells dry and plant the big guns north.  Get some of the smaller ones ready for wherever they’re thinking of hitting us next.  Line ‘em up to hit a good thirty yards out.  Any closer, we may start losing our own shit.”

“Got it boss.  And by the way, Admiral just patched in to the radio.  Says he needs a word when you’re not buried in bullshit.”  The man at the door disappeared almost as fast as he showed up, leaving Dick and his two attendants alone again.

“Alright, Ogre guard the doors.  Anyone tries to come in, give ‘em one warning.  Then put ‘em out.  Not too hard, we can’t afford to start losing bodies at this point.  Led, grab Abe, I’m gonna need him working for once.”  Dick strode by, talking as he walked through the door.  As he passed them both, he turned back for only a moment.  “And get the probies running ammo.  If they’re not half asleep exhausted in the next few hours, they haven’t been working enough.”

Dick trudged through the Boneyard, looking up occasionally at the high walls and the spike sleds that pushed through them.  Each and every turret was full, with a backup body pulling rifle duty beside it just in case.  The provisions were being managed, meals being made, weapons being tended, and vehicles of all stripes being prepared.

“Well,” he suggested with all the mirth he could muster, “he sure as hell picks a great time to want to slackjaw on a radio.”

A few hours later, the core crew of The RPM crowded into one of the bike garages, tucked away from both battle and outside ears.  Dick stood at the center of the small crowd, facing each one in turn so he could gauge the fighting on their expressions.  He could tell it hadn’t gotten brutal yet, as they all looked pretty much in the moment.  He was worried when that would change, and how much it would change each of them.  Particularly if any of them would make it through.

“Alright you schlubs, here’s the deal,” he started, making sure they all quieted down while he took a moment to let his voice sink in.  “Admiral says the shelling is about as good as he can pull off right now, as these sludgebrains are pretty much right up the asshole of the naval docks.  Best chance we have is to hold out while he rallies help from down south.”

With so few people in the room, only a single word echoed in the room; “Great.”  He knew who it was, and his nephew would get an ear full of hot air and perhaps a good lump over the head later.  Now wasn’t the time.

“No, it isn’t ‘great’.  Not one of us thinks so.  But we’ve got plenty of food for the near term, and the mush-heads aren’t getting to the walls anytime soon.  We can start worrying when the ammo runs out.  More likely though it’s going to be the food.  And that’s what we’re focusing on, rationing and stringing out the bits we have on hand.”  Dick wasn’t one to let things hang in the air often, but it was a particular point of difficultly dealing with food when you didn’t have a means of food production within the walls.

The quartermaster reported that they’d have enough food to last a month and a half, and could get into the turn of the new year if they really stretched some things out.  He had even suggested adding some motor oil to the mix if things got too thin, but Dick had told him to keep that thought for later.  He hoped there wouldn’t be a later that called for it.

“We’re waiting for troops, or whoever else they throw together,” he glowered slightly, ensuring that no one decided to pop off with another smart remark.  “And when they get here, we’ll link up and help them push.  Until then, keep this to yourselves.  And one more thing – bring me Ogre.”

The door opened moments later, a hulking man of superior size ducked through the door to get into the garage proper.  He wasn’t just tall, but was filled out like a warship with shoulders to match one.  He lumbered forward, but stood a respectful distance from the RPM officers, waiting for them to speak first.

“Ogre,” Dick started, wasting no time diving into the problem.  “You’ve been good on the road.  Captains all say you can ride, and you can handle yourself with the best of ‘em.  I’ve got a test for you, which won’t be easy, but if you pull it off you’ll end up a Tail Gunner on the road.  Good with you so far?”

Ogre nodded, seemingly somewhat surprised, but managed to utter “Sure boss, whatchya need?” before he forgot who he was standing in front of.

“Kit yourself out.  Just after the turn of the year, if these shitheels outside aren’t gone, we’re sending you down the tunnel on a ride.  Need you to bring something to Mill City.  Two things to remember that are critical.  First, you bring my ride back.  Second, you don’t let anyone touch what I give you until you’re in the walls of Mill City.  One box, one key.  Got it?”

Ogre stood staring, the most puzzled look crossing his face as he processed why he’d be sent out during a fight that he’d be most useful standing around hitting things.  He didn’t quite piece it together, but shrugged his shoulders acquiescing to the fact that Dick and the officers knew best.

“Sure thing, boss.  Protect the ride, protect the box and key.  Got it.”  Ogre waited a few moments making sure it wasn’t a joke, or perhaps for some manner of divine inspiration to hit, but with neither becoming obvious, he turned to leave.

With the door closed behind him, Dick chose a door headed the opposite way, calling out over his shoulder, “Get to work, road rash, we have shit to do and raiders to kill!”

Quietly, two voices looked at the door Ogre just walked through only moments ago, and asked the pertinent question.

“Think he’ll make it?  To Mill City I mean.”

“It’d take a miracle…”

Exodus from Steel Horse Crossing - The Natural Ones

The gathering had grown smaller over the last few years, and particularly this last year.  It had been a hard few winters, and many people of the town no longer understood the symbiotic nature of those that lived within it, and those tribes that lived around it.  The tribes had taken the brunt of that failing, and none more so than the Kishwaukee.  The Palwaukee, a sister tribe, had only recently given thanks to the town for their help eliminating a problem that threatened every last one of them.  Others had protested at the gesture, claiming the town didn’t understand the burden the tribes bore, but the Palwaukee insisted that teaching those that lived within the soul of the land would help show them the importance of the tribes’ plight.  The raider horde had added no small salt to the wounds that they suffered as they encroached further into the heart of their lands.

The Kishwaukee had been the scouts to the north, the warnings that were brought to the town, the caretakers of the Great Tree that suffered.  They were the hosts to keep others safe.  And yet, the Great Tree’s infection had spread to lengths very few truly understood, and the raiders were pushing south by the day.  The Dark Moon had lost all of their children, small numbers at a time, until they began to cry out in the darkness from the beyond.  The Pinefoot had slowly been falling as the northern border of the forest began to crumble.  Their world, at one point static and known, had turned upside down.

Through it all, the Palwaukee had taken on the weight of becoming the backbone of the tribes.  It was they that called the gathering, pulling together all the tribes that could muster for a decision on what was to be done.  It would be the decisive moment when all of the blood must decide on what would befall the families that had lived here collectively over the many years.  The cool wind slowly licked the great fire burning at the center of the circle as the last of the Pinefoot slipped into the clearing, only noticed by the lithe female figure that made her way adeptly through seated men and women of all ages.

“Elder Laya of the Pinefoot,” an older man spoke quietly, his head not moving to look at her, “the circle sees you and welcomes you.”

Without so much as a sound, she took an open seat closest to the fire with the other elders with a small nod to each.  As she settled, despite the light, she seemed to fade into the shadowy background.

“Elder Timothy, it is good to be seen.  The Pinefoot greet you all in turn.”

Timothy, raising his head slightly, allowed the light to reflect off his pure white eyes.  He turned his head from left to right, more out of habit than anything, sightlessly scanning the elders’ circle.

“It is time,” he began, “to decide our future.  The horde to the north will descend, and with it, will more than likely take these lands.  The town is not prepared for this battle, and we can no longer mitigate the circumstances.  We will not stand alone to die to the man and woman. This would be folly.”

In a guttural growl, a hulking man with intricate tattoos slammed his fist into the ground next to him.  “The Dark Moon will not idly allow these creatures to take the souls of our children.  They live with the land now, and we will not leave them.”

Murmurs of agreement were cut short as Timothy raised his hand.  The silence was immediate.

“Elder Cold Bear is correct,” Timothy replied, allowing his hands to slowly fall to his side again.  A crimson leaf, falling from overhead, danced into the fire and created a quick flare accentuating the point.  “We will not leave the heart of our land to the sullied and foul brained.  But we also cannot lose everything and allow them to keep it forever.  We must be more intelligent than they are.”

“What do you suggest, Elder Timothy?” Laya questioned in a hushed tone.

The older man smiled, the white eyes trained on her as she asked the question.  “We will retreat, until those that have forgotten the heart of the woods understand what they have lost.  We will organize, and help them remember.  We will return with them and take our home once they commit to taking their homes as well.”

Another murmur echoed through the gathered members around the fire, this time lingering a bit longer.  Voices on both sides of the issue spoke their mind to each other in the darkness, but not one voice rose above the rest.

“With the Kishwaukee no longer as they once were,” Timothy continued as the crowd quickly exhausted their discussion to hear more detail, “we must share duties and thin our lines further.  The only way we survive is if we all work together with our strengths.”

Laya, pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping both of her arms around the knees, smiled in the firelight.  “We will, of course, run the forests and scout the movements?  I can think of no tribe better to take on the task.”

The eldest nodded curtly, “Just so, Elder Laya.  The Pinefoot are the most adept at this required task.  We must ensure we have information from the slow advance.  We must know numbers, locations, timing and even where they strike as they move.”

“And what would you have us do, Elder Timothy?  With the Kishwaukee no longer with us, how will we be divided?”  Cold Bear asked, his voice grave with the question.

“Elder Cold Bear, the Dark Moon have long been the most ferocious of fighters.  Your people cannot stand against the tide that moves.  Instead, you must take on the role of the Kishwaukee – defenders of the people.  You and the smaller tribes will retreat, and the Dark Moon will take up the rear guard to make sure no more fall than the battle will take.” 

Timothy’s voice was solemn, knowing he sent this tribe into the fray with assured losses.  Cold Bear’s reaction was not surprisingly, but disarming for those that did know the man well.

“We will cull those we meet and return them to the forest,” the hulking figure responded, a grizzled grin spreading over his scarred face.  “May the forest mother take them swiftly.”

 Timothy nodded earnestly at the man, his head instinctively turning to his right where another elder once sat.  The empty space of the Kishwaukee haunted him briefly.

“We will, as always, take on the task of coordinating with those that make it out of the town alive and whatever efforts are being made to reclaim our home.” he said with a note of sadness in his voice.

With the sentence spoken, the three elders sat a moment, staring at the fire in the quiet of the night.  Cold Bear was the first to stand, the sharp tones of armor and weapons clattering as he did so.  He took a skin of water and poured it onto the fire.  Laya followed moments later, repeating the process.  Timothy, with a slow sigh, stood as his joints popped softly under the loose, warm clothing.  He raised his arms to the sides, at which point the smaller tribe elders began to move forward and cast water onto the fire.  Timothy was the last, and the fire was already long out, but he still followed the ritual of his people and poured the skin of water into the soupy fire pit.

“And so it begins.”

Midwinter Hype Post #3

They had followed all the protocol.  Appropriately scavenging what clothing they needed, using the local money in the proper locations to secure food and passage, and even arming themselves just enough to look more dangerous than stupid.  It had served them well, and the plan had been well conceived as far as they were concerned.  Each step carefully plotted in case of emergency.  Each move planned beforehand so as to move freely and without being questioned.  They were on the last leg of the northern trail, and had taken the turn east to Mill City two days back.  The trails were covered with snow enough to cause a bit of slow travel, but by and large they hadn’t disappeared.  Everyone had been able to keep pace and, as best as anyone could tell, they were on track and still making good time.

It was a night like most any other for the last few, and it wasn’t any more pleasant.  They had left the last town – with a warm bed, a fire, and a hot meal – at least six days back, but there was a quiet debate that it may had been seven.  Everything else had been cold, salted meals and water.  No fires, no luxury.  The only thing to look forward to was the next day in front of the last, when they all hoped they would be closer to their final destination.

“Where the hell is this place, anyway?” Chilt had asked on the road, the sun still hanging high in the sky.

“No idea yet,” Raynor had responded, his curt attitude extending well past the confines of the rooms they all had shared for years.  “We’ll get our next drop in Mill City, and then we’ll have a clue where we end up.”

The thought that most everyone had on their minds was simple.  Emergency protocols were a pain in the ass.  Everything had taken a turn for the immediate shitter, and this little band of misfits were the only ones left to carry out their final orders.  They weren’t thrilled about any of the circumstances, but they knew what was at stake all the same.

Everyone had started to hunker down, getting as close to each other as they could.  There would be no fire, and there was no tent to cover them.  Only the gear that kept them warm, and a hope that no one had underestimated the weather.  They had made it so far.

“What the fuck Droz, kill that light!”  The voice was disembodied at that point, but the unmistakable glow of a light shone on the man’s bearded face for a moment and disappeared.

“It’s only a smoke.  Piss off,” Droz said in reply, grumbling a few more words under his breath.

Raynor prepared to have them all cut the shit, knowing full well everyone was getting a bit testy after being on the road this long.  He didn’t have time, as the thud in the snow accentuated the need for quiet all too well.  The small party scuttled around the fallen man.  Droz, with his precious cigarette, lay on his side as a small pool of red formed from the shaft of a pole lodged firmly into his chest.  A fine, high pitched whistle preceded another thud, this one more metallic than the last.  Another projectile had landed not far from their sleeping circle.

“Go, now!” Raynor hissed, shoving people onto their feet as he took off at a sprint northeast, angling slightly to keep the sense of the road as best he could.  He pointed off in the distance at a house tucked away, flickering between the trees as he ran.  “There!”

He turned, leading the group, and hoping that the glint of light he saw wasn’t too many windows.  They’d likely need to barricade the place quickly.

Midwinter Hype Post #2

It was a crisp evening, the snow laying over the surrounding land like a fine blanket untouched by foot traffic.  A small family, dressed in old and patched clothes, sat around a glowing hearth drinking warm drinks and sharing stories.  A middle-aged gentleman, decked in finery, looked well out of sorts sharing the room with the family, but he seemed to be engaged all the same, tastefully regaling the room of age old stories with a dramatic flair between his long silences spent with his tea.  Dinner was being prepared by the Irons in the kitchen, and the house smelled of both delicious meat and wafts of burning pine.

The ruckus from outside immediately drew the attention, and as uncharacteristic as it was, the finely dressed fellow was out of his seat before the rest of the room had clamored to the window.  A sharp blade hung loosely at his side as his hand slid into his overcoat allowing the tips of his fingers to caress the old, oiled wood handle of his pistol.  Between the great room’s large windows, at a run, and the thinner windows around the front door, he could make out a great many shadowy figures in the darkness.  The noise, albeit loud, was still a ways in the distance as a handful of bodies cleared the perimeter of the house and into the lights.  With a flip of the switch, the light poured into the darkness, likely half blinding those now standing in the front lawn.  He opened the door, inspecting the few quickly and with a precision that was well-trained.

“Why’re you on my land then?” he asked in a hurried and hushed voice, now looking beyond the few that seemed to be no real threat.  “I’ve half a mind to cut you down and go back to my tea if you don’t make it snappy.”

Before any of them could respond, a crack in the distance and the splintering of wood next to the man’s head had him raise a single eyebrow.  He scanned the darkness with a slight squint, seeing what no one would ever hope to laid out before him.  “Raiders,” a breathless voice coughed out in the cold, “hundreds.  Pouring in.  Everywhere.”

“Get in, ya gits.  Can’t stay out here with them marching up.”  The response was designed to sound strong, yet a bit of the fear laced his throat as he spoke them.  The report he was just given matched what he saw moving toward the house.

“Cookie!  Get what’s prepared and get everyone into the dining hall!” he called, turning his back on the few outside.  He heard their footsteps following him, and even the door closing.  Smart enough lads for the moment.  He looked to the hearth and saw he didn’t need to repeat himself, as the entire family had abandoned their drinks and leapt into motion to follow.

Down the front hall and through a large archway, people flooded into the room set for a nice meal.  An Iron hurriedly moved people along as they balanced and bobbled dishes, plates and pots with a variety of foods.  With very little thought to it, everything was piled haphazardly onto the table, as the rest of the house was ushered in from the front hall door.  The finely dressed gentleman did a very brief scan before moving about the room in a practiced fashion.  Moments later, solid steel walls fell into place one at a time, creating a barrier between them and the outside world.

“Might be a bit loud, but why don’t we get settled for supper?  You can tell us about the trouble outside once your bellies can be quieter than your mouths.”

Midwinter Hype Post #1

Aside from the buildings, most of the town was packing up for the gathering season and things were starting to look a bit sparse.  The Corvid caravan had folded in on itself, packing things away in its bowels before they spurred it into motion.  The Bastards, Norske and Roadhouse were all in different states of packing and storage, each with their own flair for the best way to stow certain items and walk with the rest.  Tents were being struck, the town hall was being boarded up, and the hostel was quickly becoming cold and more sterile by the moment.  Both of the main buildings, along with the naval depot, had been secured for storage should people want to leave more cumbersome items behind, and both The RPM and the Iron Navy would be on regular patrol, as it always was.  Everyone else was being moved out of town, or into temporary accommodations offered by the navy.

In less than a day, the town would be deserted including the infirm or elderly, who would be in the warmth and care of the Ironworks.  It would be expected that those taking the annual sojourn would bring supplies enough back to last through the worst of the winter, and with the town’s massive expansion in such a short time, it was worrisome to think what might happen if everyone didn’t band together.

~~*~~

Just this time, he wanted to stay home for the gathering season. He saved all the food he could, and bought rations just in case.  He even managed to afford some medicine and hooch if things went poorly. He figured it was enough to get him through until people returned in full, if not longer.

As he watched the last of the caravans roll out of Steel Horse Crossing, and the lines of people that took to walking, he mused on his position.  He wasn't going to steal, and even his snooping would be kept to a bare minimum. The remainder of the crowd trickled out of the hostel while Matt and Gary had steady conversation during the lockup. They were the last to leave, slipping into the crowd in front of the group of Norske who would take up the rear until the caravans parted ways.

He’d never stayed this late. He wasn’t sure if that was the “final sweep”.  He heard the stories, but didn't know what that actually meant. He stayed low in the brush. He had to know.

Was it two days?  Perhaps three?  Suddenly, a loud engine was heard rolling up the road. A huge monstrosity of a vehicle billowing smoke and fumes stopped at the edge of town. Soldiers poured out with guns ready, and a man and woman stepped out behind them. They formed long lines and started walking the town, inch by inch. He kept perfectly still, barely breathing, so that he avoided any notice. He didn't know the penalty for staying, but he knew he didn't want to find out.

An eternity passed, and they seemingly swept the entirety of town and its outlying trails. The soldiers were finishing up, heading back towards the enormous vehicle, when a woman in a black suit snapped her head in his direction. She pointed towards his cover and said, “There.” He should have run. He should have started moving as soon as her intense green eyes locked on his hiding place, but he froze in terror. She looked right at him, as if she didn't have a doubt where he was the entire time. The men with guns grabbed his arms and dragged him out into the gravel road in front of the woman.

Somehow he was frozen, unable to move, while he was scolded by that terrifying woman’s gaze. A simple nod from this woman was all it took for them to shut him off. No strike, no pain, just black and quiet.  He was unceremoniously dumped into the back of the vehicle as it roared to life.

Boots hit the floor around him, and the doors slammed shut with a loud clang that echoed through the empty streets of Steel Horse Crossing. The town was clear for The Gathering Time.