The Eastern Front, Dup'val Village
Year 23 AoC
(Age of Crow)
The mud of the Eastern Front didn't just coat the boots; it seemed to eat them. It was a thick, sucking slurry of clay and churned earth that clung to everything, weighing down steps and spirits alike.
Dup'val Village was less a settlement and more a scar on the landscape, a collection of hovels huddled together against the biting wind, their windows shuttered against the distant, rhythmic thumping of artillery from the front lines. The air tasted of wet ash and the metallic tang of ozone, a lingering reminder of the aura-scorched battlefields just a few miles east.
Two figures trudged through the muck, the heavy squelch of their footsteps the only sound in the oppressive twilight. The taller of the two moved with the inexorable momentum of a landslide. He was a mountain of a man, encased in rustic orange plate armor that looked less like forged metal and more like hardened magma that had cooled around him, trapping his immense strength inside. A massive greatsword was strapped across his back, the leather grip worn smooth and dark by decades of sweat and use, while a heavy, flail-like warhammer swung rhythmically at his hip, clanking softly against his thigh armor with every heavy step.
Beside him walked a man who cut a sharper, quieter silhouette. Cloaked in dark green garments that mimicked the robes of a humble acolyte, he looked nothing like a holy man. The fabric was heavy, stained with the grime of the road and dried ichor, the edges frayed from the constant friction of travel and violence. He moved with a predatory grace, stepping lightly where the giant beside him stomped.
They reached the only structure in the village emitting light, a low, timber-framed tavern that leaned precariously to the left. The door groaned open on rusted hinges, spilling a wedge of grey, dying light into the smoky haze of the taproom. The heat hit them instantly, a wall of humidity, stale ale, and the scent of too many unwashed bodies packed into too small a space.
Darin Vos pulled back his hood, shaking the damp from the heavy cloth. The action revealed features sharpened by exhaustion, the lines around his mouth etched deep by the stress of command. His eyes, a pale, piercing green, scanned the room. He cataloged the exits, the threats, and the rank of every soldier in the room in a single heartbeat.
"Could you grab us some chairs?" Darin said, his voice a dry rasp that scraped against his throat. He gestured vaguely toward a table in the far corner, the only one unoccupied, likely because it was stripped bare. "The only open table is barren."
"Order us something strong while I do that, then, yeah?" Orinn Tallow grunted, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated in his chest. He reached up, unclasping his helmet. A hiss of pressurized air escaped the seal as he pulled it free, tucking it under his arm like a severed head.
His hair spilled out over his ears, a thick, unruly mane of burnt orange that matched the smoldering intensity of his irises. Even in the dim light, his eyes seemed to glow with an inner heat, a testament to the volatile fire affinity churning beneath his skin.
Orinn brushed past Darin, his armored shoulder checking the smaller man with familiar roughness as he moved to scavenge furniture from a group of terrified conscripts. Darin didn't flinch; he simply moved to the bar, his green cloak swirling around his ankles like smoke. Minutes later, they were seated. Two mugs of dark, heavy ale sat between them, sweating in the humid heat of the room. The tavern was loud, a cacophony of soldiers boasting to hide their fear and locals trying to drink away the reality of the encroaching front, but the silence at their table was a fortress. They drank in rhythm, drowning the day's battles with practiced efficiency. The ale was bitter, thick with sediment, but it dulled the ache in their bones.
After the third round, the laughter that usually accompanied their drinking faded, replaced by a heavy, contemplative quiet. Orinn went still. The giant shuffled in his seat, the wood creaking in protest under his immense weight, and rolled his empty mug between his calloused palms. Darin watched him, noting the tension in Orinn's jaw, the way his knuckles whitened around the glass.
"What's going on, huh?" Darin jeered softly, leaning back and swirling the dregs of his drink. His eyes remained sharp over the rim of his glass, dissecting his friend's mood. "Too many for ya, Tallow?"
"No, it ain't that," Orinn rumbled. He didn't look up. He stared into the bottom of his ale as if reading the future in the foam. "I received a raven feather this morning."
Darin lowered his mug slowly, the wood making a soft thud against the table. The playfulness vanished from his face, replaced by a calculating mask. "Oh?" Darin kept his voice low. "Communication has been drastically better since the Empire implemented the network, but... a feather?" He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. To requisition a single feather required clearances that most Generals didn't possess. "Do you know the source?"
Orinn grimaced, the expression carving deep lines into his face. He stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floorboards like a dying animal, and stalked to the bar. The crowd parted for him instinctively, the heat radiating from his armor pushing them back. He returned moments later with a tray of the village's strongest spirits, a clear, harsh liquor that smelled of turpentine and bad decisions.
"The Halloways," Orinn breathed, draining half of a fresh glass in one swallow. The liquor burned, but it didn't wash away the haunted look in his eyes. "That's who sent the feather. I can tell it was from Junior."
"How?" Darin asked, his gaze locking onto Orinn.
"The color of the writing, mate," Orinn murmured, tapping the side of his glass with a thick finger. "It looked like his aura. Or at least, what I remember of it. A deep, cerulean blue."
Darin let out a bark of laughter that was too loud, too sudden for the somber room. He slammed his mug onto the table, rattling the tray and spilling a few drops of the clear spirit.
"How the fuck did that kid get a hold of a feather?!" He shook his head, grinning incredulously, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "We haven't been able to requisition one for weeks, and we both hold Diamond rank! By the Throne, even when we were losing the Siege of Bramble Vine, High Command refused us!"
Darin wiped his mouth, still chuckling darkly. "Rich kids and their—" He stopped mid-sentence.
He finally looked at Orinn. Really looked at him. The big man wasn't laughing. He wasn't even looking at Darin. He was staring down at his glass, his thick eyebrows knit into a deep, painful furrow. The orange light in his eyes seemed dim, flickering like a dying coal in a cold wind.
"Jace died."
The words hit the table like a hammer stroke, shattering the noise of the room.
Darin went silent. The roar of the tavern seemed to drop away, replaced by a high, thin ringing in his ears. The smell of the ale suddenly turned sour in his stomach. He stared at Orinn, waiting for the punchline, waiting for the correction. It didn't come.
"How..." Darin's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, forcing composure back into place. "How did it happen?"
"I don't know. Jack didn't go into detail. I don't blame him," Orinn replied, his voice heavy with unspent grief. "All the feather said was that he had gained word that his father had passed on. The boy is the Head of his House now." Orinn hiccupped, a wet, miserable sound. He was approaching his limit. "He's invited us to his Heading Ceremony."
Darin stared at the wood grain of the table, tracing the scars in the timber. Jace. The tactical genius. The one who got out. The one who was supposed to be safe in a bed of silk, far away from the mud and the blood and the dying. Jace, who had traded glory for a ledger. And now... this.
"Aaaagh..." Darin groaned, a long, frustrated sound that tore from his throat. He scratched his head aggressively, his fingers digging into his scalp as if trying to tear the reality out of his mind. "Fucking bullshit!" He slammed his hand down again, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "We've still got a two-day trek left in this shit chapter of the Campaign. On top of that, we haven't got an idea of what type of flea nest we're marching into at Puvalon."
Orinn felt a slight, warm gust brush across his face, Darin's aura leaking out, a manifestation of his agitation. The wind swirled the dust on the table, dancing in mini cyclones around their glasses. Darin was conflicted, trying to conceal the grief behind the mask of the duty, failing in the way he always had when it came to his squad.
"Please, Orinn," Darin said suddenly, his eyes narrowing into slits of pale green light that pierced the gloom. "Don't tell me that you've already sent a response."
Orinn managed a weak, sad smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Only you would assume I would do something like that without orders."
"And did you?"
"No. By the Throne, settle yourself, brother," Orinn sighed, the heat radiating off him slightly warming the air between them, pushing back the chill of the drafty room. "I wanted to consult you before moving forward."
Darin looked away, toward the darkened window where the war waited for them. Beyond that glass lay miles of mud, blood, and enemies who wanted them dead. And somewhere, far to the west, lay a funeral they were already late for.
"He's going to have to wait," Darin said softly, the decision tasting like ash in his mouth.
"I agree."