Flame and Spade (A DreamNotFound Story)

Chapter 11

At George's surprised scoff, he straightened and sent him an icy glare.

"Watch yourself, George. You're in my territory now."

Apologizing, George plopped in a plush chair lining the war desk. Clay approached but remained standing, keeping a vice-like grip on the back of the chair George was in. "Now, where have my manners gone?" The man said, pulling his beanie more firmly over his head and pulling on a warm yellow sweater. "I'm Wilbur Soot. A pleasure" He grinned, sticking out a hand. Clay shook it warily, and returned a gruff "Clay."

"Oh, I know who you are!" Wilbur laughed melodically, shaking Clay's hand and retreating back to the other side of the desk. "I've been monitoring you for weeks now, ever since you went through that Portal. Had fun in the Nether?" He hummed, shifting through some papers on his desk before sprawling in his desk chair and taking a large apple out of his pocket. "You know, after you went through the ruined portal you were a bloody mess to track. Of course, I had to find you before anyone else did - so naturally I put my best men on the case."

Wilbur nodded to the back of the room where Tommy and Tubbo stood beaming. "I assume they've introduced themselves to you, but you haven't met the rest! Come, this way - I'll give you two a tour of the premises."

Bursting through the door, Wilbur led the group to the brink of the clearing. It was larger than Clay had seen from the walk over; truth be told, he had spent the entire time eyeing the boys in front of him, making sure they wouldn't try to harm George. Yes, they said no harm would come to them here; but Clay still was wary, even if they had kept up their promise so far.

As they walked, Wilbur talked animatedly, informing the boys of the ranks in the camp and who everyone was.

"I'm the President, Tubbo is Secretary, and Tommy here is Vice President," Wilbur said, chest puffing with pride, "Ah, here we go! The main part."

Clay ducked past a hanging branch to find himself in yet another clearing, this time much vaster than the last one. It was fitted to the T of a war camp - complete with sparring areas sporting charred and broken practice dummies, barracks for soldiers, and fierce and growling dogs. Hold on... Clay squinted closer, straining for a better look. "Are those...foxes?" he blurted, mystified.

"Oh, yes, war foxes. Pretty clever, no? Breed like rabbits, plus don't require a lot. Vicious little fucks, they are." Wilbur shuddered, steering clear of the pen in which they were enclosed. "Of course, I don't go near them. The only person they can stand to be by is Fundy. They love him ,probably cause he raises and trains them - oh, here he comes now!"

Clay stared over to where Fundy pushed through the flaps of a large canvas tent bordering the pen. He was dressed in a warm gray cloak over leather armor, hood lined in orange fur. Lanky and tall, he glared menacingly at the boys. It was obvious he didn't trust them ; and the addition of a sneering scar twisting it's way down his face only made him a picture of cruelty. Mutely, he flipped his hood over his head and walked over to the sparring area, a hidden throwing star hurtling from his hand and cleanly decapitating an innocent dummy. Clay gulped - the message had been received, loud and clear.

At the other end of the clearing, a man worked out, his loud grunts heard from afar. "That's Jack Manifold. Oi, Jack!" called Wilbur, as the man stopped his pushups and flashed a cheesy grin at the boys. Though he wasn't ripped, Jack was lithe and packed with lean muscle, his hair cropped close to his head and his back covered in whorls and swirling deep blue tattoos. "Cool tattoos, innit? They're meant to be similar to Celtish war paint." Tommy said, nodding at Jack. Clay had heard of the Celts, favored in legend as a brutal and terrifying war tribe.

Clay immediately took a liking to Jack, for he could respect a fun personality under a tough exterior. As they left the camp part of the territory, the buildings started to look more permanent and classier. In fact, they were so made and seemed so luxurious that clay was shocked; he had assumed they were some higgeldy-piggeldy organization. "Shocked, right?" Wilbur smirked over his shoulder.