Siege (The Pack/Team Crafted)

Chapter Two

Preston was grumbling curses. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to go on some adventure. He just wanted to stay home and mess with his new creation, testing it before sending it off with his customer.

Of course, the world was out to get him and didn't want him to be happy. It never did.

"Do you have a weapon with you?" Rob asked, calling back over his shoulder as he pushed out the doors to the necromancy building.

"I don't need one," Preston snapped back, shifting the bag over his shoulder.

"We're going through Asumé," the messenger told him dryly, clearly not amused.

Preston disappeared and came back with a dual-headed spear.

"Don't think I'm scared of some ass-kissing primies," he warned. "They'll just overtake you if I don't fight."

"I see," Rob muttered, watching the necromancer look for his undead Arabian. Rumor had it he was fond of it, simply because he managed to keep the high-strung qualities of the breed, "even after death."

"Ah! Mors!" Preston grinned as the shining bay horse trotted up to him, head still held high. It would have looked normal, had there not been rotting chunks of skin falling out, or parts so broken the yellowed skeleton was showing through...

Or, Rob thought, seeing as the horse tilted it's head, if it had both of it's eyes.

The flaming-haired necromancer pulled himself onto his horse bareback. Rob repeated his actions, but soundly landed in his horse's saddle instead. Bareback was just asking for trouble.

"Where are we headed, Robert?" Preston was looking at him now, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Follow me."

Rob started out onto the street, just at a walk. He was slouched a bit, letting his hands move forward with his horse Enfer's head. Moving quickly in this city wasn't a good idea.

Preston, of course, didn't think that way.

His heels dug into the undead horse's sides, and he urged it onward. "Let's go! C'mon!"

God damn it, Preston. Rob sighed inwardly. Didn't you hear the narrator?

He kicked Enfer into a gallop to follow the wild necromancer.

This was going to be one hell of a journey.

+

Smoke wound around his head. It was hard to find drugs in the big cities, but stealing them from the primitives wasn't easy, either.

Of course, they never saw him coming.

The thief just snickered, taking another drag off his joint.

One day, they would catch him. One day, he would end up in jail.

But today was not that day.

It wouldn't be that day for a very long time.

+

Jerome wandered through the forest, dragging his axe with him. He didn't feel remorse for what he has done. There wasn't a need for it.

There never was, it seemed. He had managed to fake his way through life. He could act like he cared, act like things were important to him, act like he could sympathize, but he couldn't.

Perhaps, if he had the ability to, he would be upset that he wasn't "normal."

Of course, as it was, it didn't make a difference to him. He was who he was. That's all that mattered.

And if it helped him win, who cared? He was strong, steady. He didn't have relationships.

He had always been distant.

As cold as his kind was, as strong-hearted, he was also more so. He was always a step farther away. He used the relationships he knew about and toyed with them, pulling the strings.

Sometimes, he couldn't help it.

Once, he heard the term for it. It was a big, long word that came from the Superiors.

Jerome still didn't understand it, but he had memorized it.

"Sociopathic."