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ursangnome) wrote2008-05-07 12:05 am
ursangnome) wrote2008-05-07 12:05 am
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More Threads Scribblings
A bit over a year ago, before the first Threads of Damocles game, I posted some background information and a story about the characters.
Well, the game has gone on, much has developed, the characters are still alive, and we are still involved. I started out wanting to write more of the fiction, but silly things like buying a house and living life got in the way.
However, the session coming up later this month called for some more fiction...
Background
The Tribe of Three, having Native American ties, became involved with a Thread usually called "The Seven Nations" - it is a place roughly congruent with the American Southwest, where some Native American tribes have been migrating since the Event that shattered Earth's corner of creation. The Seven Nations have been somewhat isolationist, and find the Tribe of Three a useful connection to the outside world.
One of the major people there is Annie Walker, whose family owns a ranch that is sort of the hub of the Seven Nations thread. Annie is capable of walking among the various threads whether or not there are gates between them, and took it upon herself to lead some tribes to the Seven Nations thread.
After a year of campaign development and establishing the characters, the GMs have decided to throw us a curve ball. Events have led to an alternate timeline developing - rather in the spirit of Star Trek's "Mirror, Mirror" episode.
The Seven Nations is now the Ten Nations. Instead of an isolationist, peaceful corner of the world, the Ten Nations is in conflict with New Celtia, and has been for about four hundred years, when the Celts first colonized North America. They've been slowly pushing the Native population back, but not nearly as successfully as happened in the real world. Now, as a crucial moment draws near, the conflict has heated up close to all-out war. The world has been nastier for the Tribe of Three, and while not outright evil in this new reality, they are somewhat more dark, harsh people.
The story was intended to give the other players some context for who the "Mirror" characters were, and the type of world they came from.
Dramatis Personae
Miryam Laughing Fox is now Black Fox - while still full of energy, she's no longer a beam of sunshine in a dreary P-Poc. Shes a focused leader in a violent, troubling time.
Rom is now Chindi - the Tribe's totemic warrior has turned some of his wild ways to more militaristic ends.
Cody is now "Thunder Bear" Drake - the man who was a mechanic with a penchant for rebuilding life in a harsh place is now more concerned with blowing things apart.
Part 1: The Tribe of Three at Two Lakes
The Ten Nations village of Two Lakes, Tennessee, was silent and still in the chill damp of dawn. In a farming community of some 500 souls, one would expect that with the rising sun, there'd come the usual activity of agriculture - the sound of a truck engine, or the lowing of cattle, maybe a wafting scent of frying bacon. But through to mid-morning, the only motion in Two Lakes was that of dust and an occasional scrap of paper shifting in the breeze. Rather than flocking in, the crows perched around the edges of town, watching silently, and waiting.
The stillness was eventually broken by the rumble of an engine in the distance, approaching up the larger road into town. The vehicle that came around the bend and pulled into the square was lightly armored, and clearly designed for off-road activity, though it lacked the uniformity of design found in production military vehicles. It had the look of something heavily modified, perhaps even a hand-built prototype. Whatever its origin, it slowed in the village square, and the front passenger-side door opened before the car came to a full stop. Miryam Black Fox hopped out, dressed in beaded leathers, red hair bound back in a single braid. She started circling the car.
"HEY! ANYONE!?! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?!?" she cried. Waiting for just a moment and receiving no answer, she looked back to the car, "Chindi! I need you out here!" A rear door opened, and Chindi slid out and quickly made his way to the woman's side, silent despite the weapons and gear strapped around his camouflage fatigues. "It looks a lot like the last two. Don't go far, but find what you can," she told him, "we may not be far behind." He began a spiraling search, breathing deep of the town's quiet air.
Meanwhile, a large blond man in dark fatigues unfolded from the driver's door, and looked around the deserted town square, "Damn. A third," he said, shaking his head.
Black Fox looked over to him, "Yeah, T-Bear, it looks like it. Keep watch, and keep the engine running. I'm gonna try a Finding." She clambered up onto the roof of the car, as T-Bear handed a small drum up to her. She started a beat and a quiet chant, and closed her eyes, rocking gently, hoping for the faint, silent echo that would point her to a survivor.
T-Bear watched, and waited while his companions each searched in their own way. In a few minutes, Chindi came out from a shop doorway, heading for the car. The blond man reached up and nudged the shaman out of her mystic reverie. When her eyes focused on him, he pointed her to the returning warrior. She jumped down from atop the car, and the three conferred.
"No survivors yet. No bodies, like the other two towns," Chindi began in a low voice, "I found some fresh casings, some broken windows, and some blood, so there was a fight. They didn't torch the town, but I found some weird scorched spots, like one over there," he pointed towards the shop entrance, "You might want to have a look, T-Bear. It sure smells like somethin' big burned, not too far off."
The big man stepped over and crouched down to examine the scorched ground. He looked, took a pinch of dark ash and rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the texture. With closed eyes, he mumbled a few Algonquian words, sniffed the ash, and touched a grain of it to the tip of his tongue. "Definitely burned," he said, "I'm getting a vibe off it, unnatural. Not like your work, Black Fox. I think it may be Celtian," T-Bear turned to his companions with a scowl, "That's not good."
"Crap," Black Fox replied. Fire, an empty town, and now, looking up, she saw the silent crows, perched in a black band, circling the village. "Either of you two remember any of those boogeyman stories Captain Aticitty tells at the fire before council, to scare the kids off to bed?"
Chindi's eyebrows shot up, "Yeah. You're thinkin' about the one she tells about Blytheville?"
"Damn," T-Bear breathed in recognition, "I'd hoped those were all hogwash for the kids. That was years ago, before our time. But if Morrígan actually did all that... well, it fits here."
They all paused for a moment, thinking. Then, Black Fox broke the silence, "Okay, we've been here for fifteen minutes now, and ain't been shot at. I'm guessing whoever did this is gone, but maybe hasn't been for long. Let's spread out a bit, start searching house to house. Maybe they missed someone this time."
The trio spread out along the street, one to a door, leapfrogging their way in a fast search that kept each other in earshot. Soon they'd checked everything around the center of town, having found no one. T-Bear turned a corner to look up a side lane, and his eyes went wide. "Chindi!" he boomed over his shoulder, "I need backup over here!" Without waiting for a reply, the big man sprinted up the lane.
His silent teammate was at the corner in moments, and he paused to take stock of the possible threat. When the scene registered, he uttered a low, "Damn."
The building up the lane and across a small green yard had clearly been an old-style schoolhouse or church, mostly a single room, perhaps with an office inside. Now, it was more a charred shell. The shutters on the tall windows had closed, with boards sloppily nailed across them on the outside. The handles on the double doors were wrapped with a chain, again sealing the building from without. The entire structure was discolored with smoke and soot, the traditional steeple was half-burned away, and most of the roof had collapsed in as the fire ate away the structure. Wisps of smoke still rose from the remaining husk, and from where Chindi stood, the acrid smell of the fire was still strong.
T-Bear reached the school's steps, and he pulled on heavy leather gloves as he bounded up to the doors. He alternated ramming them with his shoulder, and wrenching at them to pull one down. Soon, he had one door loose from its now charcoal moorings, and he dashed inside. Moments passed where Chindi could hear clattering and shifting, before Black Fox caught up to the corner, and took the sight in.
The big blond came stumbling out, knocking open the remaining door. He was smudged and stained with soot, coughing. His teammates ran up the lane towards him as he clattered down the steps, and fell to his hands and knees. He held up a warding hand. "Stop! Wait!" he choked out, "You gotta know first. Bodies... there were children...," he was cut off by a round of coughing, shaking his head.
Black Fox stopped, struck dumb for a moment. "What? No. No!" She sprang towards the building, just barely caught by Chindi. The brave wrapped his arms around the young shaman, who struggled for a moment before relaxing, breathing, bending her will to stop the tears...
----
Laying those who passed to rest took the day, and it was almost sunset when the three, begrimed with ash and dirt rested at the car, now in sight of several fresh graves in the schoolyard. T-Bear passed a canteen of cool water among them.
"Morrígan," Black Fox said, a sharp gleam in her eye, "It had to be."
"Yah," agreed T-Bear.
"We can't let that bitch get away with this," she continued, the gleam now almost fire.
"Nope," agreed Chindi, "She's got a day and a half lead on us, maybe two. No more."
"Get me a map," the shaman said, "I can use it as a focus. I bet the spirits here are screaming to tell me where she came from, and where she was going."
"Probably," T-Bear offered, "But she and her people are serious trouble. We can't take 'em alone."
The woman considered, "Yeah, you're right, there. Best get on the radio to Captain Aticitty. We're going to need Bravo Company, and a plan."
Part 2: The Tribe of Three vs. The Morrígan
A two day lead can turn into a long chase if the quarry does not sit still. The hunt for Morrígan and her band was a week long pursuit through the Tennessee hills. Greening with the spring, the land rose and fell, and so did the technology it would support. Radios caught more static than signal, when they worked at all. Cars occasionally sputtered and gave out, and would have to be pushed for miles before their engines would catch again. Eventually, Captain Anne Aticitty's Bravo Company came to the sleepy town of Friendsville, Tennessee, and they knew they'd caught up to their target. The crows were gathered, and this time their harsh cawing filled the air.
Friendsville lay in the hollow of a river valley, and like some of the other areas they'd been through, it didn't support machines much above a steam engine. So, Bravo Company proceeded on foot. Not trusting complex firearms to function, some came with bow and arrow, and all carried large knives or hand-axes for hand-to-hand combat. Scouts led, moving in two-by-two cover formations, as the bulk of the company came up behind, with their leader, grey-haired but still spry for her age, well protected in the body of the group, and ready to order deployment at a moment's notice.
They met no resistance, or even any people, as they entered the town. Unlike the previous settlements, there was no sign that any violence had taken place. They found no spent cartridges, no blood, no broken windows nor burned homes. If it were not for the incessant racket of the crows, one might have thought a sleepy town had all gone off for a picnic on a Sunday afternoon.
Bravo Company came on slowly and warily up the road, towards the village square. The open area around a central well was surrounded by a town hall directly ahead of the advancing soldiers. Off to the left sat a sort of general store, and on the right of the square sat a livery stable, testament to the lack of working engines in this valley. On the steps of the hall a handful of figures in New Celtian uniforms lounged, one holding upright a short staff with a white cloth tied on the end. The flag of truce stirred slightly in the light breeze. As Bravo advanced up the road, one of the figures rose, and went to the door of the hall, knocking rapidly three times, then twice, then twice again. The door of the hall opened, and a woman stepped into the daylight.
Perhaps in her mid-thirties, with brown hair cropped short, she walked with an air of authority down the steps. The men there stood and followed her down, as more came out of the hall. Two more contingents emerged, one from around each side of the hall, until their numbers roughly matched those of Bravo Company. They formed up in a broad line in front of the hall, while the woman and the standard bearer strode out to the well in the center of the square.
The soldiers of the Ten Nations likewise formed up in a line across the road on their side of the square, and their grey-haired leader came forward to the well with her own second. The air was tense, but on neither side was a weapon raised. For the moment, the truce held.
As the old Indian woman approached, her Celtian counterpart spoke, "Well, if it isn't Captain Anne Aticitty, herself come lookin' for me! You've even brought the whole of your Bravo Butchers! Makes for a nice little reunion, doesn't it Annie?"
The Native American woman stopped perhaps 20 feet from her opponent, and shrugged, "Well, Morrígan, it isn't like I'd come looking for you and your Banshees alone. And don't call me Annie."
"Yes, I guess you're right. I should be respectful of my elders, shouldn't I? It's sad, Annie, how you've let yourself go. You've gone and gotten so old, dear. And I haven't aged a day," Morrígan smiled.
"I always thought you're as old as you feel. But really, don't call me Annie."
Morrígan began to pace a short line back and forth, occasionally looking up at the leader of Bravo Company, "Fine, fine. Then to business, Captain. I see you've done me the kindness of sending word ahead of yourself," she gestured to the empty town, "so the townsfolk have up and left. Saves my Banshees the work of slaughtering them, I suppose. So, I'm figuring I can save some work for your people too. We can have ourselves a big, messy fight, your tomahawks against my swords. Lots of blood would be spilled," she grinned slyly at the Captain, "and one of us would end up dead. Wasteful, no? I offer you a compromise - surrender yourself to me, and I'll let your Butchers back out nice and slow, and not harm a hair on their savage little heads."
"The war chief of the Ten Nations has no intention of surrendering to the likes of you," she replied in a cool tone.
"Oh, come on, Annie! Look around you!" Morrígan gestured around to the men and women of Bravo Company, raisign her voice so troops on both sides would hear, "How many of these people are going to have to die in a vain attempt to save your ancient arse? You've got fewer men, your guns and tech-tricks don't work here, and I'm twice the witch you are!"
"Well, that all might be correct. If I was Annie," Bravo's leader took off her forage cap, showing a shock of red hair, and letting loose a puff of the ash and dust that dimmed much of it to grey. She smudged the charcoal lines on her face that stood for Captain Aticitty's wrinkles, making it clear that the face beneath was much younger. "But I'm not. I'm Black Fox."
Morrígan stopped and stared, eyes wide. "You? Now? That means...," she started looking around nervously, and backpedaled to her standard bearer. She grabbed the staff from the puzzled Celtian soldier, snapped it over he knee, and threw it on the ground. "No deals with you! Banshees, to me!"
Black Fox shook her head, and calmly continued, "I'm sorry you say that. Maybe your tech-tricks don't work," she raised her voice to a near-shout, "but I still have a thing or two up my sleeve!"
From behind the livery stable, an engine roared, and an armored car barrelled around the corner, with T-Bear at the wheel, and more members of Bravo Company clinging to the sides, back and roof. The car plowed into the line of Celtians standing along the front of the town hall, but it's engine coughed and it shortly rolled to a stop. Men dropped off the sides as the doors opened, spilling forth a few more, so that a small but formidable knot surrounded the car.
Morrígan turned to glance at the shattered flank of her line of Banshees. As she did so, mere yards away from her a blur rose out of the well. It shimmered and resolved to a plainly visible Chindi Ghost Wolf as he leaped the gap to Morrígan while her head was turned away. He grabbed her shoulders as he came, and turned his momentum into a throw, tumbling the witch-general to the dirt as he rolled to his feet. He continued to advance, drawing a tomahawk and long knife.
The line of Bravo Company charged, drawing weapons as they came, and moments later the town square was reduced to the chaos of melee as the two lines of soldiers clashed.
Morrígan had rolled to her feet and drawn her sword, and traded swipes and parries with Ghost Wolf. None of the soldiers came near as these two danced around each other, each probing for a weakness to land a telling blow. They circled, and with their flurries of blows each soon sported a few thin lines of red scored on an arm or leg. It seemed the more he was cut, the more Ghost Wolf focused moving faster, closer, pressing into the range of his opponent's steel.
The red-haired shaman watched the duel for a moment, now some distance back from the fight. "Now, about which of us is the better witch..." She reached inside the fatigue jacket she wore, and brought out a small fringed and beaded deerskin medicine bag. "Morrígan! I want you to meet a few friends of mine - the victims of Two Lakes!" She opened the bag, and cast it's contents in an arc before her. She thus scattered a collection of small items - a little wooden carven horse from a boy's pocket, a tiny red ribbon from a doll's hair, a few burned scraps of pages from a child's book of letters, and others. As these flew out, around them coalesced a band of thin, dark smoke that clung together, and floated ahead towards Morrígan.
"Chindi! Keep her busy!" the shaman called to her teammate as she began to chant. Ghost Wolf, catching sight of the oncoming smoke from the corner of his eye pressed his attack, backing Morrígan up against the well, where the spirit-mist caught up with her. It wrapped around her in a coil of tendrils, spinning around her slowly at first, as a high, thin, whistling cry started to rise from the smoke. Morrígan's scream blended with the shouts of the battling Banshees and Bravos, and was punctuated by the thundering report of some firearm in among the clashing of metal blades.
Ghost Wolf didn't hold his attack. As the streams of smoke spun ever faster around Morrígan, he continued to swing, probe, and dodge. Morrígan's face contorted in pain, and she reached to her throat for a talisman that hung there, but a quick flick of Ghost Wolf's knife cut the silver amulet's cord and sent it spinning out of reach. Their exchanges continued, and her parries started coming slower, deflecting the knife and axe less each time, struggling as if against pain and physical resistance both. Finally, at the end of a blindingly fast combination, the force of Ghost Wolf's blow rang up her sword and numbed her hand, so that the blade fell useless to the dust. Chindi followed through with a backhand blow to the side of Morrígan's head with the blunt of his axe, dropping Morrígan unconscious, as the whirling smoke's cry rose to a final shriek before it shredded and dissipated as a fog in high wind.
Chindi and Black Fox now spared a moment to glance at the rest of the battlefield. What Banshees were not dead were routed, scattering as they tried to escape. T-Bear was approaching, the driver's side door of the armored car hanging open where he left it. As he came, he holstered his still smoking weapon - not so much a pistol as a rotary-fed hand cannon.
"The bitch down?" he asked as he came.
"Yeah," Ghost Wolf answered, as he picked up the fallen woman's sword, "But not dead. Yet," he scowled. The woman on the ground began to stir to half-consciousness, too wounded and stunned to struggle.
Black Fox joined the two men, "And she's not going to die by our hands today, unless we can't help it," she said, "We need her to deliver a message. T-Bear, you got a flare on you?"
The big blond nodded, and dug out a magnesium flare while the shaman-woman continued, speaking now to the semi-conscious enemy, "Morrígan, you and your Banshees, all you bring is pain. You make the world ugly with everything you do. You cannot see that, or you would not do it. It is only fitting that we make it so you cannot see what little beauty is left around you, either. T-Bear, the flare?" she held out her hand expectantly.
T-Bear ignited the flare, which burned with a loud, low hiss in his hand, and started to pass it to Black Fox, but then stopped the motion in realization. "No," he said, "Not by your hand." He pulled the flare back away from the shaman, and pulled a set of goggles over his eyes. Kneeling at Morrígan's head, he grabbed her by the hair to tip her face up and back. He bent low, nearly touching his forehead to hers, and muttered something low, before he quickly brought the white hot flare right before the enemy's eyes. Morrígan screamed again, a piercing wail that made everyone in earshot cringe. The crows surrounding the town fell eerily silent.
When T-Bear was done, the Morrígan somehow still conscious enough to whimper, Black Fox spoke, "Take this back to your people: We do not want to fight. We want you to leave us alone. But you cannot take more from us. No more land, no more lives. Leave us be, leave our lands, and this pain can stop."
Well, the game has gone on, much has developed, the characters are still alive, and we are still involved. I started out wanting to write more of the fiction, but silly things like buying a house and living life got in the way.
However, the session coming up later this month called for some more fiction...
Background
The Tribe of Three, having Native American ties, became involved with a Thread usually called "The Seven Nations" - it is a place roughly congruent with the American Southwest, where some Native American tribes have been migrating since the Event that shattered Earth's corner of creation. The Seven Nations have been somewhat isolationist, and find the Tribe of Three a useful connection to the outside world.
One of the major people there is Annie Walker, whose family owns a ranch that is sort of the hub of the Seven Nations thread. Annie is capable of walking among the various threads whether or not there are gates between them, and took it upon herself to lead some tribes to the Seven Nations thread.
After a year of campaign development and establishing the characters, the GMs have decided to throw us a curve ball. Events have led to an alternate timeline developing - rather in the spirit of Star Trek's "Mirror, Mirror" episode.
The Seven Nations is now the Ten Nations. Instead of an isolationist, peaceful corner of the world, the Ten Nations is in conflict with New Celtia, and has been for about four hundred years, when the Celts first colonized North America. They've been slowly pushing the Native population back, but not nearly as successfully as happened in the real world. Now, as a crucial moment draws near, the conflict has heated up close to all-out war. The world has been nastier for the Tribe of Three, and while not outright evil in this new reality, they are somewhat more dark, harsh people.
The story was intended to give the other players some context for who the "Mirror" characters were, and the type of world they came from.
Dramatis Personae
Miryam Laughing Fox is now Black Fox - while still full of energy, she's no longer a beam of sunshine in a dreary P-Poc. Shes a focused leader in a violent, troubling time.
Rom is now Chindi - the Tribe's totemic warrior has turned some of his wild ways to more militaristic ends.
Cody is now "Thunder Bear" Drake - the man who was a mechanic with a penchant for rebuilding life in a harsh place is now more concerned with blowing things apart.
Part 1: The Tribe of Three at Two Lakes
The Ten Nations village of Two Lakes, Tennessee, was silent and still in the chill damp of dawn. In a farming community of some 500 souls, one would expect that with the rising sun, there'd come the usual activity of agriculture - the sound of a truck engine, or the lowing of cattle, maybe a wafting scent of frying bacon. But through to mid-morning, the only motion in Two Lakes was that of dust and an occasional scrap of paper shifting in the breeze. Rather than flocking in, the crows perched around the edges of town, watching silently, and waiting.
The stillness was eventually broken by the rumble of an engine in the distance, approaching up the larger road into town. The vehicle that came around the bend and pulled into the square was lightly armored, and clearly designed for off-road activity, though it lacked the uniformity of design found in production military vehicles. It had the look of something heavily modified, perhaps even a hand-built prototype. Whatever its origin, it slowed in the village square, and the front passenger-side door opened before the car came to a full stop. Miryam Black Fox hopped out, dressed in beaded leathers, red hair bound back in a single braid. She started circling the car.
"HEY! ANYONE!?! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?!?" she cried. Waiting for just a moment and receiving no answer, she looked back to the car, "Chindi! I need you out here!" A rear door opened, and Chindi slid out and quickly made his way to the woman's side, silent despite the weapons and gear strapped around his camouflage fatigues. "It looks a lot like the last two. Don't go far, but find what you can," she told him, "we may not be far behind." He began a spiraling search, breathing deep of the town's quiet air.
Meanwhile, a large blond man in dark fatigues unfolded from the driver's door, and looked around the deserted town square, "Damn. A third," he said, shaking his head.
Black Fox looked over to him, "Yeah, T-Bear, it looks like it. Keep watch, and keep the engine running. I'm gonna try a Finding." She clambered up onto the roof of the car, as T-Bear handed a small drum up to her. She started a beat and a quiet chant, and closed her eyes, rocking gently, hoping for the faint, silent echo that would point her to a survivor.
T-Bear watched, and waited while his companions each searched in their own way. In a few minutes, Chindi came out from a shop doorway, heading for the car. The blond man reached up and nudged the shaman out of her mystic reverie. When her eyes focused on him, he pointed her to the returning warrior. She jumped down from atop the car, and the three conferred.
"No survivors yet. No bodies, like the other two towns," Chindi began in a low voice, "I found some fresh casings, some broken windows, and some blood, so there was a fight. They didn't torch the town, but I found some weird scorched spots, like one over there," he pointed towards the shop entrance, "You might want to have a look, T-Bear. It sure smells like somethin' big burned, not too far off."
The big man stepped over and crouched down to examine the scorched ground. He looked, took a pinch of dark ash and rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the texture. With closed eyes, he mumbled a few Algonquian words, sniffed the ash, and touched a grain of it to the tip of his tongue. "Definitely burned," he said, "I'm getting a vibe off it, unnatural. Not like your work, Black Fox. I think it may be Celtian," T-Bear turned to his companions with a scowl, "That's not good."
"Crap," Black Fox replied. Fire, an empty town, and now, looking up, she saw the silent crows, perched in a black band, circling the village. "Either of you two remember any of those boogeyman stories Captain Aticitty tells at the fire before council, to scare the kids off to bed?"
Chindi's eyebrows shot up, "Yeah. You're thinkin' about the one she tells about Blytheville?"
"Damn," T-Bear breathed in recognition, "I'd hoped those were all hogwash for the kids. That was years ago, before our time. But if Morrígan actually did all that... well, it fits here."
They all paused for a moment, thinking. Then, Black Fox broke the silence, "Okay, we've been here for fifteen minutes now, and ain't been shot at. I'm guessing whoever did this is gone, but maybe hasn't been for long. Let's spread out a bit, start searching house to house. Maybe they missed someone this time."
The trio spread out along the street, one to a door, leapfrogging their way in a fast search that kept each other in earshot. Soon they'd checked everything around the center of town, having found no one. T-Bear turned a corner to look up a side lane, and his eyes went wide. "Chindi!" he boomed over his shoulder, "I need backup over here!" Without waiting for a reply, the big man sprinted up the lane.
His silent teammate was at the corner in moments, and he paused to take stock of the possible threat. When the scene registered, he uttered a low, "Damn."
The building up the lane and across a small green yard had clearly been an old-style schoolhouse or church, mostly a single room, perhaps with an office inside. Now, it was more a charred shell. The shutters on the tall windows had closed, with boards sloppily nailed across them on the outside. The handles on the double doors were wrapped with a chain, again sealing the building from without. The entire structure was discolored with smoke and soot, the traditional steeple was half-burned away, and most of the roof had collapsed in as the fire ate away the structure. Wisps of smoke still rose from the remaining husk, and from where Chindi stood, the acrid smell of the fire was still strong.
T-Bear reached the school's steps, and he pulled on heavy leather gloves as he bounded up to the doors. He alternated ramming them with his shoulder, and wrenching at them to pull one down. Soon, he had one door loose from its now charcoal moorings, and he dashed inside. Moments passed where Chindi could hear clattering and shifting, before Black Fox caught up to the corner, and took the sight in.
The big blond came stumbling out, knocking open the remaining door. He was smudged and stained with soot, coughing. His teammates ran up the lane towards him as he clattered down the steps, and fell to his hands and knees. He held up a warding hand. "Stop! Wait!" he choked out, "You gotta know first. Bodies... there were children...," he was cut off by a round of coughing, shaking his head.
Black Fox stopped, struck dumb for a moment. "What? No. No!" She sprang towards the building, just barely caught by Chindi. The brave wrapped his arms around the young shaman, who struggled for a moment before relaxing, breathing, bending her will to stop the tears...
----
Laying those who passed to rest took the day, and it was almost sunset when the three, begrimed with ash and dirt rested at the car, now in sight of several fresh graves in the schoolyard. T-Bear passed a canteen of cool water among them.
"Morrígan," Black Fox said, a sharp gleam in her eye, "It had to be."
"Yah," agreed T-Bear.
"We can't let that bitch get away with this," she continued, the gleam now almost fire.
"Nope," agreed Chindi, "She's got a day and a half lead on us, maybe two. No more."
"Get me a map," the shaman said, "I can use it as a focus. I bet the spirits here are screaming to tell me where she came from, and where she was going."
"Probably," T-Bear offered, "But she and her people are serious trouble. We can't take 'em alone."
The woman considered, "Yeah, you're right, there. Best get on the radio to Captain Aticitty. We're going to need Bravo Company, and a plan."
Part 2: The Tribe of Three vs. The Morrígan
A two day lead can turn into a long chase if the quarry does not sit still. The hunt for Morrígan and her band was a week long pursuit through the Tennessee hills. Greening with the spring, the land rose and fell, and so did the technology it would support. Radios caught more static than signal, when they worked at all. Cars occasionally sputtered and gave out, and would have to be pushed for miles before their engines would catch again. Eventually, Captain Anne Aticitty's Bravo Company came to the sleepy town of Friendsville, Tennessee, and they knew they'd caught up to their target. The crows were gathered, and this time their harsh cawing filled the air.
Friendsville lay in the hollow of a river valley, and like some of the other areas they'd been through, it didn't support machines much above a steam engine. So, Bravo Company proceeded on foot. Not trusting complex firearms to function, some came with bow and arrow, and all carried large knives or hand-axes for hand-to-hand combat. Scouts led, moving in two-by-two cover formations, as the bulk of the company came up behind, with their leader, grey-haired but still spry for her age, well protected in the body of the group, and ready to order deployment at a moment's notice.
They met no resistance, or even any people, as they entered the town. Unlike the previous settlements, there was no sign that any violence had taken place. They found no spent cartridges, no blood, no broken windows nor burned homes. If it were not for the incessant racket of the crows, one might have thought a sleepy town had all gone off for a picnic on a Sunday afternoon.
Bravo Company came on slowly and warily up the road, towards the village square. The open area around a central well was surrounded by a town hall directly ahead of the advancing soldiers. Off to the left sat a sort of general store, and on the right of the square sat a livery stable, testament to the lack of working engines in this valley. On the steps of the hall a handful of figures in New Celtian uniforms lounged, one holding upright a short staff with a white cloth tied on the end. The flag of truce stirred slightly in the light breeze. As Bravo advanced up the road, one of the figures rose, and went to the door of the hall, knocking rapidly three times, then twice, then twice again. The door of the hall opened, and a woman stepped into the daylight.
Perhaps in her mid-thirties, with brown hair cropped short, she walked with an air of authority down the steps. The men there stood and followed her down, as more came out of the hall. Two more contingents emerged, one from around each side of the hall, until their numbers roughly matched those of Bravo Company. They formed up in a broad line in front of the hall, while the woman and the standard bearer strode out to the well in the center of the square.
The soldiers of the Ten Nations likewise formed up in a line across the road on their side of the square, and their grey-haired leader came forward to the well with her own second. The air was tense, but on neither side was a weapon raised. For the moment, the truce held.
As the old Indian woman approached, her Celtian counterpart spoke, "Well, if it isn't Captain Anne Aticitty, herself come lookin' for me! You've even brought the whole of your Bravo Butchers! Makes for a nice little reunion, doesn't it Annie?"
The Native American woman stopped perhaps 20 feet from her opponent, and shrugged, "Well, Morrígan, it isn't like I'd come looking for you and your Banshees alone. And don't call me Annie."
"Yes, I guess you're right. I should be respectful of my elders, shouldn't I? It's sad, Annie, how you've let yourself go. You've gone and gotten so old, dear. And I haven't aged a day," Morrígan smiled.
"I always thought you're as old as you feel. But really, don't call me Annie."
Morrígan began to pace a short line back and forth, occasionally looking up at the leader of Bravo Company, "Fine, fine. Then to business, Captain. I see you've done me the kindness of sending word ahead of yourself," she gestured to the empty town, "so the townsfolk have up and left. Saves my Banshees the work of slaughtering them, I suppose. So, I'm figuring I can save some work for your people too. We can have ourselves a big, messy fight, your tomahawks against my swords. Lots of blood would be spilled," she grinned slyly at the Captain, "and one of us would end up dead. Wasteful, no? I offer you a compromise - surrender yourself to me, and I'll let your Butchers back out nice and slow, and not harm a hair on their savage little heads."
"The war chief of the Ten Nations has no intention of surrendering to the likes of you," she replied in a cool tone.
"Oh, come on, Annie! Look around you!" Morrígan gestured around to the men and women of Bravo Company, raisign her voice so troops on both sides would hear, "How many of these people are going to have to die in a vain attempt to save your ancient arse? You've got fewer men, your guns and tech-tricks don't work here, and I'm twice the witch you are!"
"Well, that all might be correct. If I was Annie," Bravo's leader took off her forage cap, showing a shock of red hair, and letting loose a puff of the ash and dust that dimmed much of it to grey. She smudged the charcoal lines on her face that stood for Captain Aticitty's wrinkles, making it clear that the face beneath was much younger. "But I'm not. I'm Black Fox."
Morrígan stopped and stared, eyes wide. "You? Now? That means...," she started looking around nervously, and backpedaled to her standard bearer. She grabbed the staff from the puzzled Celtian soldier, snapped it over he knee, and threw it on the ground. "No deals with you! Banshees, to me!"
Black Fox shook her head, and calmly continued, "I'm sorry you say that. Maybe your tech-tricks don't work," she raised her voice to a near-shout, "but I still have a thing or two up my sleeve!"
From behind the livery stable, an engine roared, and an armored car barrelled around the corner, with T-Bear at the wheel, and more members of Bravo Company clinging to the sides, back and roof. The car plowed into the line of Celtians standing along the front of the town hall, but it's engine coughed and it shortly rolled to a stop. Men dropped off the sides as the doors opened, spilling forth a few more, so that a small but formidable knot surrounded the car.
Morrígan turned to glance at the shattered flank of her line of Banshees. As she did so, mere yards away from her a blur rose out of the well. It shimmered and resolved to a plainly visible Chindi Ghost Wolf as he leaped the gap to Morrígan while her head was turned away. He grabbed her shoulders as he came, and turned his momentum into a throw, tumbling the witch-general to the dirt as he rolled to his feet. He continued to advance, drawing a tomahawk and long knife.
The line of Bravo Company charged, drawing weapons as they came, and moments later the town square was reduced to the chaos of melee as the two lines of soldiers clashed.
Morrígan had rolled to her feet and drawn her sword, and traded swipes and parries with Ghost Wolf. None of the soldiers came near as these two danced around each other, each probing for a weakness to land a telling blow. They circled, and with their flurries of blows each soon sported a few thin lines of red scored on an arm or leg. It seemed the more he was cut, the more Ghost Wolf focused moving faster, closer, pressing into the range of his opponent's steel.
The red-haired shaman watched the duel for a moment, now some distance back from the fight. "Now, about which of us is the better witch..." She reached inside the fatigue jacket she wore, and brought out a small fringed and beaded deerskin medicine bag. "Morrígan! I want you to meet a few friends of mine - the victims of Two Lakes!" She opened the bag, and cast it's contents in an arc before her. She thus scattered a collection of small items - a little wooden carven horse from a boy's pocket, a tiny red ribbon from a doll's hair, a few burned scraps of pages from a child's book of letters, and others. As these flew out, around them coalesced a band of thin, dark smoke that clung together, and floated ahead towards Morrígan.
"Chindi! Keep her busy!" the shaman called to her teammate as she began to chant. Ghost Wolf, catching sight of the oncoming smoke from the corner of his eye pressed his attack, backing Morrígan up against the well, where the spirit-mist caught up with her. It wrapped around her in a coil of tendrils, spinning around her slowly at first, as a high, thin, whistling cry started to rise from the smoke. Morrígan's scream blended with the shouts of the battling Banshees and Bravos, and was punctuated by the thundering report of some firearm in among the clashing of metal blades.
Ghost Wolf didn't hold his attack. As the streams of smoke spun ever faster around Morrígan, he continued to swing, probe, and dodge. Morrígan's face contorted in pain, and she reached to her throat for a talisman that hung there, but a quick flick of Ghost Wolf's knife cut the silver amulet's cord and sent it spinning out of reach. Their exchanges continued, and her parries started coming slower, deflecting the knife and axe less each time, struggling as if against pain and physical resistance both. Finally, at the end of a blindingly fast combination, the force of Ghost Wolf's blow rang up her sword and numbed her hand, so that the blade fell useless to the dust. Chindi followed through with a backhand blow to the side of Morrígan's head with the blunt of his axe, dropping Morrígan unconscious, as the whirling smoke's cry rose to a final shriek before it shredded and dissipated as a fog in high wind.
Chindi and Black Fox now spared a moment to glance at the rest of the battlefield. What Banshees were not dead were routed, scattering as they tried to escape. T-Bear was approaching, the driver's side door of the armored car hanging open where he left it. As he came, he holstered his still smoking weapon - not so much a pistol as a rotary-fed hand cannon.
"The bitch down?" he asked as he came.
"Yeah," Ghost Wolf answered, as he picked up the fallen woman's sword, "But not dead. Yet," he scowled. The woman on the ground began to stir to half-consciousness, too wounded and stunned to struggle.
Black Fox joined the two men, "And she's not going to die by our hands today, unless we can't help it," she said, "We need her to deliver a message. T-Bear, you got a flare on you?"
The big blond nodded, and dug out a magnesium flare while the shaman-woman continued, speaking now to the semi-conscious enemy, "Morrígan, you and your Banshees, all you bring is pain. You make the world ugly with everything you do. You cannot see that, or you would not do it. It is only fitting that we make it so you cannot see what little beauty is left around you, either. T-Bear, the flare?" she held out her hand expectantly.
T-Bear ignited the flare, which burned with a loud, low hiss in his hand, and started to pass it to Black Fox, but then stopped the motion in realization. "No," he said, "Not by your hand." He pulled the flare back away from the shaman, and pulled a set of goggles over his eyes. Kneeling at Morrígan's head, he grabbed her by the hair to tip her face up and back. He bent low, nearly touching his forehead to hers, and muttered something low, before he quickly brought the white hot flare right before the enemy's eyes. Morrígan screamed again, a piercing wail that made everyone in earshot cringe. The crows surrounding the town fell eerily silent.
When T-Bear was done, the Morrígan somehow still conscious enough to whimper, Black Fox spoke, "Take this back to your people: We do not want to fight. We want you to leave us alone. But you cannot take more from us. No more land, no more lives. Leave us be, leave our lands, and this pain can stop."