Too long in waiting, but here's hoping it's worth waiting for. Morlock, hope I didn't take too many liberties. Everybody else, there's more to follow. All of you, feel free to correct me on any of the details. In the meantime, enjoy ^^b
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"Clear left. All right, on three. One... two... three... go!"
The hume hopped down a pile of rubble that used to be a storefront, and he hit the ground running. He'd dressed light, in more ways than one; cured lizardskin armor made coincidentally good camouflage in the sickly tan haze that caked the streets of Bastok's residential area. Frantically he dashed across the broken street, his head low, his sword and bow slung.
Heavy footfalls nipped at his heels, a large galka not nearly as concerned with stealth. The galka's satchel rattled noisily with the sound of glass and delicate equipment, and he held a hand over the pouch to steady it. "We're almost at the entrance to the site," he said between breaths. "Just through the next block, there's a manhole. That tunnel takes us to the reservoir."
In the distance, something whistled through the air and impacted loudly on stone, with a muffled explosion to follow. The siege had technically only lasted an hour, with an unfortunate breach in Bastok's outer walls giving the Quadav a clean shot at the markets. The scant three brigades stationed in the markets put up a hell of a fight, breaking the back of the first wave; a lucky sniper's bullet had clipped the assault leader mere seconds after he entered the town. Still, there were too few men to chase down the survivors and guard against the next wave, so several hostiles had escaped into the residential district.
Dire as things seemed, a strange calm enveloped the hume as he reached the other side. The Quadav's ruse was clever, having drawn out two-thirds of Bastok's army over a period of months with probing attacks across the continent. Their ploy, however, was to be short-lived: a rearguard contingent of six musketeer brigades had deciphered the beastmen's code, and was mere minutes away.
So said the history book Morlock had read, at least; a book on the Crystal War that wouldn't be written for another ten years. If it was still accurate, Invincible Shield and the Third were chewing on the invader's rearguard even as Morlock attended to his large escortee.
Fortunately, the Galka - he hailed himself as Goriad - appeared unhurt, if a bit winded. Despite his naturally large frame, there was much to suggest he made little use of his muscles. His posture, his spectacles, his clean gray overcoat, the care in which he held his satchel; it all suggested a fellow who spent more time in books and at a workbench than at combat or in the field.
"This way," said Goriad, squeezing through the crumbling archway and into a small alley.
"So, about this sample you're after," began Morlock, following behind the galka scientist. "What makes it so special?"
"The reservoir was deemed too toxic after contamination by industrial wastewater," Goriad answered, standing sideways to squeeze through a gap. "The reclamation plant was only in operation for a year, but it was enough to reclaim a portion of the water. A sample of that is proof enough to start the project anew."
Morlock flattened himself against a wall to follow, having an easier time than his heavier companion. "But if it's sealed, why would your team continue once the assault began?" Morlock asked. "Wouldn't it be safer to wait?"
"It was... important enough," Goriad answered cautiously. "We took a risk, thought the courtyard was clear. Nothing happened when I went first. You can probably guess what happened when everybody else stepped out into the open."
He didn't have to. He had seen the bodies, one so badly burned he couldn't tell who or what it used to be. While the army busied itself with the invaders, a mercenary liaison had pulled the Hume aside and asked him to find and assist Goriad's team. Morlock hadn't balked at the order, but it did confuse him, especially when he learned the scientists were after a mere water sample.
"Which brings us to here. The Quadav intentionally sought the plant's destruction, and I imagine they know very well what we were trying to do." The white-haired scientist reached the end of the alley, poking his head around the corner. "I don't see anything."
The hume chewed on his lip, fearing the galka wouldn't know how to spot a potential ambush. Still, there wasn't any way around him in the tight corridor. "I don't see why they'd be looking for it in the middle of an invasion. It was years ago, after all. Anyway, how far away is the manhole?"
"Maybe fifty fe... damn it!" he suddenly hissed as he turned his head, then drew back into the narrow alley. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I saw two of them, four buildings down to the left."
(Figures.) Morlock carefully unhooked his bow and took in a low, quiet breath. He tried in vain to get a glimpse of the road beyond, his view blocked by a bespectacled obstacle. "Did they see you?"
"No, they had their backs turned," the scientist whispered. "But they're close."
"Got any oils or powders?"
"Just oil."
Morlock closed his eyes, trying to shut out the distant sounds of battle. He could hear the faint but telling grunts of the Quadav and their vague approximation of common speech, but it was too far off to understand. (Two in sight could mean more in shouting distance. If we're careful, maybe we can sneak by.) "Is the manhole the only entrance?"
"The only close one. The nearest other I know of is back in the markets."
The smaller man cringed, stowing the urge to voice his displeasure. Bad as things were here, the markets would be a war zone until the cavalry arrived. His mind worked quickly, trying to recall the street from memory - his memory of the future, at least - and plan the maneuver. "Okay, here's what we'll do. Take a look out there and see if anybody's in the other direction. Be careful, though."
Obediently, the galka took another glimpse of the street, craning his neck in the other direction. He looked back at Morlock and shrugged. "I don't see any more of them."
"Good." Morlock awkwardly reached back and drew an arrow from his quiver. While the alley was wide enough for him to comfortably sidle along the wall, pulling a clean shot was another matter. Still, his mind was quick to put together a plan. "Use your oil, and on three, make a break for the manhole. I'll cover you from here."
"From here?" the scientist asked, hints of trepidation in his voice. "Shouldn't we go together?"
"Quadav armor usually has a weak spot on the side, near the seam," Morlock said with an answering nod. He didn't actually know what his opponents looked like, but he knew they shared a few things in common. "At the very least, they can't fit in here, and they won't chase you into an open field of fire."
"That flaw is the size of a coin. Can you really hit a moving target that small?" As if to belabor the point, what sounded like gunfire carried down from the rooftops, and one bullet pinged loudly against a far wall overhead.
Both men flinched at the report, but Morlock gave the scientist an odd little smile, brushing off his own doubts of his accuracy. "I can, but I won't be aiming for it. Neck's a wider target. Besides, it's enough to keep them from exposing their flank to an archer. Don't worry, they won't follow you for long."
It took a moment for Goriad to catch on, but a look of understanding soon crossed his broad, bearded face. Sifting through his satchel, he said, "Okay, I'll wait for your mark. Just don't miss if they turn."
The hume fighter took a step back as the galka began applying a bottle of silent oil, coating anything that might make a noise during movement. He slid his feet wider apart, steading himself; the oil had the dual effect of reducing friction, and while a trained adventurer could compensate for the weaker footing, it was clear from Goriad's uneasy stance that the experience was new to him.
How anyone could move at all with such oil, Morlock could only guess. The math was beyond him; his was a tactical mind. "One," he whispered, nocking an arrow. He folded his arm back over his head, the only way to draw the bow in the confined alleyway. "Two."
The scientist tensed up, preparing for the run. He snaked over to the edge of the building, the oil easing his movement, though Morlock could hear a couple bottles clink through the satchel.
(Good as it's going to get,) thought the fighter, taking a deep breath and pulling the string back. "Three. Go!"
With barely a sound, Goriad squeezed out of the alley and darted to his right, away from the Quadav around the corner. Morlock coolly stepped towards the edge, his arm protesting from the odd angle at which it held the string.
Goriad's artificially soft tread was quickly lost amidst the dull roar of distant battle, and even his satchel didn't make enough noise to register beyond a few feet. Seconds passed without incident, and the galka's escort was content to let the string go slack.
A loud, angry grinding came from the manhole as the scientist pulled it open. His grunts and strains were nearly silent; the lid's rusted protest was anything but.
Morlock had pulled the bow back before he even heard the tell-tale clacking of clawed feet. (Figures,) he mentally grumbled, allowing himself a shred of frustration as he lined his eye up with a notch on the bow.
"Found one!" bellowed one of the Quadav, undoubtedly alerting others in the process. "Get him!"
The edge of the alley didn't leave much room to lead the target, and sweat began gathering on his palms and forehead. He heard two sets of heavy, shuffling clomps around the corner, and saw shadows on the road; a merciful tell that let him lead his soon-to-be target. (Just a little more... come on, show me that fat, ugly face of yours.)
The first of the hideous, tortoise-like beasts lumbered into view, and Morlock recognized his target just as he let the arrow fly: the armor design matched those of the Quadav Go'Bhu's elite retinue, veteran raiders well trained in both melee and magical combat. A chill shot up his spine, the arrow hit home, and the Hume knew it wouldn't be enough.
As the arrow sank into the raider's neck with a disgusting thwack, Morlock almost threw the bow back over his shoulder and went for his sword. In his haste he banged his hand hard against the cinderblock of the neighboring wall, scraping his knuckles and drawing blood. He hissed away the pain as he made a run for the second Quadav, who in turn was angrily preparing a spell to send the scientist's way.
The raider had barely noticed his friend had taken a hit when he saw Morlock charge out of the alley, sword at the ready. Ceasing his casting, he hefted his own sword and parried the blow with ease. He was less prepared for the next, the Hume pressing the attack and raking his sword across the raider's weapon arm.
Ignoring the blow, the Quadav snarled at Morlock and took an uneasy step backwards. He growled out something in an almost alien tongue, but the dark-haired Hume heard two words very clearly: "work" and "undone". The faint, but certain gleam of cruel intelligence in the beastkin's eyes told him what he needed to know.
"You're after the water," Morlock said quietly, his grip on his sword suddenly uncertain. He steeled himself, staring the saboteur square in the eyes. (Goriad was right.)
With a sudden, Haste-enhanced lunge, the raider lunged at Morlock, a quick thrust that threw him off balance. The Hume countered, batting away the sword and replying with his own attack. Sword met sword as the raider parried, putting his heavier weight into the block and pushing the Hume back.
Morlock practically jumped backwards, sliding a few paces before stopping. He saw the raider wind up for another spell, and knew he had to act quickly. With a deft twirl of the blade, Morlock hopped right back in close, intentionally leaving his flank open to slip a strike by the Quadav's guard.
Fortunately, the beastkin took no advantage of his weakness, and the gambit paid off. Morlock interrupted the spell, the green wisps of air-elemental magic dissipating as the sword pierced the Quadav's hand. He shrieked in pain, unable to simply shrug off the damage, and reflexively hunched away from Morlock to shelter the wound.
Morlock barely thought at all about the next blow; his off hand simply went for the hilt and bolstered the sword as he pulled a downward chop at the Quadav's exposed sword arm. The dark-tinted flesh and blood parted before the blade, staining the bricks beneath them; his sword hit bone, and he had to fight to pull the weapon free, the blade jerked around as the raider howled in pain and recoiled.
Its pained cry only distracted him as Morlock lined the sword up for a flat blow to the neck.
The beastkin dropped to the ground, twitching and gurgling as it tried in vain to draw air. Only now did the pooled blood and exposed viscera start to bother Morlock, though more from smell than sight. His tactical sense, never far away, returned just as quickly. He threw a hasty glance up the street to the manhole, and Goriad was nowhere to be found.
Sheathing his sword, he jogged over to the manhole, keeping a wary eye out for any of the raiders' friends. He wasn't sure why nobody had responded to their call; maybe none were nearby, maybe they had found another way in, maybe many things. Morlock shook his head, a few clumps of scraggly black hair clinging to his forehead. (Guessing isn't getting us anywhere.)
"Goriad?" he called, approaching the open manhole.
Down the darkened shaft, he saw a shadow of the galka clinging to the handholds, peering cautiously up at the Hume. "They were after it, weren't they?"
Morlock blinked, momentarily forgetting what the Quadav had half-said. "I think so," he said in a low voice, motioning for the scientist to climb down. "How did you know?"
"Are you hurt?" asked Goriad, ignoring the question and resuming his descent.
Morlock glanced at his hand, frowning at the small scratch from the alley wall; the only real injury he'd received from the fight. "Just fine, thanks." He joined the galka in climbing down, speaking up over the sound of his boots on iron rungs. "But how did you know? What's so special about this water? Why did your team press on when you came under attack?"
"The same reason, I suspect, they saw fit to send somebody to find us even as the walls were breached." Goriad grunted as he hit the ground, the acrid stench of sewage causing him to cringe. "The same reason they concentrated their artillery on the plant a year ago, rather than armories, or the barracks, or the metalworks. This is important beyond water purification."
Morlock followed closely, trying to ignore the foul smell of the sickly green tunnel. "They told me a little of the project. It was a collaborative effort, wasn't it?"
Goriad started off into the dark tunnel, twisting a dial on a simple gold ring on his finger. The dial lit up, and a small, magical lamplight appeared in the air over Goriad's shoulder, throwing back the shadows. "Quite so. Apart from the men needed to build the plant, there were fourteen of us; just enough to prove we could work together and turn the sludge in the reservoir into something drinkable. Not to diminish the importance of clean water, of course. Without it, we're just fighting over a hole in the ground. But a lack of drinking water has a way of... well, I wouldn't say we tabled our differences, but it did put things into perspective. It was a start, at least."
The Hume had a hunch where this was going. "I'm listening."
"As long as we've been at odds with the Quadav, it seems we've also hated each other." Goriad gave a heavy sigh, leading Morlock through a side door into another identical tunnel. "Perhaps not openly, but you can see it in the way some... carry themselves. But if only amongst the few that knew about the project, there was a mutual understanding that we all needed water, and in a way distinct from the mine or even our own defense."
"No water, no town. Even the most..." there was a strategic pause, the scientist clearly choosing his next word carefully. "Even those of particularly clouded judgment could understand this. That the Quadav would stoop to such a tactic was itself disconcerting, but it also meant they knew of our intent to reclaim this underground reservoir."
Morlock mentally got where the scientist was headed, and nodded grimly as he followed up to a door locked by a valve. Apart from the pause, he couldn't detect any resentment or doubt in the galka's voice. Though the words belied the scientist's opinions, his tone was neutral, almost clinical in his assessment. "It wasn't even really about the water, was it," said Morlock. "They wanted a wedge."
Goriad grit his teeth and gave the valve a firm tug, rust flaking loose as it grudgingly spun. "There are those who feel the intent was to divide us, yes. I am uncertain, myself, although it would be of no surprise."
The two walked in silence through the open door, the air still and stale, but slowly growing fresher. Morlock drew in a deep breath through his nose, and almost immediately regretted it; the scent of sewer remained strong. However, he swore he could smell clean air nearby, buried under the stench of grime and waste. A part of him noticed that this section of the sewer seemed less active than the others, and the further down the tunnel they traveled the cleaner the air became.
"What do you do if it's been contaminated again?" Morlock asked.
That stopped the galka in his tracks. He looked down at Morlock, his face blank save for the exhausted bags under his eyes. He shook his head slowly and softly muttered, "That... is outside of what I know how to handle. All I can do is test and see."
The next door appeared as the others, but something set Morlock's hair on end. He could tell something magical bolstered the door's mechanical locks, and sure enough the galka made a few simple gestures in front of it before turning the old valve wheel. The door noisily creaked open, the noise suddenly echoing off into the distance. Apart from the flat slabs of stone floor just inside, only darkness could be seen through the door's gaping maw.
Goriad stepped first, his flickering light illuminating a rusty old railing in the darkness. He beckoned for Morlock to continue, and the Hume could suddenly hear the sound of drops of water.
Stairs led down along the periphery, towards the vaguely threatening blackness that was, Morlock surmised, the underground lake. From what little he could see, old pipes ran into the ceiling, connecting down to large, boxy pumping devices which, in turn, fed down to the pitch dark water. The pumps seemed to ring the cavernous reservoir, still in good condition even as the devices that powered them - those in the ruins of the plant above - lay buried under tons of rubble and twisted steel.
The stairs carried them down to the iron shore of the lake, a metal platform built over the solid rock of the cave floor. Goriad squinted into the darkness; no end to the lake could be seen, but the undeniable scent of fresh air suggested a natural inlet somewhere in the distance.
"Water looks clear enough," Morlock suggested. "Will one sample really be enough, though?"
"Enough to prove we had the means." Goriad knelt down and unbuckled his satchel, setting it carefully on the ground. He gently removed a few simple tools, glass vials and alchemical equipment, and bent down to dip an empty flask into the black water. "May I ask you something?"
Morlock blinked, trying to guess what was on the scientist's mind. "Go ahead."
"You're a skilled marksman, clearly a capable warrior. With adventurers I so often find that either their skills drive them to wander, or their desire to wander hones their skills. But you seem different... more seasoned, I would posit." The galka gently poured the flask into a separate beaker, passing it through a fine mesh filter. He squinted at the results and swirled the water around, testing. "Is there something that brought you into the life? To this troubled corner of the world, no less?"
The hume let out a soft groan as he sat down, carefully angling his sword and bow. Part of him had an answer at the ready, red-haired and clad in revealing tight yellow, possessed of a similar adventurous spirit. For more than one reason, he forcibly steered his thoughts to a more reasonable - and, in honesty, more true - answer. "That depends. You want the long answer or the short one?"
"Both, if you would. We have time." Goriad patiently set the beaker in a small rack, starting a fire underneath it with a small chemical burner.
"I suppose it's a general restlessness," Morlock started. "Since I was young, it always seemed like I was adding to some... some big to-do list. Things I planned to do someday, see the world, visit this country, go on this adventure,
fight that monster... it started as childish fantasy."
"It so often does," said Goriad; Morlock could almost detect a hint of a smirk in his voice.
"One day I looked at the list. It seemed so arbitrary, a bunch of unconnected goals with no overarching plan. So, I attacked it." The hume lazily dragged a finger across a metal seam, his own clinical pretenses cast aside for the moment. "One day I said, 'I'm going to ride an airship to someplace I've never been before.' Small thing, unless you're also a small thing, as I was at the time. Then the goals got bigger: learn to fight, to hunt, to shoot, learn to survive out in the field, to scavenge and trade."
"Soon enough, somebody noticed that I knew how to get around, knew how to survive out there." He leaned back a bit, reclined his head to stare into the black ceiling of the cave. "Just like every other job in life, you can have all your skills, but it comes down to someone giving the kid a break, giving him a chance to show what he has. For me it was a run out to a set of caves in Tahrongi, missing person. One of the locals went looking for some Yagudo tunnel network, and hadn't been seen since."
The details had to be edited; the run was actually out to the glacier, along a route only charted after the joint expedition by the three nations. Morlock hoped the scientist didn't know enough about Windurst's geography to question him. "To veteran soldiers it might've been a milk run, but for a rookie adventurer it was another story. Turns out, the area was some kind of beastmen staging area, and they knew we were coming. The local was long dead, and we would have been too if their ambush had worked like they planned."
"I spotted the tripwire just in time to stop our pointman from stepping on it." He gave a short sigh, idly popping one of his knuckles. "We cleaned house that night. I always wondered whether it was just because I was paranoid, or if I'd actually been paying better attention than the others. But I will say this: the next trip out, they put me on point. I guess everything else just flowed from that."
Goriad let out a low noise, curious, perhaps impressed. He hadn't looked away from his work, but he gave the hume a quick nod of acknowledgment. "Interesting. I believe your people have a saying: better lucky than good, correct?"
Focusing again on the galka, Morlock allowed a short chuckle. "Yeah, but since then, I just prefer 'prepared'."
"As do I," Goriad replied, starting to put away his gear. "As do I. Anyway, I have what I need. Some impurities remain, but it should be sufficient. You have my thanks for your help, Mr. Morlock, I'll see to it you're compensated well. Let's head back, shall we?"
"Sounds good."
Packing up, Goriad and Morlock got to their feet and started up the stairs. "By the way, what was the short version? Of your story, I mean?"
The hume grinned into the darkness, shaking his head. "Couldn't hit the high notes as a bard."
Nimbex > yay Galka! yay Morlock! yay Karlinn-story! (09/10/08 09:43)
Kireila > *swoonz* @ Morlock (09/10/08 09:49)
Sivara > Scientist Galka, reference to a history book...love it! (09/10/08 10:17)
Morlock > Yea, kick ass!!! *sniff* I still miss [spoiler] . . . but hey, I have an official mithra fan now, this is an improvement. ^_~ (09/10/08 12:34)
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