Into The Rift

A One-Finger Salute (15)

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The masked warrior leaves with a final parting of words, his manners distant and restrained. The enchanted pendant weighs on my palm as I take in his words—now clear and fresh as he expresses himself through a language known only by him.

Rooted like ancient stonework, I watch his ascent onto that great shell of sculpted metal. He is soon joined by three of his brethren, clad in the same garb that spoke greatly of a vastly different culture. Really, their origins are one I would give anything to be privy to.

Awakening like the beasts of legends, the hulking metal stirs with a steady hum—now tied to the whims of its riders.

Its wings circle ferociously, casting a great draft of wind in all directions—perhaps stemming from an amalgamation of metalwork and sorcery?

It was fascinating to bear witness to such a contraption. The automata rises—methodical and precise. It soon wanders off, destined to join the bloodied campaign on our eastern borders. Ancient scripts from old antiquity spoke of the possibilities of such machines, but it was merely that.

A single thought ripples as I trance upon the heavens, filled with a hunger that could only be sated with answers. 'What are they?'

The first stars venture forth into the quiet evening, melding with deep blues and gold—the only witness to a muse I knew were echoed by soldiers and fellow retainers alike.

A frown takes root, and lingers. The fading gleam of duskfall offers its clarity to the hallowed gardens as I offer a prayer to those brave men. Even as a servant of a Royal estate, I know the tides are against us.

"May her crystals light your path as you journey through clouds and strife," I look upon the distant contraption, nursing a slight worry as it falls out of sight over the palace ramparts.

I know not their names, only their masked visage. But they were noble men. That alone, makes them worthy of my regards.

"Herald be praised," I end the sermon, and continue on with the day, as I have for seasons past.

==0200 Military Hours==

-Yhunian Held Territory

As much as I loathe the thought, that damn rifle will have to be left behind. That mistake should have been beneath me, but all it took is a simple lapse of judgement. Nothing is wrong with me, yet the notion bled into the back of my head as I hustle over roots and past shrubs, keeping close watch on the dark curtain of trees ahead. All quiet for now.

The rifle is gone for good. Not us. Beyond all shadow of doubt, they know we're here. I quickly draw out my pistol and switch off safeties, undertaking a cursory inspection of the sidearm as trees hurtle past me in an endless loop of twisted figures and columns.

I am still armed, but the weapon is no substitute. Regret takes a back seat as I consider the many alternatives I could have done better in that very moment—keeping track on where the rifle fell, holding it tighter as that tackle came. I genuinely could have prevented that.

Pushing aside the reflection, I raise my voice over local comms. "This is Desert Actual, we've got foot mobiles advancing on our six."

Douglas hollers through the channel, voice bellowing with urgency. "Desert Two, I copy. We see you trotting roughly fifty metres east. Visual on about seven x-rays heading towards your position, can you confirm that number over?"

I glance behind, committing the details to memory as my visor wraps the approaching hostiles in glowering red. "Affirmative, roughly seven in pursuit. Around two hundred meters off our tail."