text: [Themes: fantasy]
  
  They thought they were safe behind their walls. They thought their shiny armor would protect them. Fools. The Raven is above the craftsmanship in which they take pride in. They are godless men, outsiders from across the Great Sea. The Harri'ar treat them as such. When a tiger preys on your livestock, it must be put down. The tiger thinks itself a mighty predator until the very moment of its slaying. When the spear is raised high, only then does it understand. The same goes for the invaders. Trespassers, defiliers.
  
  The Veil protected the warriors, a gift of magic from the Raven itself. The faith of their people rewarded them. Arrows fall harmlessly to the side, same for javelins. The men at the walls don't possess any of the black smoke, large cylinders exploding in a burst of fire and smoke, tearing destruction through all in its path. No, these ones only possess simple weapons, and they do not know them like the Harri'ar. A warrior is a warrior despite the weapon in his hand. The outsiders feign as warriors, using black smoke and sharpened steel as their strength. Left without either and they are but jungle vines to be cut from the Harri'ar path.
  
  Fire from Father Sun Himself tore through their walls like a rock dropped into a pond, rippling, spreading flaming destruction. Let them hide behind their walls now. Their safety, like their gods, are false. Bodies thrown from the crumbling gate, soldiers frantically trying to douse the flames. The high priests in their--in our--collective faith brought victory. Still, they mustered a defence, small men listening to the shouts of their chieftains. Horns sung in the battlefield, their sound bringing meaning to the invaders.
  
  Let them try. Let them struggle. Let them die.
  
  The Blackbird war party is entirely in the clearing, the area where the Magda garrison cut down the forest to mere stumps. You're able to creep to the very edge of the treeline without encountering any warriors. They're all concerned with attacking the keep and have not posted guards at their rear. Bodies clash. The ground is littered with countless bodies already. Like the trees, they've been cut down, also becoming stumps in many cases. And the day is still young.
  
  Like the sun high in the sky, a massive hole exists where the gate once did, its edges a reddish orange. The sight of the fiery impact draws you back to the voyage, fire raining down from above, ships sinking down to the ocean floor below. (It's almost time.) Countless bodies on the ground, countless more still breathing, attacking. Like sand running through an hourglass, the Blackbird warriors pour through the narrow opening of the gate, through the blast, the wind caused by their rush helping keep the flames alive.
  
  It's not the most thought-out plan. It's not by bravery or a sense of heroics. It's simply all you can do. You charge from the brush, weapon drawn, fifteen other soldiers at your back. Arrows whizz past your head, friendly ones. The scouts fire a volley to guide you towards the enemy. Normally, the thought of arrows shooting this close to you would make you uneasy; however, after experiencing the scouts' silent way in which they move, the flawless way they blend into the forest itself, you are completely comfortable. Relieved, even.
  
  Your longsword, in both hands, cuts through three Blackbirds before they even notice your presence. Now that they're aware of the sixteen man flank, you put a bullet in two more, the boom of your flintlock no longer an issue. The Blackbirds are fearsome, standing a full head taller than you. What they aren't is efficient. Heavy swings, telegraphed swings. They fight with full emotion, as a single warrior in a sea of them.
  
  Although it's the first time fighting with the Magda scouts (although not the first with Prinn), the discipline of a soldier takes over. Redding and you are as unified as they come, and the scouts have the good instinct to supplement your onslaught with arrows, creating a finely sharpened dagger that cuts as finely as an experienced battlefield surgeon. Speaking of dagger...
  
  Redding wields it in his off-hand, letting Blackbird warriors taste the artifact that their ancestors died to protect, bound in un-death to protect, the very thing the war party came to reclaim. As far as "turning the tide," it doesn't appear to be anything more than a dagger, albeit one that's quality is beyond all. It's just a dagger. (We'll see about that.)
  
  The Blackbirds that recognize it harbor a frenzy beyond belief. They swarm like bees disturbed in their hive. Suddenly, a sinking feeling starts in your stomach. The plan is going very wrong. The Blackbirds were lured here, yes, although losing the fort wasn't accounted for, neither was rushing into a Blackbird war party as sixteen men. To make matters worse, the company is still locked in the dungeon, vulnerable to the attacking natives.
  
  You allow the feeling to fuel your sword arm. The rage rises in your blood. Not here. Not now. Frustration, anger is a source of energy unlike any other. It burns within, focusing the mind. The world around you seems to meld into a single scene; no longer are there Blackbirds, defending soldiers, and fallen bodies. Instead, there's just you. Your mind becomes only concerned with each swing of your blade, the trigger of your flintlock. All else be damned. The Blackbird warriors that dare challenge you are handled with ease, the flow state allowing you to smoothly tear through their defenses without a second thought--without a first one either. Your body simply reacts to whatever is in front of you, the mind far removed from taking the reins, is but a passenger through the carnage.
  
  You're slightly aware of the primal grunts that spill through your lips, a deep throaty sound that accompanies the swing of your sword. Deep in your state, words have no meaning. None could express yourself as clearly as the primal sounds. The guttural tone is communication enough. Tens, perhaps even a hundred, lie dead behind you on your path towards the garrison. More, still, stand in your way. More will die.
  
  A horn sounds in the distance, the same one that rang on your arrival to the garrison. From within the fort's broken walls, the rallying cry of men shout. Alexander! He is organizing a counter attack. The horn brings you from your flow state. Instantly, thoughts begin to pour back in a great tidal wave. The company, the counter attack, the artifact, Prinn, the scouts, the High King, your standing with Frontrunner's Camp--you shake your head in an attempt to dam the thoughts.
  
  "Kid!" Redding shouts. "We've got to move."
  
  "Otherwise we're directly in their would-be retreat path, I know!" you shout back.
  
  > Retreat to the treeline
  Through your bloodlust, you're still able to think clearly. You'll not allow emotion or a false sense of honor take you into certain death, which is guaranteed if you attempt to cut your way to Alexander. You've amounted no small measure of success with the war party's back turned towards you; facing them directly, you're simply sixteen men against hundreds. It's not pretty, it won't be written down in warrior tales, but you prefer life to a "glorious" death on the battlefield.
  
  You turn and run for the treeline. Arrows whizz past your face. Your heart stops for a moment, your mind screams at you to duck, find cover, flatten yourself on the ground, hands in front of head. The scouts, between you and the treeline, have another volley of arrows ready to fire, and you're running straight towards them. Fourteen bows drawn in your direction, fourteen razor sharp arrowheads pointed at you--it doesn't settle the mind, to say in the least. Like a hornet flying near, the worst thing you can do is react, swat at it, so you try to force the image from your mind, though it wanders a little, imagining what it'd feel like if one scout misfired.
  
  Like a gentle breeze against your skin, you actually feel one of the arrows fly dangerously close to your face. Still, you keep your sprint towards the trees. The horn rings through the air again, and more soldiers cheer over the sound of battle, a triumphant roar unified as one. Your sword in one hand, the other pumping, propelling your body forward, the sound of your breath a steady cadence in the chaos of war, you enter back into the jungle. The scouts let loose another volley before entering; they take to the trees, including Prinn, leaving Redding and you alone on the ground.
  
  You take the opportunity to glance back. Through the flaming hole in the gate, the Magda garrison is managing to drive the Blackbirds from within. Instead of the native warriors pouring through, now, crimson-colored, steel breastplate soldiers march forward in tight formation, their shields creating an impenetrable defense, leaving the natives at mercy from the archers firing on the ramparts. Whatever power causes the blast in the fort isn't using it on the soldiers, who would be at their mercy. The Blackbirds are split. Some continue to attack, throwing themselves recklessly against the well-armed soldiers, some sprint for the treeline, same as you. That's more than enough motivation for you. You turn back and keep running, following the exact trail Redding sets before you.
  
  The journey is familiar. Redding seems to be heading in the direction in which you came, to the small creek and tunnel back to the garrison. The rest is a blur of tree trunks, overgrowth, and dirt. Your vision is mostly down to step exactly on Redding's bootprints. The man keeps a quick pace for someone who is several years your elder. Redding has never been one to solve problems by physical means, but now you're starting to think he could if he preferred, which is surprising, but not nearly as surprisingly as everything else you've found out recently about the man. Your mind briefly wanders from thoughts of Redding to the company. The garrison took significant damage, and you hope that didn't extend to the dungeon. If you are heading back to the tunnel, perhaps you can check on them.
  A little while later you're back at the creek. Smooth stones, moss crawling on top, the gentle sound of running water. Peaceful, almost, your bloodstained hands and body disturbing the serenity. Redding's sitting on a stone, drinking out of his waterskin. You collapse on a stone of your own, but not before splashing a few handfuls of cold water on your face, a refresher as good as any.
  
  "Well, that didn't go as planned," you break the silence, dryly. It's all you can think of saying.
  
  "Didn't it?" Redding questions in his usual manner.
  
  "You know after all we went through to claim that dagger of yours, I thought it'd have more of an impact."
  
  The humor leaves Redding's tone. "Me too, kid. Something's wrong with it. Its power is dormant. It's there within. I can feel it. But it didn't awaken. It should have once tasting blood."
  
  "You owe me answers," you say, directly.
  
  "That I do," Redding agrees.
  
  "Starting with these," you gesture at the crimson tunic underneath your leather armor. "Tell me why the hell we wear the colors of the High King's rival." Your passion, your anger rises. It happens during combat, and it happens in conversation. "Tell me why you, we, betrayed the company and they sit locked up, maybe dead after the Blackbird breach. Tell me why the FUCK we are traitors to Alteran and can never go home again, or else the noose will greet us rather than family and friends."
  
  "Fair enough," Redding says. He takes a gulp in preparation. The running water of the creek fills the silence for a moment as if begging you to stop fighting. "The Old ways are dying. You know that. The ways of the High King and Alteran are quickly becoming obsolete. The days of blindly following the chain of command, government, superiors--whatever--are passing away. Think back to the night before our departure for the New World, to the tavern with billboards covered in Alteran propaganda. Is the New World anything like you were promised?"
  
  He actually waits for you to shake your head before continuing again.
  
  "The Old World is built on rules, laws, and regulations. Structure is in place to suppress the free thinking individual. The Alteran citizens are told who to hate, who to love, never allowed to think for themselves. The 'rules' of war are bullshit. It's a way of keeping conflicts going, while preserving the lives of soldiers so citizens never learn the reality of war. All that is rendered obsolete with the discovery of the New World. This is a place for a man's life to be his own. There is endless possibility, endless wealth. And what do the High King and Supreme Leader Fargrave, both, want? To apply the rules of the Old to the New. See, they seek to claim the New World as an extension of their own. Their interests are aligned in that regard. When it comes to the New World, they are more ally than enemy."
  
  You spit on the ground, a reaction caused by years of conditioning. Comparing the High King to his rival is like someone telling you a pot of boiling water isn't hot and it's safe to place a hand inside. "So then aiding Magda, turning coat, is no different by that logic. If you take issue with serving the High King in the New World, then serving the Supreme Leader is exactly the same. If both their interests are aligned, then either way you're bringing the Old to the New."
  
  The Redding grin creeps slowly to the corner of his lips. "And who says I'm serving Fargrave?"
  
  Once again you motion towards your tunic.
  
  "Means to an end," Redding says. "Now I know the location of both Alteran and Magda in the New World, safely uncovered the artifact, discovered a secret entrance into the Magda fort, and once Scoutleader Prinn and his green cloaks return, I'll know the location of the Blackbird war party's camp. If there's one thing you should take from all of this, it's that my allegiance is to the individual. I sense it's largely the same for you, despite the High King's attempt at brainwashing. I've seen how you're different from the others. You know that I'm right. I may be breaking the laws of the two most powerful nations in the world, New or Old, rendering myself an enemy and fugitive of the state, but it's all for the greater good. Together, we can sever the ties of the Old World and ensure they don't bind the New World."
  
  So that's why. Originally you had thought Redding chose you because he knew of your past with Magda, but instead, it's due to your ability to think for yourself. Since he mentioned it, your mind goes to the tavern, the night before departing for the New World. You were off by yourself questioning the posters encouraging the Alteran citizen to enlist into the military. That, in addition to your aim with a flintlock and strength with the sword, made you a likely candidate to join Redding's Free Thinking Army. That all makes sense. The artifact, however, is still a question mark.
  
  "The artifact," you say. "How did you learn about it?"
  
  "Let's just say a certain Alteran messenger 'lost' a very important parchment meant for Captain Briggs, one that told the story of a hidden weapon buried in Blackbird ceremonial crypts or something like that. A mysterious weapon that could turn the tide of the war? Alexander was more than willing to offer his support and aid in the matter. Means to an end. Truthfully, it's rather disappointing, but at the very least it'll serve as a symbol between us and the Blackbirds. Until I learn to draw on its power, of course."
  
  "Your 'symbol' is in the shape of a target on our backs," you point out. "You summoned an entire war party by disrupting the burial place."
  
  "Ahh, that's not the case for all tribes. Some will join the cause of the wielder. The Old World's poison is affecting the Blackbirds too. They've been united under a single leader. This dagger," he pulls it from its sheath, "will separate them from their collective thinking. They believe it is sacred, you see. Above any chieftain or priest."
  
  You entertain pointing out that they'd be leaving, "blindly following," one authority for another. Redding isn't a leader in that sense. Despite his secrets and ulterior motives, you can't imagine him wielding the dagger simply to rule the Blackbird tribes. If anything, they are a means to an end in his own words. Before you can speak again, footsteps approach. Prinn and the scouts return.
  
  "Back so soon--" you start, then cut off. Encircling the creek is not Prinn and the green cloaks, but a small band of Blackbird warriors. Their weapons are drawn, crude axes and spears. They stand a full head taller than you, donned in simple leather too thin to be considered armor. Ashen war paint covers their face and bodies, giving them a ghastly appearance; these warriors have accepted death already. They are spirits wandering the forest, causing death in their wake on their way to their eventual end. Their destination is the afterlife, and they mean to take as many along with them.
  
  "Finished asking questions?" Redding says, rising to his feet, sword in hand.
  
  "For now," you answer, pulling your longsword from your back, the weight of the blade familiar in your hands. The creek, again, protests in the background.
  
  One of the Blackbird warriors steps forward. You count eight of them in total, eight warriors who are very much aware of your presence. Mentally you take a note of the creek and stones that would potentially trap or trip you up. Some will also separate their superior number into one, maybe two at a time. "You disturb what is not yours, tek'usan."
  
  (No argument here.)
  
  You're unfamiliar with the word, but you know an insult when you hear one. They speak common. Strange.
  
  "You know our language," you address him.
  
  "You are not the first to travel across the Great Sea. You will not be the last." The warrior speaks with a heavy accent. Each word is articulated slowly and deliberately, it's own, not the smooth cursive speech of an Alteran. The Blackbird woman you encountered alone in the forest days ago didn't appear to speak common, although perhaps she didn't want to reveal that she understood your language. The warrior continues. "You have invaded our land and not come in peace. You will return to your ancestors."
  
  That you do understand. There's no avoiding what comes next. Now is as good a time as any for Redding to discover the power hidden within the dagger. Otherwise he might not get another chance. With a cry, they attack. Their voices are loud, an attempt to posture, intimidate and affect your sword arm. You're no recruit. The tactic is obvious. Snarling, you meet their attack with your own. You both speak common, and yet the incoherent words of battle are understood far greater than any words you might have shared.
  
  Two jump down near to your position, their axes at the ready. You feel the weight of your flintlock holstered at your thigh. (Not yet.) Best to save it if you need a quick resolution. For now you'll test their expertise in melee. You start with a series of slashes, using the length of your longsword to keep them at bay. You're careful to keep it technical, however. The last thing you need is to get into a strength match with two warriors far larger than you. Taking the offensive, you don't allow them the opportunity to get in attacks of their own, unless they're willing to risk a cut sneaking through their attempts to block. Cut left, then right, lunge forward, feint high then cut low. The series taught by a former teacher speaks in your head, simultaneously, while you perform the technique perfectly, which would earn you the approval of your teacher, but in this case you're content with the felling of two opponents.
  
  Two down. Six to go. Two engage Redding, leaving four more for you.
  
  They mean to overwhelm you first, then Redding. Taking you out of the equation means they can focus their attention on the one bearing the dagger, keeping Redding busy in the meantime. You hop between stones. Tiny streaks of water kick up in the air, trailing from your boots, followed by the heavy splashing of the large Blackbirds. They chase, their speed not on equal levels as one warrior reaches you first. You greet him by turning on your heel, thrusting your longsword backward. The point hits the warrior mid swing, his axe raised high overhead. For an instant you make eye contact. You don't see the savage, uncivilized barbarian that the stories of Alteran tell. Instead, you see a man, the utter realization of reaching the end of his life.
  
  Three more for you.
  
  Click. Before they can reach you with their spears, your flintlock is in your hand, hammer cocked back. Your hand is steady, like that of a surgeon. You stare down the doubled-barrel, lining it up with the quickly approaching warriors. One second you see them, the next black smoke crowds your vision, the smell of gunpowder, the smell of death. Click. Your second shot fires where the second target would be, despite your inability to see. The smoke clears. Two bodies lie facedown in the creek, staining the crystal water with red streaks.
  
  One.
  
  Behind the native, you can see Redding isn't as successful. The two warriors engaging him must be a higher caliber than the ones sent your way. Redding swings with far less discipline that you've come to expect of the man, untraditional tactics or not. Something's wrong. With his next maneuver, you see it. A dark pool at his side, underneath his arm. A wound suffered at the gate, hidden by the crimson tunic and a good card player's face. However, all bets are off. There's no bluffing the hand dealt, in this case, a compromised sword arm and a short amount of time.
  
  You barely have enough time to block. The swing of the last native's axe hits your sword at the last moment. The strength of the blow sends you falling backwards, not having time to set your feet. Your flintlock flies from your hand and bounces off two stones before landing in the water. Luckily, you hold onto your longsword. Water splashes in the air, soaking your boots completely through, the last of your worries. The warrior approaches. Drops of water spill from your hilt as you raise your sword defensively. Steel greets stone, the impact felt through the thin grip you keep at the hilt, echoing throughout the length of your arms.
  
  (It's time.)
  
  A startled cry erupts from Redding's mouth in a sound that would normally be humorous. Given the present situation, it's more along the lines of a dog's yelp when beaten with a stick. Suddenly, the remaining Blackbird warriors pause as if a frigate pulling up her sails and dropping anchor. The dagger in Redding's hand glows ravenlight, the same black purple hue from navigating the halls of the dead, followed by a dark fog of black smoke, like small thunderclouds encircling the dagger's blade.
  
  It flies from Redding's hand, pulled by some unseen force and flips several times in the air, blade over hilt, before landing squarely in your open palm, the very hand that dropped the flintlock not seconds before.
  
  (Dormant power, he says. my power has never been more alive.)
  Who--
  (Yes, yes. Who are you? What are you? How did you...? Let's not waste our time with meaningless questions. I do believe there is someone else that wants your attention, yes?)
  
  The dagger pulls your arm up, leaving behind a trail of dark smoke, blocking the swing of the Blackbird who has since recovered. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he appears to be furied by the dagger's action, rather than showing reverence towards the "sacred" artifact. You wonder if he'd feel the same if he heard the voice it spoke through...
  
  (Ready? I don't really care either way.)
  
  The very blade of the artifact grows in length. One moment it's a dagger, the next it's the size of a short sword. (That's better. Like stretching your legs after a long nap.) You wonder how the voice knows what that's like. A problem for another time. The next motion of the artifact is by your own strength, the sudden growth of metal giving the warrior in front of you pause. The black blade rips through the warrior's axehead, leather clothes underneath, and stops halfway through his torso, giving him the appearance of a tree suffering wounds from a lumberjack just before toppling over. Not a second later, the warrior does just that.
  
  (You seem hesitant. Let me help ease your mind into things.)
  
  The dark blade retracts back to dagger size, and keeps compressing. A flash of ravenlight, followed by black smoke. Then, familiarity. In your palm, not lies a short sword or dagger, but the grip of a flintlock. Well, not exactly a flintlock, although the weapon bears the same basic shape. A cylinder chamber rests just above the trigger and the barrel, a single one, is much shorter in length. It displays the same shade of black, and the handle has two carved wings at the tips, just as the dagger did.
  
  (Go on. try me. I know you want to.)
  Well...if you insist.
  
  Redding and his two enemies stand still, transfixed at the weapon changing shape within your very hands, the former corporal with his mouth gaping wide open. Might as well test out the strange gun that the artifact shaped for you. Its weight is light, far beyond that of your flintlock. You raise it to a firing position, surprising yourself with how quickly it draws. In a fraction of the time it takes to aim the flintlock, the artifact fires twice, the second shot coming nearly simultaneously, the effect of slamming your left hand down on the hammer before seeing the result of the first.
  
  Ravenblack smoke. Two Blackbirds drop with a thud. The smell of the smoke is nothing like the gunpowder you're used to. It's somehow sweet, providing the smallest hints of vanilla and tobacco. Eight bodies stain the once peaceful creek, weapons strewn out, limbs displayed in angles only the dead would keep. For the second time, you grab a few handfuls of water and splash it on your face. Redding needed to learn how to activate the artifact's power. Well, it's dormant no longer. As if knowing he crossed your mind, Redding slumps down against a stone, leaning his weight against it to limit his own energy expenditure, even for something as little as holding posture.
  
  Voice?
  (Yes?)
  Care to explain?
  (Haven't you had enough questions and killing for today?)
  Not nearly enough.
  (Another time.)
  
  You think the voice--the artifact--sounds playful there.
  
  (I think your friend needs medical attention more than you need answers.)
  
  You rush to Redding's side to access the damage. The man is breathing through ragged breath, clutching his torso. Through his cupped hand that covers the wound, you see red starting to pour through. Without speaking, you calmly remove his hand to see. The wound appears to be from a spear, judging by the size and entry point. An axe would have broken a few ribs on impact and left a far greater cut. A miniature waterfall of blood pours out as soon as you check, so you instantly place Redding's hand back. The artifact, which seems to have sensed your next thought, resumes back to a dagger, one that you use to cut a strip of cloth from Redding's tunic. You use it as a field tourniquet. It'll have to do until you return back to the garrison.
  
  The garrison...is that truly your next destination? It has to be. It's the closest means to find real medical help. Frontrunner's Camp is too far away, even if you could convince the Alterans that you were set upon by Blackbirds. The story would hold up long enough for Redding to be treated. POW transfers take some time, after all.
  
  Any way you can shape into something to help treat the man?
  
  (Do I look like a tool used for healing?)
  
  "So that's why it wasn't working for me," Redding utters through a cough. He spits on the ground, adding more blood stains to the creek. "Kid, you now wield the power to turn the tide."
  
  (Great. Another mortal to bend me to his will. Heard that story before.)
  
  "Do you know anything about the origin of its power?" you ask. "It's like there's a...living being inside."
  
  "Hearing voices?"
  
  "No, just one."
  
  Redding tries to laugh, but all he manages is more blood through a fit of coughing. "Damn it, that's funny."
  
  Without missing a beat, you say, "Then your condition must be far worse than I thought. Come on, I'll get you to the garrison."
  
  "I'm in no position to move. And those green cloaks are out there somewhere. You're better off going on without me."
  
  "But there could be more Blackbirds wandering around."
  
  "I'll take cover in the tunnel until you return. I'm going to let you in on a little secret." You physically move your head closer as if there are listening ears nearby. "The artifact can change into more than just weapons."
  
  (The old man's right, you know.)
  Shush.
  
  "I see where this is going," you comment, stepping towards the hidden door. It's locked shut with the padlock that Prinn pulled from his cloak earlier. It's high quality, but like any lock the mechanism inside will give way if you manipulate the tumblers just right, something a skilled thief can do with a set of tools. There's no need for lockpicks. The solution is clear.
  
  So, uh, how does this work?
  (Close your eyes and count to three. Dream really, really, really big now.)
  ...
  (Alright, fine. And here we go!)
  
  Thunderclouds. Smoke. Instead of a dagger in your hand, a black key appears. Sure enough, it fits the padlock perfectly. Neat trick, one that you plan to use in the future. It's not that you find yourself facing locked doors often, but now that'll never be the case. You help Redding to his feet and support him with one arm. It's slow going. Eventually, you leave him just inside the door.
  
  "I'll be back in no time," you say. "Hang tight. The surgeons will no doubt have their hands full today." You flip the key in the air, willing it to change back into a dagger. Mid-flight, the increasingly familiar black smoke appears, and a dagger lands in your palm. "I'm sure this thing will help persuade any uptight field physician."
  
  "Don't return without a jug of ale," Redding says.
  
  (Don't even think about it.)
  
  You've used up enough time already. Redding's card face returns, but the damage has been done. He's in bad shape, truthfully. You roughly estimate he has a day left without treatment. The hidden door shuts behind you, causing Redding to be exactly that. The signs of your earlier violence greets you upon entering back into the creek. It's not the first peaceful place to be stained by battle, and it sure as hell won't be the last. You best get moving.
  
  > Back to the garrison
  You sprint back towards the garrison quicker than your retreat. The prodding of a war party heading in your direction isn't as much as your leader, perhaps a friend, bleeding out. Your side aches. Your legs feel as if running on sand. But still, they are small nuisances compared to the feeling Redding has. It's not a day's journey by any means. However, you're acutely aware of possible complications upon arriving back to the garrison. Returning without your scout escorts--possibly labeled a deserter. You wonder if Alexander's protection will still fall on you without the former corporal. Benjamin, for instance, probably wouldn't mind another crack at you. First, you've got to arrive at the garrison. The complications come second.
  
  Halfway there, you realize that you never re-holstered your flintlock. It's probably ruined by water damage by now, not that you need it any longer. The artifact seems to fulfill that category, and more. You briefly entertain dumping your longsword as well as it's unnecessary weight. Surely, the artifact can become one.
  
  (I can.)
  Thanks for your input.
  
  The voice can hear your thoughts somehow. You're bonded in a manner you can't explain. Even when it's silent, you can feel its presence, a low humming of energy ready to be unleashed. After Redding is taken care of, you plan to have a long conversation with the voice inside your head, not a comforting thought in the least. Redding mentioned ale. Yes, you imagine there will be plenty of that when the time comes. You arrive back to the edge of the treeline. The garrison lies ahead. The soldiers that occupy the former battlefield are not of Magda. They are not Blackbirds. They wear long blue overcoats, buttons of gold. Their boots rise nearly up to their knees.
  
  The Alteran battalion.
  
  A grin comes across your face as you step forward, but then stop. You glance down, taking a double glance at your attire. Sure enough, it's the one issued by the Magda quartermaster. A thousand soldiers of your allegiance stand in front of you, and yet you cannot draw upon them for help. You wear the colors of the enemy. You've hurried here, only taking a fraction of time. Patience will serve you now. There's no sense in rushing in. Let the scene play out before you, then act accordingly. If only you weren't wearing red while trying to hide in the forest. Oh well. The battalion stands in formation just outside the gate, which still boasts a sizable hole in the center, although the fire's long been put out.
  
  We've got some time. Speak.
  (Another mortal who thinks me his pet. Cute.)
  You possess sentience. Is that of your own doing?
  (How refreshing of a question. I'm used to 'can you do this? Can you do that?' difficult question to answer there.)
  It's straightforward enough.
  (You possess sentience. Is it of your own doing?)
  ...fair enough. Was there a time that you did not occupy the artifact?
  (That, is a better question. Once upon a time, I had a body of my own.)
  What happened?
  (A story for another time. I believe your attention is needed elsewhere.)
  
  Crouched under the cover of trees, you see Alexander emerge from the fort, two soldiers at his side. Surrendering? It's hard to tell with his back turned towards you, but the commanding officer leading the Alteran battalion appears to be Briggs. Same height. Same build. Strange that the Alterans are content to stand outside of the gate when the Magda garrison is in obvious poor condition. The rules of war don't state anything against taking advantage of an opponent. In fact, it encourages it as long as they are treated humanely.
  
  "The two tribes are now one."
  
  A woman's voice speaks behind you, heavily accented. As such, each word bears deliberate articulation, similar to the way the Blackbird warrior spoke not hours before. The voice sounds familiar. You turn to find the same Blackbird woman that you encountered days ago. You're starting to think it may not be a coincidence. She's dressed in the same tanned leather, feet bare, displaying tattoos around her wrists and ankles. Long black hair flows down her back, a single braid running down the side of her face. Unarmed, just as before.
  
  You suppress your initial questions for now. "No. They're bitter enemies. They'd never join as allies."
  
  "What is that then?"
  
  Glancing back at the fort, you catch Alexander and Briggs clasping hands. Partnership? No, it still could be conquest. Terms of surrender must have been met, and the two leaders are shaking in agreement, like the way a merchant would to a supplier. "That could mean many things," you say.
  
  "Axes greet enemy. Words greet friends."
  
  It's a strange take on a well-known saying. In common, save your words for friends, enemies deserve only the sword. The quote is old. If you paid more attention to your studies as a youth you might remember how old or who it's attributed to, not that it would really make a difference in the present moment.
  
  (She's a priestess. Devoted to an older sect of the Raven by her markings.)
  
  "And which one are you?" you ask.
  
  She smiles, gesturing with her arms. It's like the sun peeking through a cloudy day. "Do you see an axe?"
  
  "Fair enough," you answer. "Listen, any other time I'd love to sit down and chat. Buy you an ale, maybe. But my...friend is wounded and needs help. I came to find a healer."
  
  "Which tribe?"
  
  "Good question..." you answer trailing off in thought.
  
  She's smart, this one. On your first encounter, you wore the long coat of Alteran. This time, however, you're in Magda crimson. There may be a peace brokered between nations, even if that's in the form of surrender, but spies, turncoats can still expect no mercy, especially those who traded their coat for the losing color. The Alteran arrival may complicate things more than you first expected. Magda won't stick their neck out for you. None but perhaps Alexander favors you, and that's only by association with Redding. Alteran hangs turncoats. Yes, the arrival of the battalion is problematic, indeed.
  
  "I have seen this before," the woman says. "Tribes becoming one with a single enemy in mind. It is happening now."
  
  "You think they're reuniting against the Blackbirds?" You don't mean to call her that. Hopefully it doesn't sound like an insult or slur. It just sort of slipped out.
  
  "We are the Harri'ar," she answers sharply, sunshine now hiding behind storm clouds. "Many tribes have been made one under the S'umbra, false priests." She spits on the ground, similarly to the way an Alteran soldier would after the mentioning of Fargrave, although that habit is likely vanished here.
  
  "And you do not agree with the S'umbra?"
  
  "No!" The outburst causes you to glance back to the soldiers. None seem to have heard. Mentally you take a note not to bring up the S'umbra again, at least if you can avoid it. She speaks again, more calmly. "They are poisoning the minds of the chieftains. They have twisted the Raven to their own pursuit." The woman doesn't exactly say "the Raven." You're aware the words from her mouth sounded different, yet the artifact somehow translated it in real time.
  
  "Listen," you say for a second time. "I really can't delay any longer. My friend."
  
  "We have healers," the woman states, the rest of her meaning is understood. She awaits your response. Could be easier than convincing two nations that you're not a turncoat. Could be a trap. Could be both solutions are not ideal. Could be that you need to make a decision, fast. Could be that Redding doesn't have much time.
  
  > Blackbird healers
  You know it's the best choice. It seems like the only option that doesn't put you immediately in the gallows. There's a chance it puts you in the Blackbird equivalent--whatever that may be--but that's all it is, a chance. Approaching the fort is all but guaranteeing your fate, Redding's along with it. No, you'll have to trust the Blackbird woman, who appears friendly enough. You silently wonder if her beauty is swaying your decision. It probably is, truthfully. Good-looking people always tend to be more persuasive.
  
  "Alright then," you say, taking one last glance toward the fort. "I could use the help of your healers. My friend's nearby. We best hurry."
  
  "Show me the way," the Blackbird woman answers.
  
  (Surprising that you side with the beautiful priestess.)
  Send your judgement elsewhere, voice.
  (You're mistaken--I would have done the exact same thing.)
  Glad that I know I have your approval.
  (My approval? No. I just said I would have chosen the same.)
  
  You notice the woman looking at you expectantly. Two hazel eyes stare intently through a frame of black hair, the eyes themselves shining brightly for the dark shade. If you're going to have internal conversations in your head, it'd be best not to be more aware of your surroundings, and those that are watching.
  
  "This way," you say, turning back towards the creek. The Blackbird woman follows.
  
  The journey is traveled mostly in silence. Your mind is occupied with other things rather than conversation, the top of the list being the sudden Alteran appearance. If there was any hope of returning back to the battalion and explaining the situation, it's gone now. No doubt Captain Briggs will find your former company members locked up in the dungeon who will have a condemning tale towards you and Redding. There's no returning back to either Old World superpower unless it's with Redding's head in one hand and a white flag in the other. You have but a single ally left in both the Old and the New World. Redding. Or do I have two now?
  
  The woman is happy to remain quiet. If only Alteran women possessed the same quality...the inappropriate joke, both for the situation and content, brings a slight grin to your lips. Somehow things seem funnier when they shouldn't be, like recalling a punchline at a funeral or getting the giggles during prayer. Jokes aside, you're grateful to travel in silence. It's a new (New?) change of pace. In Alteran not speaking with someone in your proximity is considered rude. The Blackbirds don't appear to be bound by such a rule, speaking only when necessary. Either that or you've grossly overestimated the woman's ability to speak in the common language. Likely not though.
  
  Some time later you arrive back at the creek. The Blackbird woman--perhaps you should ask for her name--eyes the fallen native warriors, but doesn't address it, seeming to figure out the events that transpired in the once-peaceful clearing. It was a bit of a gamble, bringing her here to Redding. After all, the man is only wounded due to fighting her own people. But you imagine the apparent disagreement, even hatred, towards the S'umbra are far greater. If the fallen warriors were following the false priests, then she'd be more than willing to offer aid.
  
  You reveal the hidden door, hoping that showing the secret entrance to a native won't come back to haunt you, and come face-to-face with a sword point. Redding's. The man behind the sword is in bad shape. Sweat drips down the side of his face, like that of a day laborer during a heat wave. After recognizing you, the sword lowers.
  
  "Shoulda said it was you," Redding manages, his card face increasingly falling. "And look, you've brought a friend."
  
  The Blackbird woman--you should really ask her name--steps past you, gently moving your body out of the way with a guiding hand on your shoulder. She examines Redding for a moment, taking in his condition. She utters incoherent words under her breath, ones that not even the artifact picks up and translates for you. She doesn't speak to Redding, just waves a hand motioning him to lie down.
  
  "So you're one of those clerics. Got it," a supine Redding chuckles.
  
  "Silence," is all the woman says to him. She turns to you next. "Bring water. Make sure it is upstream of the..." She says another native word that appears "fallen" in your mind. Even without the artifact's translation, you'd be able to understand by the context. That and only the village idiot would draw water downstream from bodies currently poisoning the creek. You leave with waterskin in-hand to draw from the creek. Blue light glows softly in the tunnel's exit as you turn, healing magic emanating from the priestesses' palms. The tattoos on her wrists and ankles shine the same, the markings on her body being for more than simple looks. The woman's head raises in concentration, her eyes closed. That's all you need to see. You rush to fill up the waterskin, stepping to a section of the creek far from the skirmish that took place earlier, perhaps a little too far, but better safe than sorry. It takes less than two minutes before you're back to the hidden door, waterskin full of fresh creek water.
  
  It takes less than two minutes for the woman to heal Redding's wound. As you return, your eyes draw to the wound at Redding's side. It's almost completely gone. The place where red ran openly, threatening to burst through your makeshift tourniquet, is a dark crimson, the color of dried blood as the body seeks to naturally close its own wound. With the proper medical attention of an Alteran field surgeon, this sort of recovery would take days, less of course with holy magic, but magic healers are few and far between in Alteran, certainly not taking place in battle for the common soldier. In less than two minutes, the Blackbird woman has Redding almost completely healed, although you imagine there might be a constant ache in his ribs for a few days.
  
  "Here, drink this," you say, offering the water to Redding. Before he can outstretch his arm, the priestess snatches it from your hand. She takes a swig, and another, and another. As she drinks, you and Redding glance at each other, both giving the eyeball equivalent of a shrug. Soon, the waterskin is empty again, a small dribble of water running down from the woman's lips. She offers the waterskin back to you, which you take and immediately head back to the creek.
  
  This time, it takes you two even minutes to return, no longer worried about rushing for Redding's sake. After looking at the woman, gaining her silent approval, you offer the waterskin to Redding. He reaches out, and before his fingers can touch the waterskin, you pull it back, chugging it in its entirety. It's not a small pouch by any means, and you have a few-found respect for the Blackbird woman. Luckily, your years of downing much stronger liquid, a skill acquired in the military, serves you well. The startled look on Redding's face is worth the cause, incoming stomach ache or no.
  
  "You two are meant for each other," Redding comments. "Now go on, you can't expect a wounded man to draw his own water. Bet you didn't think that far ahead, did ya?"
  
  The woman simply shrugs. With a sigh, you stand and head to fill the waterskin for the third time. This time, it takes nearly three minutes. You feel a steady onset of a stomach ache approaching, although it may just be in your mind for briefly thinking about it moments earlier, like when a family member becomes sick and suddenly every itch in your throat sets off warning bells. You did it as a joke, but silently you wonder why the woman took the water first. Not to say the native people of the New World are without humor--it's just not what you expected. But also that's the best time for humor, in your opinion. What did the bartender say to the horse? Why the long face?
  
  As you return back, you say to the woman, "So when you said your tribe has healers, you meant yourself."
  
  She gives a warm smile. "Something like that. The Raven's wing of protection extends to His devoted."
  
  "Any other secrets I should know about?"
  
  The smile maintains. "Not at this moment."
  
  Great.
  
  You remember what you should have asked earlier. "What's your name?"
  
  "E'ffy." When she pronounces it, it sounds like ay-fee.
  
  "Pleasure to meet you," you say, offering out a hand, using your best Alteran manners. She stares at your hand, unsure of what to do with it. Next to you, Redding offers a chuckle, but no helpful input. After looking at your hand a few seconds longer, E'ffy slaps your open palm with hers, which only encourages Redding.
  
  "Close enough," you utter.
  
  (Typical outsider. Not everyone holds to the same customs, you know.)
  Typical voice. Doesn't help, but still gives criticism.
  
  Suddenly your mind is rushed with images of a Blackbird greeting. It's like y