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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Visiting Friends, Lessons Learned, Part 1

“Roving Amongst the Redwater”

Notes by Dr. Marta Carpools

At first glance the entrance to the Redwater Complex, or the Hold as the inhabitants call it, is particularly unassuming. A small outcrop of reddish brown stone that, if you happen to come close for some reason, opens into half again the width of a medium sized caravan with two people walking on either side, a bus could fit with some room to spare, though if driven very carefully. The descent is almost immediate, and it is only after you have entered the otherwise spacious tunnel that you notice it is not a natural occurrence, but one very cleverly built, with smaller tunnels splitting off like blood vessels up towards, you realize, the nearby farmland that is, apparently, not as abandoned as it seemed while passing. Of course, if you’ve made it this far, you know the land is very much inhabited.

Two kinds of people enter this territory nowadays: Ones who know the Redwater are here, and those who do not. Of the former, it is either friends of one of the Clan members, like ourselves (we being myself and my mentor, Dr. Metro), or those who heard the call of safety under the surface of the world. Of the more numerous latter it is, at best, on accident, at worst a band of ner-do-wells

Regardless of which you are, you will not be alone in this area for long, I have discovered. It was not half an hour after crossing the south-eastern border on the map (provided by friends within the Black Diamond Trading Company) that two figures trotted up to us from the west, in the direction of the lake north of what was once Bravo.

They moved with a predator’s grace, and I was reminded strongly of the gorehounds I’d seen at the Iron Harbor. I will blame their covered forms for my immediate instinct to depersonify them. I had once thought Wandering Eye’s layers of scarves and leather were impressive, but I realize now that is the look of a lascarian who has spent much time above the surface, and has, however little, adapted to the light. These figures instead wore the full regalia of people accustomed to darkness below ground and moonless nights, layers upon layers of cloth and metal covered leather, hung with hardened leather leaves and small metal trinkets I knew enough to recognize as Memories and Clan marks. It made them seem less living being and more a moving statue. It was impossible to tell build or shape looking at them, and if it weren’t for one being a head and shoulders shorter than the other I’d be inclined to believe they were twins, or some cloning experiment of the Darwins.

I have been interested in these people since learning about them from the aforementioned part-time resident of Bravo, Wandering Eye, or as I have learned since visiting him in the Sunless Garden, ‘Gangarani’eygr’. I will continue calling him Wandering Eye so as to avoid any accidental insult. As such, I hope to make as accurate a description as possible of what I witness within their territory.

With that in mind the two figures cut an impressive portrait, the afternoon sun throwing their shadows long over the sparse grass and rocky sand. They each carried a shield and spear, though the taller had a sword strung on his back, the shorter several knives strapped to her (I would learn later it was a woman) clothing.

The shields were small, by Bravo standards where one could easily be used as a door. Still, the ovals of wood and scrap metal was tall enough to cover shoulder to knee, nearly as tall as myself, though I am by my own admission, not the most gifted in height. Each was carved and painted in whorls and glyphs, their true meaning a mystery to me even now, though I might assume they were ownership marks, or religious in origin, if I knew less of their culture. I am told that while the Runner sect, as I have learned they belonged to, does not have as extensive a glyph system as the Keepers to which I have become marginally better acquainted, they still guard it closely and have many symbols they consider important.

The spears were 3-4feet of a dark hardwood, though I could not tell you the species (perhaps cedar? Oak? I am less well versed in flora than anatomy, unfortunately.). They seemed burnt black, yet glistened like volcanic glass. I am unsure what process is used to create this effect, but it is striking nonetheless. The tips were worked metal, a long blade with a flat front edge, and a concave back, still sharp. I have done my best to recreate the design below:

We stopped as they approached, and Metro made sure his weapons were secure on his belt before holding his own shield to the side and raising his other hand to show he meant no harm. I did the same, for all I lacked any weapons to secure. They showed no response while they closed. I felt the distinct impression they wouldn’t have reacted had we leveled any manner of defense against them. We were strangers here, they were the ones to be afraid of, though there were only two of them. It was then I remembered some old wisdom from back home:

‘For every lascarian above ground, you can be certain a half dozen lurk somewhere nearby, hidden, waiting for the signal to join their friend.’

I will admit I felt a shiver of trepidation at that thought, the kind I was learning well out here in the world beyond the Killscout compound. However hospitable Wandering Eye had seemed in town, I remembered well first meeting him, and the eyes of a hunter he hid behind his glasses. I felt the same look from these two, though perhaps it was my imagination at the time.

Within Bravo, where they were outnumbered by almost every other strain of post-humanity and generally well behaved, where stories of a pack overrunning a caravan and leaving only chewed bones behind were more joke than serious worry, I think it was easy to forget lascarians are some of the most dangerous creatures living in our shared world.

That fact was very clear to me as the two split and circled us, one to the back, and the other to the front. The shorter spoke in heavily accented speech and after a terse moment we were being escorted towards the north.

Our journey through the entrance described above was largely un-notable, beyond those things already noted. We crossed paths with a few other Redwater at the entrance, and I was surprised to see a slow and small, but steady stream of other strains moving about the side tunnels with lascarian guides to destinations unknown.

Following their lead, the taller of our escorts split down one of the tunnels while the shorter continued with us, stopping briefly at a small chamber to remove their outer layers and head-gear. It was here I discovered our escort was a lascarian woman named Whispering Storm, who was by happy coincidence an old friend of Wandering Eye, and had heard our names from him. Her partner, the silent Blood-of-Oaks, had returned to their patrol group while she sorted out getting us access to the Hold.

While I am not an expert on lascarian physiology to know whether the Redwater are typical of their strain, I admit surprise at the variance I was seeing among them.

Wandering Eye, for example, is a towering man with broad shoulders and midsection, bearing the long arms I have generally associated with such individuals of his strain. His bearded features are rounded, though they bear some of the raptor like qualities of the greater lascarian community, especially in the eyes and brow. His teeth of course are quite standard for the species. On the rare occasion I have seen his head uncovered I’ve noted his close cropped hair, and the slight downturned point of his ears, a trait I hadn’t associated with other lascarians and thought previously to be perhaps an individual mutation of some sort.

By contrast, Whispering Storm, though she too bore the eyes and ears of our mutual friend, was a more slender and well-muscled figure, of decidedly average height. Her hair was dark, a blue tinged black I’m not positive was natural, and long, though the sides of her head were shaved and its length was kept in thin, beaded braids gathered behind her head. I noticed a few Memory trinkets were woven in among them.

Both were of course paler than the fairest strain born above ground, almost corpselike, in fact. Whispering Storm, however, though she also bore the nearly familiar facial marks of a Redwater Clan member (three wavy lines over the right eye, a half circle and line over the left), was a study in culture all on her own; her skin, as she changed into what was apparently more common garb for meandering through the Hold, was seemingly covered in scarring, some of which appeared to be done intentionally, even artistically, and the ink of many tattoos, giving her the appearance of a sketchbook sewn into a living creature.

I’m unsure exactly how much of her skin was modified in such a way, but most of what I saw, and I saw much of it, seemed to be. The clothing she changed into was, I admit, more comfortable looking than my own (though I’ve never felt particularly burdened by them), however I felt some small desire to wrap a blanket around her lest she catch a cold. I suppose I should acknowledge she seemed wholly unaffected by the chill I’d begun feeling in the air as we moved further under the earth.

Metro and I exchanged glances, I noticed a slight blush on his cheeks and he averted his eyes from mine while she placed her knives around the form fitting, dark brown leather harness that made up a significant percentage of her new shirt, the rest consisting of a very soft looking linen that left her shoulders, back, and midriff bare. Her legwear had also been exchanged from the unbleached, durable fabric she’d worn above ground to a deep green pair of pants that looked to be of similar material as her upper garment, tucked down into the boots that seemed the one piece of clothing she had not replaced.

During this time I should not fail to mention she had attempted small talk with us, and I discovered she was quite friendly, especially compared to her partner. She kept up a dialogue with us, somewhat less effective than intended due to her unfamiliarity with the language, and continued asking questions and answering a few of our own even as we departed and continued on our way.

I cannot verify the distance from our changing room to the great Gate, but I can say it was many steps, and at least two surprisingly sharp turns. The side tunnels gradually became smaller, and fewer in number, and the main had ceased to appear like a natural opening of rock, instead squaring off at the corners, creating a smooth floor and ceiling. The torches that had lit the early stages of the journey became fewer and far between, casting our path in shadows. It was almost surprise when I realized the sounds of echoed footsteps had grown beyond our own, and I saw my first glimpse of the Gate.

It was a massive thing, a wall of stone and metal, reach across the fill width of the tunnel, and almost to the ceiling, several times my height at this point. I saw figures moving at the top, and in the center was a thick metal door, currently open, and seemingly built to slide sideways rather than inwards or outwards. Through it, and beyond, opened a cavern that stretched to the left into darkness, though I could make out the shapes of a few caravans, mostly pick-me-up trucks and iron horses, though at least one larger ride was present.

Passing through the Gate was a simple process, there being only a small crowd in the area, and most were waved through without issue. Whispering Storm called out to one of the guards in their native tongue, and he nodded, replying with an air of routine, and a few minutes later we found ourselves moving through the entry cavern, and on a stone road, moving deeper into the cavern, where small buildings seemed to grow out of the rock walls. Almost immediately two things became apparent:

One, this place was far larger than the current population could fill. There was no shortage of individuals, most lascarian, though I saw plenty other faces blended into the populous. Hundreds currently wander the underground center of Redwater culture by my estimate, and yet there seemed to be room for hundreds, several hundreds, more. For every building I saw signs of life (a candle in the window, polished tools on a workbench, or just the lack of feeling empty) there were three or more that I was surprised didn’t have boarded windows and an inch of dust on the steps.

Secondly, the city exuded a sense of age that made no sense for a home built within the last year, as I’d been told it had been. It wasn’t just the scope of the Hold, though it was in part the feeling a year could not have been long enough to build such a place. The subtle differences in certain blocks, how buildings grew together, and the shape of them, all felt as though I was walking through an oldcestor history book.

I stamped down on the unease I felt, as we roamed the streets behind Whispering Storm. I told myself I had no idea what determined lascarians in large numbers could accomplish. Wandering Eye had said once that the Holdlings outnumbered the other sects combined twice over, and their very purpose was to build and maintain their home. I still could not shake the feeling of age the place held, though it lessened somewhat as I began to see signs of scaffolding and incomplete buildings the more turns we took.

Perhaps it is only that they build their home out of the bones of the earth that causes the sensation.

My introspection was cut short as we rounded another street, and came to a junction of buildings that moved into a new part of the Hold. The ceiling was lower here, coming almost to the roofs of the buildings, where it did not replace them entirely. The streets began twisting on themselves, creating alleys and alcoves of dwellings. In the distance I was able to make out the shadows of three larger structures, the size of warehouses, just a bit taller than the rest of the buildings. They seemed identical from the vague look I could get, and faced different directions. The effect walking through this new area of the Hold left me feeling somewhat claustrophobic, I confess.

At asking what this place was, Whispering Storm answered we had entered “Ward-way-air-stad”, and at the looks on our faces I suppose, added “Keeper District” a second later.

I commented about the feel of the place, and she nodded, with a slight smile, replying that the Keepers like tunnels. I suppose that makes sense.

Lascarians like tunnels, everyone knows that.

Three turns and a small hill (there are hills underground, I have learned) passed us, and we entered a small lane. On our left was a slightly larger building that created the last turn, on our journey. It seemed empty but had the feel of a temporary state, as though it was normally inhabited. To our right small homes broke up the wall of the cavern.

Small lamps were hung from the places the buildings met in this part of town, and unlike the torches and candles of the earlier parts of the Hold, the light pulsed a pale blue color. I paused to examine one and discovered they weren’t lamps at all, but small, glass covered, stone planters full of mushrooms and moss from which the light came from. Small insects darted about the light-gardens, themselves bursting in tiny sparks of gold and green intermittently, sometimes taking flight towards one of the other holders.

At the end of the alley we found a surprisingly idyllic scene: a dwelling facing the street, built into the back wall of the cavern as it bent left. Between the building and the one closest to its right was a small elevated slab, from which a simple fountain emerged from the cavern rock. Over it was a wooden framework, hanging with more moss and mushrooms as grew in the lamps. Underneath it all, at a small table sat Wandering Eye, writing in a leather bound book.

He stood as we approached, and smiled. I almost didn’t recognize him uncovered by scarves or hat, I’m embarrassed to confess. He, too, was dressed simply and comfortably. In light brown trousers, and only a draping green vest, which fell to his knees but left his arms bare. It was the first time I’d seen him uncovered so, and I was surprised at the number of scars that mottled his skin, though unlike Whispering Storm, none of these seemed to be done intentionally. Most prominent was the burn on the inside of his left forearm, a wound I recognized from two weeks past, when we were in Bravo for the last time together.

Before Metro or myself could reach him, Whispering storm moved forward, and pulled his head down to hers, touching their foreheads together and whispering something that sounded like “essayo”, before promptly hitting his shoulder hard with the back of her hand and unleashing a stream of words in their language while gesturing at the aforementioned arm.

Wandering Eye took it in stride, and waved her off with a few quiet words and a gestured at the two of us. She mad a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl, a sound I realized in that moment I’d heard often from our mutual friend, and marched into his home while he stepped up and pulled us both into a hug, motioning to the seats around the table he’d been sitting at, to join him.

We’d only just sat and begun to exchange pleasantries when Whispering Storm reappeared, throwing a bandage roll at her Clan-mate, and glaring at him as she took a seat at his side. He picked it up from where it had bounced off of him and made a quick hand gesture that she gave a satisfied nod at.

Marta Marta

“Marta?” Wandering Eye asked for the third time, with no little amount of amusement in his voice.

The small rover woman jerked her head up from where she’d been scribbling in her notebook, then looked back long enough to scratch out a line before closing it with a smile and turning her attention to the rest of the handful of individuals in the room.

“Yes! Sorry! I wanted to get everything written down before I forgot,” She blurted out.

He waved the apology aside, with a freshly wrapped arm. “Do you want tea?”

#wandering eye #time skip #Whispering Storm #Marta Carpools #Doc Metro #redwaterclan

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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How Long From Home?

Wandering Eye awoke in darkness, and for the first time in a long time, it was the comforting kind.

The sounds of the Hold, a new Hold, grown more than he had ever thought it would, were welcome, especially compared to what he’d become accustomed to in Bravo. Whispered talk in the Clan tongue drifted through the tunnels. The distant sound of Holdlings working metal and wood. The singing that was always present in the background, a cant none of the Above-born’s Kings or Queens could ever compare to, because it was the songs of Stone and Tree and Star, ancient even to the ancients.

The warmth of sleeping bodies pressed on either side, and he inhaled the familiar scents of Still-as-Stone and Whispering Storm, friends he hadn’t realized had rejoined the Clan, nor ever thought to see again. He had only fragmented memories of their reunion, he’d been asleep for more days than a few, he could feel, and it was sometime in that oblivious state they had found him.

Slowly, carefully, he disengaged himself from their limbs and the blankets they’d nested in, and found his clothing folded neatly on a small box nearby, his weapons and gear leaning against the wall next to them. A short note, with Wisest’s mark rested on top. Wandering Eye suppressed a shiver at the cloudy memory of her fingers slipping into his mind. Reading the few words inscribed on the paper, his felt an ache in his heart.

‘E’eiga farleyf?’ he thought to himself. Must I leave?

Deep down, he knew this was neither punishment nor exile, only necessity, and no less than he owed the people of Bravo, who’s war he had as much a stake in as any, but still, he wished he had more time, here with his people, where he felt safe, and far more importantly, at peace.

With a reluctant sigh, he dressed, and stepped through the doorway until the tunnel that would take him to the Hold proper, and back into the world Above.

It was not far, he had gone, when a blur of movement and a small but solid shape attached itself to his midsection.

“Uncle Wandrin’ Eye!”

“Hello, Nibbler,” he groaned, exhaustion still wearing on his bones.

“They said you was back but I wasn’t supposed to talk to you until you woke up.”

“A wise decision. I needed to heal. Much has happened.”

“I know! I got to fight people!”

Wandering Eye looked down at the boy, and saw changes since last he’d seen Tallula’s adopted son. He’d been feeding properly. Hunting. He’d grown, though not so many inches up, but had gained strength, he could tell. He’d hoped Strongest had kept the boy to only skirmishes, but Runners were sent as they were needed, and if the war had touched their borders, every fighter was needed.

The younger lascarian fell into step beside him, and began talking of what had happened since Wandering Eye had returned to the Redwater, what had happened since he’d been gone. Word that an offer of refuge to the town had been sent caused a pleasant shock to rock through him.

Whatever he had missed, it seemed Wisest and Strongest were not closing the Clan off to the world again.

In all too short a time, Wandering Eye stood at a great set of gates, which opened to a tunnel leading Above. They were massive things of stone and metal that reached from floor to cave roof. The scaffolding from construction was still attached, and Holdlings scurried up and down, still making adjustments, reinforcing a metal plate or beam.

His people had learned much since the old Hold fell. There were greater threats than the dead to bar entry against, and these gates were built with that in mind. The tunnel itself narrowed quickly. There was barely room for a caravan to enter, and some of the larger rides would be scraping the walls. It would be slow going, lots of turning. Anything marching downwards would be met with shield and steel, anchored into the wall and Runners’ shoulders

He left the tunnel and Nibbler with a short promise to return as soon as he was able, and stepped out into the night of the Lonestar.

The air had cooled, just a bit, and there was a scent of water in the wind. He laughed, quietly as he began the trek back towards Bravo. Maybe there was just a bit of luck left in the world, after all.

They were going to need it in the coming days.

#wandering eye #hype #redwaterclan #season closer

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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War is...

A figure, covered in layers, hiding behind scarves and dark lenses glasses, slowly flipped through a book as the caravan tumbled forward.

It wasn’t the book he normally read. It was small, and flimsy, and ancient. Worthless. Priceless.

Rumer sat a few feet away, separated by seats and an eternity of silence, as she stared brokenly into the nothing a few inches before her face.

The vegasian seemed a shell of her finer self. Part of him felt... something for her. Was it... sympathy?

He was too tired to question it. War was exhausting. Especially one that wasn’t even his.

At least the food had been plentiful.

He’d killed many Above-Born. They Iron Works had fallen. No one had cared a monster stalked among their ranks in that chaos.

So what nagged at him, when the voice of his old self had finally quieted?

——————

“You know we do not have slave, my people? Not even have word for this,” he’d said to Murmur, a cousin from far north, the grave robber working with the resistance movement.

“Really?” She asked

He nodded, “closest word is ‘Then’neiss’. It not translate well, but close to ‘serving in shame’. Is for person who has done great wrong. They have name taken, must earn back. If not become Nameless, risk exile. Even then, is still person. Still free.”

———————-

The ship moved in a way that made his stomach clench harder than his teeth, and he barely kept his balance as the slaver swung sharpened steel at him. It was all he could do to block the two swords, and try to slow the retreat into the engine room.

It wasn’t much longer and they’d be out of range of the boarding ships, who’d followed them from the island they’d attacked. His eyes had pierced the dark and gotten them there, and Willow’s work with the map would get them back, but they still had to survive the trip.

Finally, fighters from the deck appeared and between them the slavers fell.

He breathed a sigh of relief, then hoisted the body of the man who’d been trying very hard to gut him onto his shoulder.

There were starving cousins up here, and the slaver would feed many. It was the least he could do, really.

——

“This war, it does not matter like people acting. They let this grow and grow and saw no problem until it grew to be dangerous to them.”

“You have a point, but it’s still a war worth fighting for,” Collie had replied. “At least they’re doing something.”

“Yes, but for what? We learned with Lonestar, is not one battle, one war, which end this. Same people let it happen once, let it happen again. Problem is not ended like this.”

“I… I don’t disagree, but it’s still a fight we have to win, here.”

“Yes. Yes it is,” he shrugged, and stalked forwards, towards the back room of the tea shop, where shadows and the closest thing to quiet that could be found in this chaos waited for him.

————

Back on the caravan, moving slowly south, he paused at a yellowed page in the thin book.

“Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.”

Yet here he was, going back towards Bravo.

To a war with people who looked less kindly on his contributions.

Who had plotted against him.

Betrayed him.

...

Hadn’t they?

At that a quiet laughter rang in his head, and he felt like he could weep.

#wandering eye #hype #post-hype #Uprise2019

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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The Second Death Of Wandering Eye

“HELP!”

He looked up, just in time to see the masked cretin drag Soarin out of the back of the Saloon. With a roar Wandering Eye threw himself forward, blade raised high. The raider stared at him, frozen just a moment, as he began swinging. Another brave came up, he didn’t recognize him with the blood pumping through his veins so fast, but welcomed the shield they brought. He just needed to get close enough to grab his friend, that’s all that…

The raider started swinging, fast and hard, and the lascarian fell back, managing to block most of the hits, but felt Tallula’s old armor take more than one hit. A low growl escaped his throat. He took another step towards the rover on the ground, and met the raider again, while the other brave pressed to the side

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some dash forward and grab Soarin, pulling them inside. He felt momentary relief, quickly overwhelmed by his anger. The growl grew louder and he stepped forward, blade flying at the raider again, and again.

Hit after hit, but the thing wouldn’t go down. It spun towards the shield-carrier, and a strike that should have crushed a leg only broke its weaponless left arm instead. Still, Wandering Eye pressed forward, hoping to take advantage of the distraction of the other fighter. Too late, he saw the brave fall back, and felt more than saw the raider turn again to him, and its axe bite into his shoulder. His weapon fell, and the thing swung at him until blood spilled to the ground in a steady trickle. A hand grabbed him just as he started to sink to the ground, and he saw through blurry eyes the Saloon door move away.

He was dropped, and he felt grass on his face.

Wandering Eye gathered a breath, and managed to cry out once, twice… Where was everyone? The Saloon had been full of people. His arm was going numb, the pain receding. He heard the song from Below start to hum in his ears, like it always did when he was inching closer to death for more than a moment. The dead of his people, yet to be Reborn, calling him to join them.

He wasn’t ready ye-

The bite of the raider’s axe surprised him, as his neck opened. Within seconds his sight went dark, and the song grew louder, a buzz that softened the sounds around him.

“Is that Wandering Eye?”

“How long as he been down?”

Something lifted his body up, but he was already partway in the ground.

“Oops, he’ll want that.”

Someone pressed a weight into his face. His hat, the thought skittered on the verge of awareness.

A moment later the pressure of being carried left him. Shadows moved around him. He couldn’t move.

“Crap, is he dead? Can someone check him?”

“Yeah… he’s gone.”

“Oh, well crap.”

And then it was back to business as usual.

Willow’s voice floated into his mind, reading a report. Bo’s too, somewhere, laughing. He thought Roscoe was talking to someone nearby. So many voices… so many…

Where had they been?

He weight, under no control but that of gravity shifted in the chair they’d placed him. Slipped to the side.

“Wait, is he dead?!” Laughter. “Sideshow, there’s a corpse next to me!”

He slipped further, the ground found him, the song finally overtaking everything, and hands, not ungentle, grasped at him, pulling him Below, where only they existed, and even the darkness he’d been born in seemed light as day.

Then just like that, he Wasn’t.

———————————————

When he woke he was naked, face up on a stone floor.

His sight returned slowly, and a cavern, too smooth to be naturel, reared around and above him.

A spike of fear shot through him. Was he back? Back where lifetimes had passed alone, in darkness?

He was able to sit up, barely, and concentrated hard on the idea of his body. A life time ago, Slink said it was important, here, to remember yourself.

Had it even really been to him, though?

He felt himself slip, even as he questioned that, and pushed the doubt from his mind. It had been him. He’d learned about the “hospital”, and he’d learned about memories, and he’d learned about what it was he was caught up in.

He wasn’t a Grave Robber, but you didn’t have to be to move in here. That hadn’t come from Slink, not really. Alice had taught him that, even if she didn’t realize it, wherever she was.

He could leave this place.

He would leave this place. He wasn’t going to be stuck waiting, not again.

Sluggishly, but determinedly, he pulled himself up, and, though dizzy enough to almost fall, stood and looked around the Place That Was Not A Place.

Stone walls. Stone ceiling. Porous and rough to the touch, but carved smoothly curved. Darkness stretching to left and right. Not a cavern. A tunnel.

That should have been a comfort, but the stone itself told him it wasn’t a friend, not Here.

A trickle of something, what he didn’t know, for all it smelled like sulfur, ran in a stream down the middle of the floor, winding left.

That went further down Below, then. He started to turn right, start walking up, but he heard… scratching? Something sharp scraping against stone. It was a whispered echo from up that trail, settling in his spine like ice.

He looked around, a stone, his blade, anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing. Of course nothing.

Fine then, he thought, we go downwards.

With that he, slowly, ever slowly, began the trek deeper into darkness.

Time was meaningless here, he knew. He didn’t tire. He was too exhausted to tire, already. He didn’t hunger, or thirst. Still, he knew he walked an age or more.

The scratching behind him never abated. Never came close, but never left, no matter how far he walked.

It was a circle, he realized, at some point either minutes or weeks into the journey. The incline never changed, but the cave always curled a little to the right.

So that was the trap, this time.

He gathered what strength he could and spun, running back the way he came. It was a short sprint, and as pointless as he expected, though finally something Changed down here.

A wall, no, a rise, jutted before him. One that definitely had not been there when he’d walked down a moment past. He saw the tunnel continue above, over the cliff, and could hear the scraping sound, and something new, something organic and wet. It caused a primal unease to spread through him, and turned back, walking away from the impossible blockade.

As he moved further down, the trickle of… whatever it was grew stronger now, a poisonous creek pouring from the grey rock.

He picked a side, the one on the inner wall of the circle, and kept moving forward, keeping his feet out of it.

Another hour or another year passed, and his eyes that weren’t really eyes spotted something new, finally.

Here and there, carved into the walls, was a glyph, more and more as he passed one, until they covered the stone, even the ceiling, around him.

With a pang of sorrow, he realized he couldn’t read them. They weren’t his Clan’s, or any that he had seen since leaving the Hold. They meant nothing to him, individually.

It didn’t help his despair that he could tell what they were trying to say, whatever mystery it was. He’d dug up enough from the dead worlds to know the pattern when he saw it.

This was history. These were secrets. Important things from an entire culture. Things that could help him, his Clan, Bravo, the world, even.

And they were stuck down here with a fool who couldn’t keep himself alive!

His fist struck the wall. He heard bones crack, and a smear of red painted a line

Pain, real pain coursed through him. It enveloped him completely.

He fell to the floor, teeth clenched, fighting back the agony. Slowly, like everything down here had been, it ebbed away. It served its purpose, though. Whatever torment it had been, it reminded him where he was. It didn’t matter what was written down here. Hidden. Lost. It wasn’t worth getting stuck again.

His anger still burned, and he latched onto it, fed it. He’d been alone when he died. No one had tried to save him. No one had fought to get to him. No one had cared, even with his body sitting in the middle of a crowd. He clung onto it. He was here, in this Place, again. He could be stuck in here, again. The spark grew strong, and with it he pulled himself forward, further down the path.

When he rounded the next mile, he almost wished he’d stayed on the ground.

The stream reached an end, and fell down, a waterfall over the cliff, the one that had blocked him centuries ago, he somehow knew.

Into a pit the poison poured, one that stretched out fifty feet before another wall rose.

That scratching sound was suddenly ahead instead of behind, and the wet, breaking sound was back.

He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, concentrating on lungs he knew weren’t lungs. Inching forward, he looked down, and bit back a cry.

Blood pooled below, mixing with the poison. Bits of carnage floated in the shallow pool. Ichor he didn’t have words for.

Wandering Eye stood in the center of it all.

He looked down at himself, staring up at him. It wasn’t quite him. Not really.

It had his face, but did his eyes hold that much rage? Were his teeth so large, so red from recent feeding?

The Other Wandering Eye grinned up at him, and raised hands chained at the wrist, as if expecting them to fall.

No, it was pointing. He followed the gesture, and looked down, to his left. Bending down he picked up a match, of all things.

The thing in the pit gestured again. It wanted him to strike a flame.

He stepped back, and leaned against the wall. That wasn’t him. That was some monster that just wore his face. A trick of this place. That’s all.

It wasn’t real.

It WASN’T real.

There was a small ledge to the pit, he saw from his perch against the wall. A rim only a few inches wide.

Next to impossible to cross, especially for someone his size. A youngling’s feet would have been too large.

Nevertheless, hugging the wall, he moved forward. Inch by inch, feeling his toes slip just a bit with every movement.

Then the shaking started. A low rumble at first, but it soon had him pressing his face into the stone, desperate for purchase. His fingers dug into the wall, his nails breaking as they tried to gouge handholds into it.

As he clung to the wall, he heard a roar from below. The monster down there was straining on his chains, rage and terror equally burning in his eyes. It reached up again, pointing at him.

The match was in his hand, somehow. The shaking seemed to slow, as he focused on it.

He could almost hear the creature’s thoughts, urging him to strike it.

And suddenly he knew what the monster was, and what would happen once the match burst into flame. He knew he’d never leave if he didn’t.

Despair washed over him. Always with the sacrifices. The bargains. He didn’t know enough to avoid them.

He hoped no one would suffer too badly for his failure.

He threw the match down, into the claws of the monster below, and closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

He heard the crack, the hiss, and smelled the sulfur, then a small, almost nonexistent blip, as the monster dropped the match into the pool of poison at his feet.

He knew the thing was smiling in its victory, and wept, as with a whoosh of light and heat, the whole world turned to fire.

The monster grabbed him as he rode the explosion, and he felt himself being pulled upwards. The hands in the fire pushed, desperate to get him away, now that the beast was free.

He felt himself being pulled into that thing, or maybe it was pushing into him. It didn’t matter anymore. Soon his eyes could see, but he couldn’t move them. They flew upwards, through stone and earth like it was air, even though he shouldn’t be able to, he saw out through the darkness, through the earth, thousands upon thousands of sparks bursting forth. Dead things, monsters, making their way to the surface in numbers he couldn’t comprehend. Shamblers and gorehounds and things he didn’t have names for. Other things that were only half dead. Still other things like him.

He felt something burning up inside him as he watched, and felt laughter bubble up from his throat as suddenly his body was real again, and he was no longer flying on flames from Below, but clawing his way out of the dirt of the Morgue.

He gasped for breath, and pulled himself up out of the ground, rolling onto his back, and giggling.

Except he wasn’t. He was there, somewhere, inside the body, but he wasn’t driving, not really.

Wandering Eye stood, and listened. People were nearby. He moved towards them, quietly, wanting to get a good look before revealing himself.

Soarin was there, and a few others. More behind them. They called out his name, hushing each other as twigs cracked. Chelsea appeared, and passed him in the darkness. A few of the crowd greeted her, and broke off, heading back to town.

Soarin stayed, and stared out into the morgue.

She had his sword. He wanted that back.

The monster inside Wandering Eye, finally unchained, stepped into the candlelight, and smiled, reaching out his hand and pointed.

#wandering eye #bleed story #gravemind #death scene

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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-somewhere a week north and west of Bravo-

The vegasian who’d become his traveling companion snored softly next to him. She was small. Weak. He repressed the urge to sink his teeth into her neck.

The further from Bravo he traveled the more the voice in his head, the old version of himself, had been screaming.

What was he doing out here? What had he been growing into?

The questions hadn’t bothered him when he was fresh out of the Grave, but the voice was insistent.

He wanted to live, to thrive. That was the way of his people. You couldn’t do that for long acting like he’d been, those first few weeks. That was the first time the voice had won a victory.

He wasn’t going back. It was too late for that. However that voice refused to die, that part of himself had been reborn into something new, stronger.

He wasn’t giving it up to be that... person.

But they made some strong points.

Wandering Eye reached to a pocket and pulled out the book he’d found in Tallula’s home, what felt like a lifetime ago.

He knew most of the letters by heart now, though it had been some time since he’d looked at them.

He flipped to the end, just past the few additions he’d added in his own hand.

From the hip pouch he pulled a sheaf of papers and a small glass bottle. There were many newcomers to town this last trade. Some could draw. It had not taking much convincing for them to copy a few of their pieces.

He carefully brushed some of the paste into the page, and began applying papers to it.

He wrote a few words, letting the voice move his hand, just for now.

#wandering eye #hype

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Somewhere north of Bravo...

The Above-born walked with purpose. Confidence. He was not a stranger to the region. Likely he was born near these hills, closer to the town, no doubt.

Too, with caution he walked. He did not know exactly where he was going, and ever was there danger on this side of the world for his kind.

The eyes of Blood-of-Oaks followed him over the crags, and he motioned to his partner to move with him. Whispering Storm nodded, wrapping her scarves over her face and replacing the water skin on her belt before hefting her shield and spear from the wall of the alcove where the two Runners had taken shelter from the sun to rest.

They trotted, quietly, unhurriedly, out into the blazing light of the Above.

Still, they moved quickly. One did not dwell too long in one place away from Clan. Not with a stranger in their sights, this close to the new Hold.

‘Temporary Hold,’ he corrected the thought. They’d move soon, he was sure. Before the season of flaming ground. Hopefully back north. They never should have come this far in the first place, whatever that Keeper thought of the nearby town, “Bravo”.

“Hulg-frama, bramir,” Whispering storm whispered, chiding.

Thoughts Forward, sect-brother

A reminder to focus. He was distracted. Blood-of-Oaks, jerked his head apologetically, and raised a flat hand parallel with the ground, his thumb crooked down against his palm, then twisted his wrist to the wright. [Steps Forward-Shamed]

Whispering Storm raised her own hand, the same gesture, but with the thumb crooked to the side instead of under. [Steps Forward-Together]

He dipped his head, gratefully. These were trying times; she did not hold his misstep against him, and they were closing with the stranger, though he had not noticed them, yet. More shame for them both, had he done so.

They stopped, belly down in the brush, a handful of paces from the man, who slowly walked, peering around. He was looking for something, or someone. Blood-of-Oaks bristled at the thought of more strangers this close to the Clan.

Whispering Storm’s hand touched his shoulder lightly, and his eyes followed hers to the bag the man carried. Blue canvas, a white bird embroidered onto it. That tickled something in his memory… something the apprentice, Nibbler, had told the Runners to look for.

Post Man. Neutral Clan. Carried letters across the Above.

Why here, where no one lived? That he should know about, anyway.

Blood-of-Oaks gestured for Whispering Storm to lead. She was better with the tongue spoken by Above-born. It was time to greet the Stranger.

The other Runner dipped her head in acknowledgment, and stood, stepping forward, Blood-of-Oaks close behind, his own spear readied.

Surprise flashed across the stranger’s face as they appeared, and he stumbled back with a cry.

Whispering Storm said something in their language, that seemed to keep him from running, though her tone kept him from relaxing, the Lascarian thought to himself, watching the Above-born.

The post man replied, pulling out a small piece of paper with writing on it, and stammered out a few words. One Blood-of-Oaks recognized. “Redwater”

His partner dipped her head, speaking again, then Whispering Storm took the paper from the man and peered at it, flipping it over hoping there might be something more.

She handed it back to the man and spoke again, poking her finger at the words.

Reluctantly the man looked down at the paper and began speaking. Reading, Blood-Of-Oaks realized.

Most of it was meaningless to him, but he heard “Bravo” and “Wandering Eye”, and “died”. These were words he knew.

Whispering Storm snatched the paper back as the post man finished, and snapped a few words at him, pointing south. She turned to Blood-of-Oaks, and quickly signed for him to follow, before she took off at a trot towards the new Hold entrance.

The other Runner kept pace behind.

So the Keeper had died, it seemed. Judging by Whispering Storms pace, there was more.

Blood-of-Oaks grimaced beneath his face wrap. Always trouble, here. Always.

#hype #redwaterclan #wandering eye #soarin

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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A Nighttime Walk Around Bravo

The smell of sulfur filled his nostrils as he walked, naked, through the darkness… on and on and on and on, never ending…

…

Wandering Eye started awake, rubbing at his nose as though that could scrub the smell of a memory of his time between death and rebirth.

He’d felt feat down there. That was nothing new. He’d been afraid so much up Here, but in the dark, with stone and earth above your head, that was supposed to be –his- domain. He wasn’t supposed to feel like prey there.

Anger rumbled, as it had, at a slow boil, ever since he’d woken back up from There. No. He was stronger than that.

The lascarian grabbed his armor and blade, stalking outside of the hovel he’d crawled into the night before. He didn’t know who it belonged to. The war of Bravo had refugees on both sides, and there were plenty of empty places where once Above-born had lived. He hadn’t slept in the same bed two nights in a row, and he had a better feel for this city than ever.

Oh, what opportunities ignoring little things like “private property” signs had opened up for him!

He stuck to the shadows as he moved through downtown, avoiding the sounds of people. He was feeling violent but he also didn’t feel like getting hung for murder… not yet at least.

Somewhere in his mind he recognized the Wandering Eye from just a week ago would abhor his behavior. He simply didn’t care anymore. That had been the problem with the old version of himself.

‘One of them, at least,’ he thought with a dry laugh.

He’d cared too much. About people, about Clan, about being honorable, useful.

Idiot.

He still cared about people, and the Clan of course. They were useful. You needed people to stay alive. The alone died weak and starving, or as food for something else.

‘Something like me,’ he giggled through bared teeth.

He’d been feeding, since he came back. Another thing the old him refused to admit to being one of life’s true pleasures. It had started with Mustang’s men, or were they Rob’s? It didn’t matter. They’d come at him, with death in their eyes, and he and the Braves had shoved it down their throats. It was only fair he got a meal, too, after such a kindness.

It had been easy enough to pick off one or two people a night, during the battles, skirmishes really. All he had to do was pretend he was there to help. That he was “fighting for the good of the town”.

It’s what the old him would have been doing, had been doing. Few enough questioned it, even if they did look at him askance when he occasionally drug someone into the darkness of a side tunnel and reemerged minutes later with a face covered in red. They even brought dying people to him! So what if he sewed up a wound with a little less flesh on it than before? They were in too much pain to notice, certainly in no condition to complain.

He’d never eaten better in his life. The Clan should have started hunting like this years ago.

‘If we’d been smart enough to know how many people were up here,’ was the, this time bitter, thought.

All that time spent Below, digging through the refuse of the Founders and there were worlds of meat and metal only a few weeks away, in more than one direction!

But no, they’d stuck to their territory. They hunted and they dug and they farmed what they could. And they were strong! To be sure. But winters still hurt. They still had to turn on each other when it got especially bad.

And just down the river was a road to a land of plenty. The whole world could have been Redwater had they just gone and taken it.

A voice, the old him, whispered that wasn’t their way. He stomped it out, like he had that cousin, the fool from Star City with the mother who prayed to Mustang. The memory of his blood on the floor still brought satisfaction. He hadn’t even had to strike first.

Soarin had been there, though. She knew he was different. She wasn’t the only one. They were going to try to change him, turn him back into the wretch from before. He couldn’t have that. He still felt, something close to affection, for his friends, but this wasn’t about them. Still, he hoped he wouldn’t have to kill any of them.

He thumbed the hilt of his blade, not the long one he carried, the short Dark Moon cleaver at his belt, as hours later he moved from the rough streets of downtown to the more evenly packed roads up uptown Bravo, where the houses were cleaner, larger, and the Pure Bloods had the occasional fenced garden for their tea parties, he assumed.

It was one of these houses, with a little iron fence and green shrubbery that had probably once been lush before winter he saw the signs he was looking for: boarded windows, a layer of dust on the front porch, more than a day’s dirt could account for, darkness from rooms candles and lamps should be lit, a chimney with no smoke, in spite of the biting cold in a land who’s people were used to burning heat.

Emptiness.

He slipped down the side alley, and hopped the fence, landing in a small yard with a glass topped table and chairs of all ridiculous things to build with good iron. Wasteful. No wonder they’d ran when the fighting started.

The back door had been left open a crack, surprisingly, but he wasn’t going to question luck in his favor. Inside was a kitchen that would rival the Saloon’s. He smelled spice, and produce. They’d left food here. Again, so wasteful.

He moved further into the abandoned home, and found lavishly decorated rooms, carpeted floors, more pillows than could possibly need to exist. Up the stairs, and he found… footsteps? In the dust.

Wandering Eye froze, listening carefully, breathing deeply through his nose.

He wasn’t alone. There was shuffling, whispers, in the room to his left. Two people.

He silently inched closer. He smelled, not Pure Bloods… a Vegasian, and… either a Retrograde or the glitterbomb was carrying a fresh corpse with them.

Looters. How rude. The Pure Bloods were useless bags of words covered in tender meat, but stealing from someone who couldn’t challenge you? That was just cowardly.

He moved quickly, and they were on the ground almost as soon as he’d raised his sword, a pile of broken limbs and open wounds. They weren’t fighters.

“Shhh,” he whispered to them. “Don’t worry. Not going to kill you.”

He put down the long blade, and pulled the cleaver free from its sheath.

“Of course, stealing not legal in Bravo, so, must take a little bit before patch you up.” He could have suppressed the hunger, the pleasure in his voice, but why bother?

Just a week ago, he’d been trying to convince himself Bravo was worth staying in.

Now his eyes were open. Why would ever want to leave?

The people here were so much fun to play with!

#wandering eye #post hype #derangement

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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“See the way the wind blows

Lives are intertwined

Watch the way the world goes

The man deals out our plight..”

Soarin sang the lyrics softly as she fidgeted with the old family scarf around her neck, trying to keep warm. The icy wind seemed to cut through all the layers that the Rover had piled on and with her back to the town, she was taking the brunt of it. But it was welcome, anything to keep her from thinking too much about the sounds of war raging behind her down in Bravo.

The 7’s had mostly decided to work on their civics together, but there were a few who still had business in town and had to stay. Tim. Scrap. Galahad. Sam. Wandering Eye.She was worried about him the most. As far as she knew, he was down there still fightin the damn townspeople tryin to help him.

She gave a frustrated groan and pulled her patchwork bag into her lap and began to dig around for a pen and paper. Not finding either one right away, she dumped the contents across the stone, sorting through the bits of trash and leftover snacks until she found what she needed.

I’m gonna make this right. I’m getting my friend back damnit.

Yanking the pen cap off with her teeth, she began to write.

@thecryptidofbravo

#soarin #post-hype

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Oh, my opened eyes

The beauty they see

How could I have been so blinded

And yet if my friends could see me now

They just might kill me themselves

But we all live by the same rules

Deep down they know it

A monster’s rules

If it moves, challenge it

If it fights, kill it

And in this world what better way to survive?

I always said there’s a monster in everyone

Maybe I was just wrong about

Which one to choose

Because, truly...

I’ve never felt more alive

#wandering eye #death #derangement #post hype #bleed story

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Musings - Feb19 Bravo Hype

“Join us in offering our congratulations to our new Council!”

The faces of Centex, Kaz, Keegan, and Little Bear smiled from the poster nailed to the board outside the Saloon.

Sighing, Wandering Eye finished nailing his own posters on the wall nearby, then walked through the double doors, and sat in one of the chairs against the back wall, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window.

He wasn’t disappointed, not really. He’d known he didn’t have the history, the ties, in this town, but he’d felt like he had to try anyway.

Hadn’t he?

He’d been angry when he decided to run. Not thinking clearly. Then when he’d been about to quit, he’d gotten that damned letter from Moody, and he’d gotten angry all over again.

He could have done good, both for Bravo and his Clan. Maybe.

He heaved a dry laugh. No. He wasn’t a leader.

Maybe his temper had been getting the best of him, again. Wisest had always chided him on being impulsive. It had almost caused his death more than once, that.

It was for the best, probably, especially with so many of the Clan talking about leaving.

...

What was he going to do if it came to that?

Why was he so against leaving anyway?

Tallulah was dead. Soarin hadn’t spoke to him in months, and the rest of the Sevens had been caught up in their own fractures for as long. Who would understand if he left. He’d keep in touch. He doubted anyone else would realize he was gone for a good long while.

There was the war, but the grief fueling his anger was drying up. Why fight? It wouldn’t bring anyone back.

The trouble with the Dark Moon? He was one person, they a clan at worst, still an entire sect at best, and the deaths they’d caused had been been a message for someone else, for all they’d hurt him. They wouldn’t trouble him if he wasn’t here.

The Burning Season was gearing up. He could already feel it, if everyone else still complained of the cold.

Last year he’d had a reason to leave Bravo, and to come back. This year...

Maybe those who spoke of leaving were right. They were his Clan. His family. They were supposed to be his home, his place. Plenty of people in Bravo would kill and die to have that.

So why did he still want to stay?

#wandering eye #hype #maximum level angst

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Some people who see this blog are active writers elsewhere and this is worth being aware of

Okay.

There is a new Wattpad competitor called Dreame.

I suspect a lot of people here read stories on Wattpad.

Dreame is similar in concept.

BUT.

Dreame has been attempting to headhunt writers from Wattpad. Sounds good, right?

Nope.

One writer was offered a $60 advance…to sign over the RIGHTS to his book. They’ll license the print book rights back for 30%.

Please do not sign with these people as a writer.

And please do not give them money as a reader…they are either a scam or just completely clueless. Either way, you’re better off sticking to Wattpad and tracking down writers you think deserve money to pay them directly ;).

#meta #non-DR

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

Photo

Not a fiction piece, but something I think I feel like talking about:

Post-Apoc English is not Wandering Eye’s first language.

His clan speaks their own dialect, which is OOG a pidgin of modern English, a lot of old Norse, and some random but carefully cataloged gibberish. (I’m going to have a lexicon one day).

He’s learned the “Above-tongue” by listening and experimentation (it helped that the languages are related (that my IG explanation anyway)).

I honestly really do try to keep the language barrier in mind when playing him.

He’s smart. He’s very smart. But culturally, and linguistically, he’s also handicapped in a lot of ways, and this is so FRUSTRATING to him.

He has to pick his words so carefully, and he has to think about what he’s hearing before responding, to make sure he understood it. He has to ask for explanations and definitions the second anyone starts talking with technical/specialty terms.

Fun fact: he’s read the entire (player created prop book) Bravo library. All the old research. And the second he finished he had to go track down Slink and ask for the meaning of a bunch of proper nouns and GM terms that no one has ever used before.

A lot of stuff he can pick up through context, and I try to be logical with it. But omg the amount of times people use specialized knowledge and treat it as general is... well, it’s always.

More than that, Wandering Eye has an accent. It’s a funny accent sometimes. Again, it’s what I feel the accent of a pidgin language like his would sound like. A bit of Scandinavian and polish, strong South-Eastern European, and a good chunk of Russian. And yknow, I’m damn good at that accent.

There’s a guy that keeps asking him to say “where are your nuclear missiles”, and paying him a Brass.

I know OOG this is just because I do a pretty great Chekhov impression and he thinks it’s funny.

IG though- he’s paying someone ignorant of the cultural reference to say something because their accent amuses him.

It’s the equivalent of paying a Spanish speaking person a dollar to saw “yo quiero Taco Bell”

I think that’s pretty fucked up, honestly.

But it’s a good IG interaction because it’s... honest? It’s a privileged person taking advantage of someone and thinking there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing. That’s real. It happens all the time.

Wandering Eye was oblivious to it the first couple of times; he needed money, and was trying to make a sale for some junk he’d found, and the rich guy asked nicely enough.

He’s learned more since then, though, and I think he might be close to channeling his inner Sofia.

#meta

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Another thing my friend wrote, this time for Wandering Eye. It may or may not have made me cry a little.

A letter she probably won’t send, but wrote anyways.

#soarin #wandering eye #letters

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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My friend did a good thing

Soarin’s keeping a journal now so I’m hoping that’ll be a good push to keep writing 😅

#Soarin

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

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Dec Hype 2018

“Stoga!” Wandering Eye called out, banging on the side of the caravan of which he had not asked the origin of. The Runner slowed the machine to a stop, and one of the Keepers waved for the figure on the road, guitar on their back, to hop on.

“G’yari?” the Runner asked, chuckling.

Wandering Eye rolled his eyes, shaking his head, “Ne’solden, Renak’i.”

The other lascarian swiveled his head, but the Jones thought he was probably still smiling under his veil.

The hitch-hiker, a rover, caught up, and hopped into the back of the truck, freezing when he saw the five shrouded figures staring at him.

“Don’t worry, we not going to eat you,” Wandering Eye yawned at him, before banging on the side of the caravan to start going again.

“Dark Moon?” The rover questioned, still nervous, eyeing their weapons and, Wandering Eye suspected, wondering if he should risk jumping out of the vehicle before it gained too much speed.

“Ne. Redwater.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“No.You won’t have... Where going?”

“Oh, anywhere east, really. Where are you all headed?”

“Clan business. Then I go back near Bravo, rest go north.”

“Bravo?! I’m that far into the Lonestar?” The hitchhiker exclaimed.

“Is a few days, but yes.”

“Dang... I could have sworn I left the Gardens just a few days ago.”

The Jones only grunted.

“Do ya... do ya suppose you might be passing through Star City on your way to your... business?”

“... not likely.”

“That’s a shame. Still, I’d be grateful to get as close as you can.”

Another grunt, follow by “what business in that place?”

“Oh, I was out on patrol duty and got separated. I’ve been trying to report back in for a while now.”

“Forgive... we are... new to this region,” Wandering Eye slowly said, picking his words carefully. “Who you report to?”

“Oh, Commander Mustang!”

The other lascarians’ heads perked up at the name, even the Runner driving slowed to a stop and turned in his seat.

“Y’all’ve... uh... heard of him?”

“You could say this, yes.”

—————————-

“Uncle Wanderin’” Nibbler whispered, as the older Lascarian guided him down a side tunnel, motioning for the others to stay on the main path. “What’s goin’ on?”

Making sure they were far enough their voices would not carry, Wandering Eye knelt down, and hurriedly began speaking in a low tone to the youngling.

“Listen me, Nibbler. What is about to happen is new. You been accepted as Youngling, but already have name, this not our way. Things be happening very fast now. Is important you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“... everything, and not enough time I know.” He paused here. “You are too young for a name by our ways. You have not grown into it. Even if we have been let down here, this will trouble some. They may cause problem for you. They may say you give it up and become like rest of youngling.”

“But momma gave me my name! I don’t wanna give it up!”

“Hush, Nibbler, I not want you to give away either. Is not our way, this, but some will call it lesser evil. I will tell them is not, but only so much I can do. Much rely on you.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“I mean best way to keep name is show you earn name. Not become Youngling. Show skill, become apprentice. You are young but not youngest to join a sect, in bad times, and these are bad times. This best way to keep name and also be welcome.”

The young Lascarian boy nodded slowly.

“Tell me, did your mother ever teach you things? Things to survive? How to hunt? Anything?”

“Ya, o’course!”

Wandering Eye breathed a sigh of relief, “what she teach you? What you best at?”

“Sh’taught me readin’!”

“And what else?”

“Uh...”

“Please youngling, think hard, what you best at?”

“Well, she taught me some SawBonesing...”

“Yes, this good. What know?”

“I can sew people up alright. I practiced on Ember a lil last Burnin’ Season... I’m not too good yet, though.”

“Is alright, what else? Anything you good at? Maybe something Tallula not teach you?”

“... what if it was something I’d get in trouble for?” Nibbler whispered.

Bewildered, Wandering Eye nodded for him to continue.

“Sometimes... I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t sleep at night, and I’d be hungry... so... I’d sneak out. I was real good at sneakin’, and then I’d go out into the woods and find lil critters and...” he trailed off.

“Is okay, Nibbler, is okay. Founders, I know Tallula would not like you doing this but this is good. She would understand. She saw me eat. She knew night was best for us. Is okay.”

He wiped a few tears from the boy’s face, and then his own.

“She be glad of this. These skills good. We can make good case for you with Runners now. They need good scout, and all better if you can stop the bleeding. Knowing to read, knowing the language Above, this too will be good for them. Can teach others, help learn about outside world.”

The boy nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Wandering Eye stood to his full height, and turned back the way they’d come.

When the boy reached for his hand, he squeezed it gently, and lead the way back to the path further down.

By the Founders, he hoped this worked.

———————-

“Yes... know Mustang,” one of the Keepers exhaled, shifting under his layers.

“Oh, you walk in the Lord Commander’s Light?”

“I would not say this,” Wandering Eye replied in a low voice, turning to the front. “Renak’i, fara’seint.”

“So, uh... how far did y’all say you could take me again?”

Wandering Eye stared at the Fallow, silent, considering.

———————-

A few hours after the rushed conversation with Nibbler, in a dimly lit area of the central cavern that had been carved out to make room, the five sat in a circle, Nibbler center, facing a sturdily built Lascarian named Crooked Bite, who carefully painted red on his face.

Three wavy lines across the right eye, for the Redwater.

The arc and ray above the left, a Runner’s mark.

“Welcome, to Renak’i, Nibbler,” he said, formally, in broken but intelligible Above-tounge.

“Thokke’yo,” Wandering Eye murmured as the elder Runner stood, dropping his chin in a quick nod, and turning to leave.

Nibbler raised his hand, touching the wet paint momentarily before hastily moving it away at Wandering Eye’s quick shake of the head.

An awkward silence filled the group, no one quite sure what to say now that their task was done.

It was Finbar who broke the silence, as he looked around, surreptitiously slipping a flask back into one of his vest pockets.

“This here is, uh, one might fine cavern, Wanderin’ Eye. I say, maybe the best one I ever did step into.”

The Lascarian looked at him, blinking slowly.

The small hold they sat in was sparse, basically an open hole carved out of soft rock. It had no homes, no more than a hand’s worth of tunnels branching out. It was... it was not home.

“Thank you, Finbar, but this is not a cavern you must like. It is nothing compared to the old Hold.”

“Oh, uh... well, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to that place, if you don’t mind me askin?”

Nibbler’s head perked up, he’d only heard bits of this story, and none else here had, Wandering Eye realized.

He sighed, the memory of the burnt out husk of the centuries old Redwater home still painful, as it would be to every Redwater born before it was abandoned.

“Only tell short version,” he tiredly began. “Redwater never knew of Morgue or Gravemind, only one nearby was locked away, by Founders me thinking, deep below. We unlock one day, accident. Many, many dead come out. Clan scattered. Most dead, inside Other Side. Others, like me, cut off, alone, forced Above and away. Sometime after, Above-Born find entrance. Bad Lascarian dead from Morgue fill tunnel. They go back to their Hold, Star City, and bring big machines to clear out dead. Destroy Hold in process. Clan come out of Other Side after, start finding each other across Waste, but not safe to rebuild in the old place, not while Mustang sends his people nearby. Must become strong again, first.”

——————-

The Keepers in the back of the truck rummaged through the rover’s belongings, divvying up anything useful, and checking the quality of his scarves.

Scarves were always good to keep.

His body had been dumped over the side of the truck, a few miles back, after a quick death.

Wandering Eye had promised they wouldn’t eat them, and he kept his promises.

Besides, like he told the Runner earlier: He wasn’t hungry, and he had deep thoughts before he arrived back at Bravo.

Running his hands over the rolled papers in the small case attached to his hip, and the bag of parcels from Tallula’s farm, he expected there would be far more occupying his mind once he was there.

#wandering eye #hype

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thecryptidofbravo · 5 years

Text

The Long Goodbye (completed colaborative piece)- Post-Hype Nov 2018

Wandering Eye had packed lightly, only food and a few Brass, a couple extra scarves, and his old goggles.

These were slung in a small bag over his shoulder, while he waited in the Saloon for Dipper and the others to arrive.

Leaning back in his chair, resting his head on the cool glass of the window behind him, he peered around the den of whatever the opposite of equanimity was; a few familiar faces still hanging around amid the townies who were trickling back in after the trade meet had ended.

Slink and Outside were at the library, muttering together about “the Stampede”.

Centex watched her domain with tired eyes from the bar, offering him a small nod when they caught his. The Lascarian returned it with similar energy and continued scanning the room as she turned to receive a patron.

Selene sat in her lounge, purposefully scribbling in parchment what he knew would be machinations of war.

The door opening and the scuffling of footsteps drew his sight, and his stomach clenched as the Lucky Seven bosses strolled in, tight lipped, and sat at a table, ordering drinks and sitting with their heads together. He could smell the tension from his friends, and wanted to join them, but there were wounds that needed to heal on all sides before he could speak to them again.

Loneliness ached in his joints next to the grief that had carved itself a home in his bones.

He still couldn’t believe she was gone, that just a few hours ago she’d been flying around on that DJ contraption, dancing with people in a parody of chaos, teaching him one last Sawbones trick before she sunk back Below. He still remembered swearing her eyes had stars instead of circles in them when they looked up at him, watery but full of joy.

Wandering Eye picked his hat off the table and put it low on his head, where the brim covered his eyes, and tried to hold back his loss.

When Dipper finally arrived he’d hidden his face completely, scarf and dark lensed glasses firmly in place, and they set off down the road at a Rover’s pace.

———————————————

The house built of dirt and timber rose up from the fields around it. The traveling companions trudged up the path to the porch stairs slowly, but the boy heard them even so. Eir and Finnbarr held back, letting the other two take the lead.

“Uncle Wand’rin’ Eye! Dipper!” Nibbler called out, running to greet them, dressed similarly to Wandering Eye himself, under a large brimmed hat and draped in a blanket that ran most of his height.

The child was small for his age, at least the older Lascarian thought so. His mother had never been sure how old he was. At least ten Burning Seasons, judging by his teeth. He’d yet grow into his third set, at least, else Tallula would have asked him about it, he was sure.

Nibbler’s advance stopped short as he drew close, and he stared at them, fearfully.

“Where’s... where’s mama?”

Wandering Eyes voice seized, and he looked pleadingly to Dipper.

The rover knelt down by the child and gathered him in a hug, whispering words Wandering Eye didn’t want to hear.

————————————

Dipper

————————————

The cold night bit at Dipper as he and the others, Wandering Eye, Eir, and Finnbarr, walked to the dirt home. Tallulah's home. Where Nibbler stayed. Alone. Sad they would have to tell him he was an orphan again. But there were plans. Nibbler would go with the lascy and be with his people. That was the light Dipper focused on.

"Stow it" word's from Rahn echoed in his mind. HE would do that. Stow it away and bring it The anger when needed. The stampede would be stopped. Too many died at its hands.

Soon they made it to the small home and the little boy ran out. He looked at the small party, questions in his eyes.

"Uncle Wandr'n Eye, Dipper" he said maybe with a smile.

"Where's mama?" Little Nibbler asked. Wandering Eye looked to Dipper. The rover would have to say it. Dipper knelt down and took the small child in his arms.

"Mama's gone. I'm sorry little dude. But I promise the thing responsible will be stopped. I promise. I swear on my scarfs." Dipper said. Voice cracking and tears in his eyes. It took his friends. It would be stopped.

————————————

Wandering Eye

————————————

They walked slowly towards the cave entrance, on the far side of the lake off Bravo.

He’d already warned the Above-born to let him do the talking, and held the hand of Nibbler tightly.

They were met by a figure dressed in Clan colors, holding the spear and shield of a Runner, one Wandering Eye did not recognize. He knew there would be more eyes upon them.

He lowered his scarf, and removed his glasses showing his sect markings, and the new arrival did the same. “Ei siah yo, Renak’i,” he intoned in Redwater.

I see you, Runner.

“Ei siah yo, Wardwe’i,” the other replied. “Y’bera undarlir, Gangarani.”

I see you, Keeper. You’ve brought strangers, Ganagarani.

Wandering Eye placed a hand on Nibbler’s shoulder and, switching to the tongue he’d learned in Bravo, said, with as much Purpose as he could muster, “I bring youngling of my sister, Tallula Ray, Sawbones of Clan McCoy, out of Dirt Home, who is named is Nibbler, and I name him Redwater, and anyone who wishes to challenge me may try, but only Wisest, wherever she still is, can stop him joining us.”

The Runner looked at him a long moment, then bowed slightly, catching Wandering Eye by surprise. He turned to the child and, in an accent more broken even than Wandering Eye’s spoke.

“Welcome, Youngling Nibbler. Come meet Clan.”

Wandering Eye let a small sigh of relief escape, and led the boy into the cave entrance, motioning for Dipper, Eir, and Finnbarr to follow close, as the Runner stepped aside to let them pass.

#wandering eye #dipper #post hype

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