so go fetch a bottle of rum, dear friends and fill up my glass to the rim for I'm not the man, I used to be now I'm one of them.

— Ween, "She Wanted To Leave"



Tuhor often wondered if fire followed him and licked at his charred heels or if he was the one chasing it.

Like many of the places he ended up, he wasn't sure how he ended up in Dolphe; he didn't like it. It reminded him of the times when he would swipe his foot across ant hills and watch them scramble in six-legged chaos. Tuhor liked chaos he could take control of and this was not it or even close to it.

He couldn't see the stars and that bothered him; he saw too many guns and that bothered him too.

He pushed his way down the sidewalks and no one spared him a second glance — Dolphe was used to strange men, Dolphe hosted the eccentric and the bold; the mercenary was neither but he fit in well enough to blend.After the ship arrived at the docks, he walked for most of the day and nothing caught his eye until early evening in some grungy piece of bohemian living. There, curled against an alley wall and smoking a cigarette, someone caught Tuhor staring: the someone spoke out to him.

He sounded sickly and harsh but he was surprised to find it not too unfamiliar. "Old man," the voice said. "Ahh. You're far from home, old man."

When Tuhor's memory slapped him in the face hard enough, he moved into the alleyway; all of his desired reactions bunched together at the forefront of his mind and caused nothing to happen at all. Fortunately, his fist remembered the path to Marl's face and his tongue remembered its favorite phrase. "Fuck you," he said, but it was breathy and too surprised.

The man stumbled back with a scowl, pressing a hand to his jaw. "Christ, Tuhor. I missed you too," he muttered, peering up at the mercenary.

In the dim light, Tuhor could see that Marl hadn't changed since they had both left home. Marl was wrong in all senses of the word; a twisted mockery of man and machine. One eye was a sickly blue — the other had long since been replaced by a mechanic mockery of one, a bronze thing covered in a thin membrane that failed to hide the soft whirs of gears turning, of his pupil opening and closing. After Marl was caught for thievery and the tips of all his fingers cut off, bronze metal claws had been grafted over skin, flesh, and bone; they protruded sickly from the stubs that were once his fingers, caked with whatever had been his last meal. Marl was now a creature inhuman, and Dolphe took him in like a lost sheep. "What are you doing here?" Tuhor finally asked, a thick web of disdain on his tone.

"Looking for you, actually. Heard your ship came in, wanted to have words with you." Marl looked at the mercenary with a strange, childish innocence and hope.

Tuhor frowned, refusing his desire to turn his back on Marl. "Well," he grunted. "Have your words."

All innocence fled Marl as he crept close enough to Tuhor that the mercenary could taste his rotting breath on the air. "You won't regret it, old man, you won't. You see, Tuhor, I've got an offer even you can't refuse.."

Marl hitched his tone to lower notes as they stepped further in the alley's shadows. For a time, the two men — one old and one broken — allowed themselves to become the same: children of Dolphe.

—

"What do you mean we're staying?" Luka balked at Tuhor, cocking her hands on her hips. It was long past dawn the following day when the mercenary captain found her drifting between the taverns and the marketplace; she looked tired then, but now Tuhor had sparked her anger.

"I have a few things to take care of before we can cast off again. Let the crew know, Luka. We'll leave in two days time, at dawn." Tuhor kept his words short and his commands even shorter. He had no mind to argue with Luka this morning.

She must have read his mood. Beyond a foul look she gave Tuhor, Luka didn't argue any further. "Aye, fine. Far be it for me to get in your way," she consented, though not without a thread of sarcasm in her tone.

The mercenary gave her no direct reply. With a bare nod, he turned aside to part ways; her voice caught him again. "Tuhor."

"Hn?"

"If you need help.."

Tuhor let the offer sink in for a moment's breath. With a heavy sigh that was not befitting of him, the mercenary broke his pause to head into the streets of Dolphe's underbelly.

These; in the day when heaven was falling. The hour when earth's foundations fled, Followed their mercenary calling, And took their wages, now are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended; They stood, and earth's foundation stay; What God abandoned, these defended, And saved the sum of things for pay.

— A.E. Housman; "Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries"



I have never known where these voices come from As sweet as the morn, they were saying: "Son, there's work to be done among coffins and bones."

— Matmatah; "The Grave Digger"



——



The room reeked of cheap ale and cigarettes, whores and piss; the six of them huddled closer around the map. Tuhor kept the lamplight dim, illuminating the sparse detail of the sloping shore. "We're at a disadvantage," he pointed out.

Someone chuckled.

"Not like that's new."

Brief, uneasy laughter.

"The scouts are telling me that they're all on the hill — here," Tuhor murmured, tapping the map. "We won't have any resistance by seas; this'll be a land fight."

"We're not fxcckin' soldiers, Tuhor. We're sailors."

In the dull light he saw four heads shift in agreement; Sepahs remained still and silent. The mercenary shook with wry mirth. He abandoned the map and leaned back in his seat; it creaked in response and blended with his voice. "Captains," he addressed hoarsely, "My dear Captains — you're my brothers and sisters. We've drank and fought and sailed for years. Fxck me if I lead you wrong."

The silence spoke back, uneasy as it was. Tuhor took advantage of it and leaned over the map again. "This map," he told them, "isn't our make. We smuggled it off the Fortuna when you boarded her. Look here." He extended a calloused finger and tapped a bare part of the shore. "What's not there?"

"Fxck — they don't know about the river."

Tuhor grinned roguishly. "Damn right. Pasche, I want you to take The Red Wake down that river all the way past the hill. Faunce, take your crew and contact Marl — he owes us a favor, have him defend the west side. If she refuses, then it least make it look like she's defending the west." He moved two carved wooden ships onto the map: one went down behind the hills, the other to the left of them. He dragged one finger slowly toward the sea as he continued. "Jax and Rufe will stay in the sea for reinforcements; Sepahs and I will meet them on the land. It'll be a fxckin' slaughterhouse." His teeth flashed in a carnal grin: this time there was no unease in their laughter.

Tuhor woke up with their laughter echoing quietly in his mind; he could have sworn he smelled the briny tide of Terramort's shores, painted pink by the dead which rolled in on the waves. The bitterness of that victory never quite abandoned its weight on his shoulders, nor did it stop teething on the fringes of his mind.

A fist banging on the door of his rented room stalled nostalgia any further. "Oi, Tuhor," barked a coarse, friendly voice. "Wake your ass up, old man, or I'll send Marl in to give you a nice good morning kiss!"

—

The Practical was a popular inn that did not live up to its namesake. While its sign was always bright, clean, and attractive in the filth that was Dolphe, the prices varied on an almost daily basis. The innkeeper and bar tender, while exceedingly kind, was lucky if he could remember what rooms were taken, much less how much they cost. Despite that, the good drink and clean living were enough to keep a ragtag group of regular visitors. Among those visitors was a girl in a tattered coat that Tuhor found himself keeping company with Marl; Jack Half-A-Prayer.

While Jack's clothes seemed to overwhelm her tiny frame and her hair was always caught in tangles, the girl's smile never dampened and her street slick reputation never diminished. She was, at best, a lovable and entertaining rogue who's company Tuhor enjoyed. She was hunched over a pair of sausages while Tuhor attended to his coffee and Marl shifted nervously in his seat.

"I already spoke with the undertaker," Jack said, popping another slice of sausage in her mouth as she did. "Just like I figured. Their last gravedigger got himself killed about a month ago and no one is fool enough to take the job. Except for you!" Her last statement came too sweetly and Tuhor snorted.

"You're sure the underground tunnels start in that graveyard?" He asked, warming his fingers around his coffee mug.

"Sure as I can get," muttered Marl, clutching his cloak further around his mangled body and glancing around nervously. "Not like I've gone in there and looked myself, but the workers there end up going all crazy-like and leaving, disappear, or die."

"Besides, the closer you get to the cemetery, the more you find that weirdass graffiti," Jack chirped.

"Graffiti?" The mercenary lifted a questioning eyebrow.

"Mhm! Here, lemme show you—" Jack reached for a salt shaker and unscrewed the cap, pouring a handful out of the table.

"That's bad luck!" Marl moaned anxiously, only to get shoved in the shoulder by the girl.

"Oh, shut your yap. Anyway—" Spreading the salt on the table, she began to draw a simple outline in the salt on the table:

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v186/tomatothief/eye_art.jpg

"They call it the Eye of Vale," she murmured quietly, dashing the salt aside again as she spoke. "Folks say that Vale was born from the wreckage of Faun — from all the dead that happened when the fire killed the town. Nobody's ever seen him, but from what I hear, he's got himself an army — an army underground. He's gettin' ready to do a number on Dolphe like what happened to Faun."

The Eye of Vale. Tuhor frowned quietly; his coffee suddenly tasted much more bitter and the cup could not empty quickly enough. He found the eyes of both Jack Half-A-Prayer and Marl set on him with a mingled look of curiosity and anxiety. The mercenary bowed his head, observing the scattered grains of salt with a private intensity; when he spoke, his voice was as coarse and plain as it ever was.

"Tell the undertaker that he has a new gravedigger."

—-

Yes, I'll bury you heroes, and bury your singers, and bury your kings, and I'll bury gravediggers.

— Matmatah; "The Grave Digger"

I wake up to beat the sun from her glory I'm only one cigarette away from mobility It's always punch in punch out go to work and go back home there's only one chance left and I know and I know where she is waiting

— 7 mary 3

—-

The sun had only begun to breach the horizon when Tuhor found himself in the company of Luka. The streets were cold and empty, heralding a quickly approaching winter — or perhaps, he wondered, something darker. Instinct drew the pair toward the crumbling docks of Dolphe; The Sun Lady looked like a skeleton of darker days without its white sails unfurled. "Two days have come'n gone, Tuhor," she murmured, pausing to observe her captain. "Crew's gettin' restless on these shores. Can't say I blame 'em. What'll y'have me do, old man?"

They both knew what the answer would be; Tuhor stalled the answer in exchange for a moment's nostalgia. "How long have we been sailing together, Luka?"

She sniffed, rubbing her sleeve against her nose and glancing aside from the man. "Since th'cannibal king let Teramor burn. Since we began burning bodies. Since I lost The Red Wake. Since Pasche—" Luka cut herself off thoughtfully and chose a better answer. "Long time, Tuhor. Damn long time."

He grunted quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. "The Red Wake was a fine ship, Luka. It's a shame Quo sent it to its grave." He turned his eyes back toward her again. "You were a good captain, Luka. I remember that much."

"Aye."

"You'll be good to The Sun Lady too."

"Aye, Gabriel. I will."

Tuhor looked toward the ship he had once lost and called home again; he wondered if this was the last time he would see it, or if it was destined to returned to him once more. "Let her sail."

—

As the sun rose, Tuhor found himself looking away. It was strange watching his own ship sail without him aboard — it was not the first time, but that seemed to only make it harder. The white sails unfurled and caught the wind; he could hear Luka bark orders from the deck, the scurry of sailors-once-soldiers breathing life into the ship once again. The sun rose, and it took its lady with it.

interlude: pasche

"Gabriel," she said. She was the only one who called him that, as far as he could remember. "Why didn't you kill her" She deserved it. She deserved more."

He tipped his flask thoughtfully and watched the moonlight reflect off of it. "I don't know. She reminded me of someone."

"Of you?"

"Yes."

The silence reigned between them for a moment; she fell back further into his arms. Tuhor watched the way shadows and light played on her skin, purifying the burns on her arms. "What are you going to do now that you're dead?" she asked.

"I don't know. Stop pretending to be alive," he suggested, pressing the flask to his lips.

Pasche laughed shortly and assumed his comment was in jest. "You should come with me," she said. "I'm taking The Sun Lady and sailing away; they say the isle of Rodehia is looking for mercenaries. Now that the mainland has taken over Teramor, they'll push further."

"I'm tired of fighting, Pasche."

"Do you love me?"

The question caught him off guard and he fell silent completely; she knew him too well sometimes. "I don't know," he vaguely replied.

"Do you love Luka?"

A thorn twisted into him and he stirred; his voice was flat once more. "Stop asking me. Why do you keep asking me that' I don't know, Pasche, leave me alone."

The chill air grew between them — she pulled back and away to stare at him. "She killed them — your boys, your men. And you care for her," she spat. "If Luka reminds you of yourself, may the damn gods themselves burn your soul, Gabriel Malikie."

Tuhor pushed her away harshly, letting the liquor in his flask spill across the dirt between them. "F**k you, Pasche," he snarled. "Sail — sail!" He turned away from her. It would be the last time, he promised himself. The last time he would kill his desire for her and strangle the heat from his heart.

Pasche was tempted to strike him down, but didn't; she would regret it for the rest of her life. Alcoholic by nature, she pulled up the flask he left behind and brought it to her mouth but there was nothing left; she could not describe the hollowness she felt.

interlude: luka

"To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet a soldier will tell you, if he tells truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life."

— the things they carried

Winter was already coming again.

It permeated through old muscle and sinew, rubbed against his dry bones, unable to thaw. As another year of memories gathered around him and he hunched and smoked, he could have sworn he felt Luka's temple against his shoulder; thoughts fogged the air around him until it was thicker than summer's hot breath. He blew them aside with the smoke from his cigarette. "Spring's going to come late," he observed to no one.

"Spring's going to come late. The old willows haven't even thought to bud yet and the pines are thick with new growth. Don't care what those damn seers say, spring is coming late." He ashed his cigarette. "Last spring I was going to take my leave again. Told myself that— told myself I was just waiting for the thaw. Winter left and spring went into summer, fall. Winter. I don't know what?s keeping me. I'm old. There's something to it. I feel old and I'm nowhere near dead. Huh."

The old wildcat finished his cigarette and waited for dawn.

—

He found that fire was a constant theme in his life, whether it be the scourging of Teramor or the lighting of a cigarette. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The phoenix that replenishes in a burst of flame will return stronger then before.

That day he had been burning corpses. The bodies were mutilated and piled high; he watched the soldiers make the pile higher as he leaned on his sword. The smell of burning bodies, he discovered, was not an entirely unpleasant one and similar to the scent of burning venison. He almost enjoyed it — the soldiers, however, did not. He recognized Luka as she approached, young and pale; a strong soldier. She would be something yet. "Sir."

Tuhor looked away from the red fire and black smoke to observe the girl-gone-woman. "Is that all of them, Luka?"

The woman swallowed and nodded. Tuhor did the same, turning back toward the flames. "Tell the men they are dismissed to the hall and find Pasche. Tell her to return to Teramor on The Red Wake and report to Quo. Tell her to be wary of him; he is not a sane man any longer."

"Yes, sir. —sir" Are the rumors they say about him true?"

"Yes," the older man spoke without hesitance. "Most of them. He is a cannibal, a murderer without pride. He's lost his mind."

"Is that why y'burned—"

"Yes," he replied with a sigh. "I have no mind to let him torture our enemies longer then they already have been. Now go, Luka. Get some rest." He clapped the woman on the shoulder and waved his hand. Luka, after giving a short bow, was glad to depart.

Tuhor watched the soldiers until they were well out of sight and looked back at the crackling flames. Some of them were still moving; a slow and painful death, one that the mercenary would rather not sympathize with, but something within him itched. He was a killer, a murderer for hire, a soldier, a captain, but humanity was no longer beyond him.