Into The Rift

Ghosting Memories (36)

-1709 Military Hours, 50th day of Summer
-Drossal, Airfleet Garrison

The afternoon blazes onwards, the steady rhythm of progress all around never once relenting. Ample caches of foodstuff and water, neatly stationed up along the landstrips, shielded from theft by imposing custodians. With eyes seeming to glimmer beneath full cover helms, they regard all that surrounds them with unwavering focus.

My scouting group it seemed, is no exception. Even after our efforts here since the call of dawn, they remain vigillant.

Passing by the silent guardians, the aching sensation of my arms brings me back to the task at hand, joining the others in their journey towards the resting flock of heavily armored Broadwings. A hefty package, encased in an enclosure of thin metal, its edges annoyingly biting into my palms with each step towards the esteemed dragons.

Despite the discomfort, it is of little value to my mind. Especially with the reasons I find myself woven into.

"To think we are among the chosen for this endeavor," I mutter, earning the attention of my fellow scouts, "it would almost seem like an intervention from beyond." Only a mere three days has passed, and yet I find myself destined to visit the human stronghold once again. It will be a quest to seek knowledge, just like before, but more.

I decide to muse further, thoughts centered on my encounters with their warriors. The fleeting memories leave me wondering, urging curiosity to take root as the jaded image of a certain black knight crosses my vision.

"Yhunian Rangers still prowl along the four supply routes," Oswin remarks beside me, lingering frown etched on his lips, "...not unthinkable for the commanders to task the 1st and 3rd Scouting Regiments to hunt them down. They're anything but easy prey, naturally that leaves only us from the 4th to take up this mantle."

Regarding his words with a nod, I relieve my arms of their burden having reached our destination. Sweat clings to my skin, parched throat yearning for a well deserved drink as I place the final crate onto the ground, all in the name of assisting the warrior servants.

"It's not what I meant." I anchor my sights on the odd aerial constructs the humans use to master the skies, tracing their menacing carapace of plated black.

Crafted for solely for battle as I am told, they lie motionless in the safety of our Airfleet's eastern garrison, protected by regular human warriors.

Intrigue gathering in her eyes, Sephra nudges against me, "Were you hoping to meet that particular warrior again, the one you healed back in Norsera?" A hint of a teasing tone borders her voice, the Life Mender an advocate of suspecting my heart being enthralled by that human.

Perhaps that may be the case, had I not been promised to my beloved back home. So long as his pendant surrounds my neck, none will take away my affections for him.

Seeing no reason to harbor lies against my battle brothers and sisters, I answer truthfully. "More like expecting, our teams cross paths more times for me to call it simple chance."

Only twice have I seen his face unmasked. And only once has he given me his name, Jerome.

Like our Seeker, we are one of the numbered few that have come to be somewhat familiar with the humans' warriors. It is this key fact that makes us the most appropriate for this quest out of our distinguished Regiment.

Perhaps if fate deems it necessary, I will once again meet that mysterious human Knight. Questions linger on, and its answers?

Only Jerome can provide.