Nadir (Exodus II)

When Aeve stalked away, leaving a slightly shocked silence until Derek spoke and Hammer thanked her and followed. Alexia watched the other woman go, not sure how to react. She glanced at Imoen, but the other Farakzan woman had her back to them all as she sorted through the food.

Suddenly wanting something to do, Alexia busied herself with organising her medical kit, keeping her head down and checking what she had and making sure that everything was in its place. It was, but she kept fumbling with it, loosening ties and tightening them pointlessly.

There were footsteps behind her. She knew immediately who it was. Warm hands held her shoulders and Derek kissed her neck.

"She didn't mean it, sweetheart," he said softly.

She nodded, perhaps too rapidly, and realised that she was on the verge of tears. Glad that he could not see, she blinked them away. Now was not the time to cry. They were all upset and stressed, especially Aeve, who was undoubtedly worried about Lunan.

“I know,” she said, leaning back into the contact and letting him wrap his arms around her. Some of the tension in her body melted away. Aeve and Hammer were walking back towards them. Alexia averted her eyes and decided it was time for a change of subject. "We should go and help Imoen?" It was more of a question than a suggestion as she did not know the other woman well enough to judge if she would want other people around her at the moment.

Marcus Sameth was not a patient man.

He was well known for it throughout the Ingolian military; he was impetuous, hot-headed and had a devil of a temper. But he was also persistent, intelligent and a damn good soldier, all of which combined to make him a genius, if unconventional, commander of Ingol’s 3rd Regiment.

The soldiers he commanded now watched with wary expressions as he paced up and down the platform of Larec’s train station, hands clenched into fists at his back, a dark scowl twisting the aquiline features characteristic of the Sameth family. Tall and well-muscled, Marcus was an intimidating figure at the best of times, but since he had taken command of the hunt for his brother he had sunk into a permanently dangerous mood and was likely to thrash his men for the most minor of offences. Now the train supposed to be transporting Lunan to Larec and to Marcus’ custody was over two hours late, and the anger was radiating from him in waves.

None of his men wanted to be Raif Smythe of the 5th SSR when the train finally arrived.

When the sound of wheels clanking against the metal rails and the guttural chugging of a steam engine finally sounded, quietly in the distance at first, then getting steadily louder, Marcus whipped around to face it as it came. He stood ramrod straight and still but for the irritable tapping of one foot, face hard and eyes flinty.

The train ground to a halt before him in a hissing cloud of smoke, with a loud grinding of gears. Engineers immediately popped up from seemingly nowhere, flocking around the train to begin the long, tedious process of restocking coal and water. But, to Marcus’ surprise, concern and palpable irritation, only three soldiers stepped off the train and none of them were Smythe or Lunan. A vein twitched in his forehead.

“It’s about goddamned time,” he snapped summarily as they approached. “Where the hell have you been?”

One of the soldiers, Vegren or some such, gave a short salute. “Sir, a ... situation ... developed in Aspeth.”

“Situation?” Marcus’ eyes narrowed dangerously. “Where is the traitor, Captain?”

“He, uh, escaped, Sir.”

“He what?”

“T’weren’t our fault, Major, Sir,” one of the other soldiers piped up anxiously, “T’were Lieutenant Aldridge, Sir, what helped him.”

The vein in Marcus’ forehead twitched again. He looked from one soldier to another, one eyebrow raised, waiting in silence for some kind of explanation. Vegren coughed nervously, then took a deep breath and said hurriedly, “Lunan ... the traitor span Lieutenant Aldridge some story about General Sameth betraying us all, not that I believe it for a minute Sir, but Aldridge apparently did and aided Lunan in his escape. Smythe sent the regiment after him but we lost him in the catacombs at the edge of Aspeth. Smythe is still there, directing a hunt for him, Sir, and the Farakzan military in Ardgall have been alerted as that is the nearest civilisation.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, then Marcus said in a quiet, cold voice, “I see. So not only did Smythe allow my brother to escape, he didn’t have the courage to come and tell me in person?”

“Ah, well, that is ...”

Vegren didn’t have to fumble for a response, however, as Marcus turned to his own men and cut the other soldier off.

“Men! Ready yourselves. We are going to Aspeth.”

“I know,” Alexia nodded quickly in agreement, but Derek felt the tension still within her. It was in all of them. They were all tired and stressed out; coming of the adrenaline high, and none of them were in good spirits

Alexia relaxed against him, and he laced his arms around her waist, hugging her close. He nuzzled his face up next to hers, trying to give her at least the comfort of his closeness. There had been too little of that between them these past months to not take the opportunities when they had them.

"We should go and help Imoen?" Derek looked over at the other Farakzan woman, who had taken over the herb-gathering. She'd gone off alone, too, and right now that wasn't good for any of them. There'd been a schism, and they had to do their best to patch it. Derek left another kiss on Lex's neck.

"Can't hurt to ask." He said, releasing her waist and taking her hand. The two of them approached Imoen slowly. Derek hadn't talked much with the quiet Farakzan girl, but she'd proven herself over and over to be a survivor; and probably the main thing that held the group together after they'd went underground.

"Imoen?" Derek asked. "Can we help you with anything?"

Still distracted by the multitude of thoughts clamouring for attention, Imoen blinked blankly up at Derek and Alexia for a moment, unaware her eyes were still sparkling with unshed tears. “Mmm ....? Oh.”

Looking back down at the herbs she had laid out she tried to focus on what she had been doing; she hadn’t realised she had been working on autopilot, not thinking too much about anything. She had selected the plants she needed to make a soup, but had not consider that there was still no fire to cook it on.

“A fire ...” she murmured, “We need a fire. Aeve cut some lichen ...”

She looked round and her eyes fell on the pile of dry lichen left beside her and she indicated it to Derek and Alexia.

“If you could use that to build a fire, it would be a great help.”

It took Imoen a brief moment to register the question, her thoughts far away, as it was with all of them. She motioned to a pile of lichen that Aeve had gathered up. Derek gathered the bundle, and as he stepped up next to Imoen, put a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"We'll make it." He said. "It'll be a long road but we'll make things better. You'll see."

He took the lichens and went to the center of where the group had previously gathered. He looked around, selecting dry rocks that were far from the lake's shore. Rocks that had been wet for a while weren't good ideas as fire-pit markers. He arranged the stones in a circle, and placed pieces of the lichen in the center. Improvising a flint and steel with a random rock and one of his arrows, he began attempting to shave off sparks into the lichens. Before too long, a thin plume of smoke was wafting toward the ceiling, and a few tiny tongues of flame were starting to nip at the fuel.

“The arm is well, don’t ya worry about that.” He nodded at where Alexia was sitting. “She fixed it up. Been long since I had a woman handle me with such care.” He gave her a devious grin, followed by an amused wink. “Don’t tell archer boy I said that. He seems fond of her, and I don’t want to find myself waking up with him using my chest as a pincushion.”

By now, it was starting to get dark. Lunan would have made camp, if he was still alive and out of the hands of Smythe. It seemed like a silly game, that consisted out of three groups; these people, Lunan and encore, and finally Smythe. Two groups had to meet each other in the end... For their sakes, as well as his own, Abraham hoped it were the first two.

Aeve followed Hammer's look to where Alexia and Derek were. Derek had managed to start a fire and she idly wondered if he had the presence of mind to bring a lighter.

"Yes," Aeve replied, considering, feeling another twinge of shame, "fond might not be a strong enough word."

She remembered vividly the beginning of the surface expedition. Her own somewhat arrogant expectation and how Derek had brushed her off hard in pursuit of the Farakzan medic. Precious Alexis.

Alexia. Aeve reminded herself sternly. She was going to have to apologize to Alexia for what she'd said and she couldn't afford to have old, defunct antagonisms clouding her voice.

If only Lunan was here. She wished for his steadying touch and his voice. Hell, even a fight would be welcome because it would mean at least that he was here.

"Again, thank you." Aeve said to Hammer in a low voice as their steps returned them to the encampment. Not knowing what else to say, she gave him a nod and moved reluctantly toward Imoen...and Alexia.

She felt like she was pushing through heavy water, the disinclination to approach them was so strong. It was very likely that she had destroyed her friendship with Imoen - pretty much the only significant friendship she had. As for Alexia...the medic had disliked her before, she was sure, and now she would hate her.

Still, she should try.

Aeve stood only a few steps away from the two women, smelling the smoke from the lichen fire. The words clogged in her throat so that she stood silently, feeling awkward like so many other times in her life when she had to talk to people.

Suddenly taking her chances alone in the caverns sounded pretty good.

“We’ll make it. It’ll be a long road but we’ll make things better. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Months of running and hiding had made an impression on Imoen, if nothing else then in terms of practicalities. If she didn’t think about the soldiers hunting her down, the government betraying them and the constant threat to her life then it was a little like camping: food, water, bedding and bandages were the four essentials. But food and water were no good to anyone unless you had things to cook and eat with.

Thus, despite the weight and awkwardness of carrying them, she always carried around pots and bowls. She hauled them out now and, after washing off the plants, began peeling away the hard, inedible skins and cutting up the softer, sweeter cores. Nearby Derek had soon managed to get a decent fire going; more than enough heat to cook a soup.

Holding the pot over the fire, she concentrated solely on stirring the slowly thickening mixture. She was exhausted, strung out and anxious and all of it was making her over emotional; so, she wouldn’t let herself think too much about what they had left behind and what awaited them. All she needed to do for now was cook.

Footsteps echoed quietly off the rock, and, glancing over at the feet that had stopped a little way off, she knew it was Aeve that had approached.

At first Imoen kept her eyes on the soup, but the silence stretched out until she could bear it no longer. She looked up, and immediately felt awful; guilt and discomfort was evident on the other woman’s face, her eyes were red and tear tracks marked her cheeks.

They were all exhausted and anxious, Aeve more than most, and she had something Imoen was sure she hadn’t meant. They ought to be supporting each other, not fighting amongst themselves.

“Hi,” Imoen said quietly, then looked briefly down at her cooking again, “I hope you like soup.”

“Hi,” Imoen said quietly, then looked briefly down at her cooking again, “I hope you like soup.”

Aeve looked at her feet. No help there. She cleared her throat.

"I...yes, soup would be fine." She ventured another step closer to Imoen, sliding a cautious look at Alexia, "Can...can I help with anything?"

“Can ... can I help with anything?”

They were both avoiding an awkward and uncomfortable discussion, and they both knew it, but Imoen still looked briefly around, running through things in her mind, before turning back to Aeve.

“I’m not sure what we have in the way of bowls and cutlery ... could you see?”

Aeve swallowed. How exactly did one go about saying, "Gee, I'm really sorry I made a racist comment?" She supposed that might work but it lacked something. It lacked a lot. She just wasn't sure how she could tackle this.

Instead she took the easy answer that Imoen offered her, glad that her friend saw fit to speak to her at all.

"Yes," Aeve said thankfully, "I'll...I'll have a look."

She moved tentatively, very aware of Alexia as she began searching through the meagre things that the group carried, asking one and another of them what they had. It appeared that the best bet would be to eat from a communal bowl, at least most of them had something that could be used as a cup or a spoon.

"It'll be a friendly meal," she said, returning to Imoen, "and probably best if we didn't think about microbes too much."

“Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Imoen agreed, lips quirking up into a wry smile. “And let’s not mention microbes to the others.”

As she spoke she lifted the soup off the fire, judging it about ready to eat. It was a rough approximation of mushroom soup, using the wild mushrooms from the tunnels, some butter and garlic she still had some for some obscure reason she wasn’t quite sure of, and a bay leaf from her various collections of leaves and plants. It certainly looked thick and creamy, but how it would taste was anyone’s guess.

The meal proved to be a little less communal that expected; they made some polite, inane conversation, but everyone was preoccupied with their own thoughts, concerns and expectations and the evening passed mostly in silence. After they ate they all drifted to their own separate spaces in the camp and went early to sleep. Ares took the first watch, then Derek, Brock, Ruka, Hammer and Jimmy.

They woke in early dawn – or at least what would have been early dawn if the caverns weren’t in a perpetual state of dusk. The tunnels had heated during the night with magma flow some way below ground, and a grey mist had rolled in off the lake. Ears sharp for any sound of pursuit, the group gathered their things together. They had quick, makeshift breakfast and were on their way, trudging through more winding, near-identical tunnels, headed towards Ardgall.

Derek and Alexia had drifted off by themselves soon after the meal was eaten. The soup helped to calm the empitness of their stomachs, and relax them a little. With that relaxation came further evidence of their exhaustion. They found a place of their own and curled up together. Derek sat against a rock and Alexia beside him, her legs draped over his and her head on his shoulder.

Ares woke him for his watch. Derek still wasn't completely past his incredulity of the man's earlier comments, but business was business. He stayed his watch, and then returned to Alexia's side.

The morning came, and Derek woke from a dream of sunlight and wide open desert sands. They breakfasted, and were quickly on their way; walking through mile after mile of cave after goddamned cave.

They passed mile after mile of empty cavern. "Hey guys," Ares spoke, shattering the silence. "After we meet back up with Lunan and Milandro in Argdall, we should head for Nedai territory. There's a rich anti-war activist named Terrance Balenger, that lives there. He would likely assist us if we explained what happened. Also, he's a writer, so he may help us spread the word about the traitors.

Argall lay to the south of Aspeth. Making their way through numerous, similar caverns was disorientating for the fugitives, yet they managed to stay on the path. Some scientists had over the years put forward theories that the citizens of the two nations had evolved with the ability to sense lines of magnetic force in lieu of any other way of determining direction underground. For most this was little more than a gut feeling, and so the majority of these theories were dismissed as outlandish and unscientific.

Rather than rely on some indefinable instinct, after several months of hiding and moving under the radar many of the fugitives had become efficient at stone reading; understanding the flow of the rock and the accumulation of different minerals to predict where caverns and tunnels had formed. Imoen’s specialty of geology made her particularly adept at picking out landmarks, and together the group managed to navigate their way through the tunnels to Argall by the end of the day.

Argall was sprawled across the vastness of several caverns, innumerable lanterns and softly glowing windows crowding the swells and dips of the stony landscape. The fugitives emerged at the outermost city, Carcalla, which lay mainly around the base of an enormous, gnarled petrified tree root, which burst from the ground and bent upwards to the ceiling. Lights hung from the ceiling in clusters of stalactite dwellings, grim chandeliers of rock. Dimly reflective veins of metal and patches of ghostly, luminescent lichens shone like distant nebulae in the furthest, dark corners of the cavern. A deeply black river wound its way through the city around the base of the tree, its smooth, mirror-like surface broken occasionally by the movement of some, aquatic creature.

As the day wound to a close the streets were emptying, but a few shops remained open as the stray citizen roamed during the twilight hours. The fugitives were met with no resistance or odd looks as they crossed the border and entered the town. The situation was reversed from Aspeth; now Ares, Imoen and Alexia led the group, while the others tried to fade into the background and remain inconspicuous. But all of them were equally anxious as they waited with bated breath for someone, something to stop them.

***

The assassins stretched in the shadows, blending seamlessly with the darkness. Their sharp eyes followed the ragtag group walking cautiously through the streets. Five of the faces were burned into their consciousnesses: the darker, pretty medic that walked hand in hand with the bespectacled Ingolian man; the woman with burgundy hair and tattoos, whose violet eyes flicked nervously over the alleyways as they passed; the small, dark haired woman with blue eyes who was trying to seem calm but was unmistakably anxious; the androgynous looking man who had once been one of them but was now a traitor, marked for death.

Two of the faces they did not know – two giant Ingolians; one younger and dark eyed, the other clearly a grizzled and experienced soldier. But they walked with deceivers, traitors, and murderers, and were Ingolian themselves. Therefore they, too, must die.

But not yet. This was a delicate operation, and timing was everything. It was why they had been sent, and not soldiers. Soldiers were too heavy-handed, they would charge in without warning and the traitors would flee and they would have to be tracked again. No, subtlety was required here; they must bide their time and strike when there could be no chance of fleeing.

So in the shadows they waited ... and they watched ...

Spoiler:

Abraham McKenzie had done many things in his life, and had excelled at quite a few. There were two things he was utterly incapable of, though; chess and not drawing his attention. He had gone through some trouble to remove the insignia’s sewn upon his military uniform, but even so the colours xof the uniform had caused some frowns.

And even without the uniform, a giant with his arm bandaged up and a great hammer strapped to his back was sure to draw attention. He had thought about leaving behind the weapon, but had finally decided against it. The army had long arms, and he doubted anyone would let the traitors get away after being so close.

“So, where are we headin’?” He tried to keep his voice as low as possible while still remaining audible and at the same time not looking suspicious. “Can’t be smart to stay in the open. Can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.”

Aeve had been walking behind Imoen, having to keep from crowding her as she subconsciously tried to hide behind her friend...well, she hoped Imoen was still her friend. Aeve forced herself to walk straight-backed but her eyes darted uneasily, trying to see into the shadows. She had seldom been even close to the Farakzan border and to be over it stretched her nerves. Here she was not only a foreigner but a hated one.

When they came to the cavern with the lights glimmering like a lure in the black water Aeve caught her breath. Even her unease couldn't erase her awareness of the strange beauty of the place.

“So, where are we headin’?” He tried to keep his voice as low as possible while still remaining audible and at the same time not looking suspicious. “Can’t be smart to stay in the open. Can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.”

Aeve felt for the big Ingolian. In the remains of his uniform it was like he was wearing a beacon that proclaimed his nationality.

"I think you're right," she said softly, "I can't see anyone but it feels like..."

She trailed off. Of course it would feel like they were being stared at. Ingolians in enemy territory were bound to feel like that. Getting out of the open sounded good.

The structure and composition of the tunnels changed as they went, and Derek and Imoen were able to reason out pretty well their approximate location and elevation. Knowing where they were made Derek feel better, amazingly. The feeling was odd, considering they were about to be heading into Farakzan territory. They were now about to face the opposite problem they'd just had. Now Derek, Aeve, Hammer, and Brock would be the one's who'd have to lay low. Derek looked way up at the two hulking Ingolians. Would've helped if their mamas hadn't fed 'em so good.

Argall was a study. Tree roots had been turned to stone by the slowly running water that trickled through here. Pretrified. Clusters of shinestones hung around stalactites, glinding off their smooth, quartzine surfaces. It was beautiful. It was ugly. Derek couldn't decide if he wanted to look at it as a scientist or as a man who'd seen stars before.

So, where are we headin’? Can’t be smart to stay in the open. Can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.”

"Comes permanent with the job description..." Derek commented dryly.

"I think you're right," Aeve said more seriously. "I can't see anyone but it feels like..."

She trailed off, and they trekked further toward the settlement.

"I'm more concerned with what I do see." Derek said. "We have a plan?"

Somehow, feeling responsible for shielding the Ingolians from prying eyes was even more nerve-racking than being a foreigner in Ingol territory. Imoen’s mouth was dry and she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes following them, watching every move they made and waiting for them to trip.

Now that they were officially over the Farakzan border, Imoen was terribly conscious of their Ingolian comrades’ size – especially Brock and Hammer. Farakzans were typically smaller than Ingolians and it was almost unheard of for them to reach over six feet, let alone the two giants’ heights. They stood out like sore thumbs and Hammer’s blue-and-silver clothing was attracting more than one suspicious and, frankly, hostile glance, though thankfully he had removed the military insignia. Still, they needed to find him a coat or cloak or something.

The first priority was, of course, a plan. They had agreed to wait for Lunan and Milandro, though where or when they were to meet them there hadn’t been time to discuss.

“I did some research here, a few years ago,” Imoen said now, “I stayed in a house on the edge of the town that belonged to the University. I know where the spare key is kept. Unless,” she paused and glanced at Ares. She didn’t honestly know if anyone would be there, or if they would have changed things given her new status as an outlaw and fugitive. Not to mention the consequences if they were caught. “You know how we could contact this ... Terrence Balenger, if you think that’s a safer option?”

*Within a manse in Callacer*

A man looked over a table, there were photos, writings, reports, and his own pamphlets. A door opens and a butler comes in with a tray. He approaches the man bent over the table.

"You're going to wear yourself out Master Balenger," the man states, placing the tray on a side table.

"I must find these fugitives, maybe I can help them somehow, clear their names even."

"You won't be able to clear their names if you've exhausted yourself to death, its becoming more of an obsession for you sir," the butler pours a cup of tea, "at least eat or drink something, and get some rest."

"Yes..." his stomach rumbles, "maybe some food would set me on the right path," he looks up, "what do you have in my Regus?"

"I can have the cook prepare a bowl of soup for you, I must inquire, it eases the mind sir."

"Yes, I could use some mind easing, it would probably make me think clearer, think of a way to find them, to help them."

"Yes Master Balenger, is there anything else I can do for you this evening?"

"No that will be all Regus, you've been a faithful man to me all these years. I don't know how I could repay you."

"It is my duty to serve you sir, I shall return with your meal."

He bowed once and exited the room. Once he was gone, Terrance took a few panphlets off the table and lowered himself in the chair. He stared at them, anti-war protests, stating the wrong doings, and why there should be peace. Though he had his fair share of viewers, most of the pro-war enthusiasts didn't appreciate his writings.

The recent stories and reports of the fugitive sightings had made him more eager to locate their wherabouts. Possibly give their side of the story, he had to hear it for himself, the way the government was writing things these days was pure cock and bull or bullshit in layman's terms. It was exhausting finding ways of tracking them down, but he had to try, just the way they were made out to be, it just seemed unbelievable.

He placed the pamphlets down with a sigh and took a sip of his tea. He prayed for a miracle, and hopefully safe passage to wherever they were.

“I did some research here, a few years ago,” Imoen said now, “I stayed in a house on the edge of the town that belonged to the University. I know where the spare key is kept. Unless,” she paused and glanced at Ares, sounding less than certain as she went on, “You know how we could contact this ... Terrence Balenger, if you think that’s a safer option?”

"Who is that?" Aeve wasn't familiar with the name. Perhaps if she was Farakzan she would know it but the Balenger name wasn't known in Ingol, "I'm not sure we can trust anyone."

She shifted her feet, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her trench coat as they knotted into fists. Would Lunan manage to make it here, over the border? There was no safe place for him now, not for any of them. She hoped that he and Milandro remained free but there was no way to know.

Find a new ally, or play it safe? Derek chuckled. Seemed no matter what they chose, they'd end up in trouble. The whole affair at Aspeth confirmed that. They were playing it safe; with a place nobody at all visited. They had split up, come covertly and seperately, and they still ended up in deep biological excrement.

Derek pushed his glasses up on his nose. He was getting sick of all the sneaking around and running and hiding. They needed to do something besites just react. They had to act.

"This Ballenger person...does he have contacts? Connections? People who he could get to help us?" Derek looked at the others, keeping his voice down.

"'Cause frankly, I'm sick of being a goddamned 'fugitive'. I'm sick of running around these caves and seeing nothing come of my running. I'm sick of not being able to trust anyone outside our group." He sighed. "I'm sick of being hopeless." He paused for a longer moment this time.

"So, whatever we do, let's make some progress."

Turning to Aeve, "If there is one person who can help us, it's him. He's pretty anti-war so I don't think he'd turn us in. Besides, since he's a writer, getting to interview the 'fugitives' would be like a gold mine for him."

Turning to Imoen, "I guess the best way to contact him would be to send an anonymous letter, saying we have a tip on the location of the fugitives and to set up some type of meeting. Then one of us will go there. However, that can wait until we've gotten Lunan and Milandro back."

Ares looked around, knowing that behind every shadow there could be an agent. "Oh, and as for being watched, I can almost garuntee that we are. Listen, the way Farakza handles things is different than Ingolia. The rank and file soldiers won't be coming after us, instead it'll be elite agents. Men and women who have spent most of their lives learning how to eliminate... undersiables. Though, unlike regular soldiers, we prefer to be discreet. As such, they're unlikely to just attack us out in the open."

“When are these goddamned tunnels going to end?”

Stopping, Lunan turned to looked bemusedly at Milandro. The older man was leaning against one of the rough walls of rock enclosing them, his mallet dangling from one hand and wearing a disgruntled expression that had been there most of the day.

“You tell me,” Lunan said dryly, “You’re the Farakzan.”

Milandro threw him a look. They both knew the tunnels weren’t what was frustrating them, it was the feeling of cowardice – of running away, hiding, and being helpless to do otherwise. They were soldiers; avoiding confrontation wasn’t in their natures.

“We should be there by now,” he grunted, pushing himself off the wall and starting walking again, brusquely brushing past Lunan. “Let’s just keep going.”

Lunan shook his head, but held his tongue and he followed after the Farakzan man. They had been walking since dawn – or at least the equivalent of dawn, and they were both tired, their nerves on edge. They had long since crossed the official Farakzan border, and should soon be entering Ardgall territory. They had both agreed the others would likely head for Carcalla, the largest city within the clan – but where or how they were to find them Lunan had no idea, unless they walked around in circles hoping they would run into each other.

Assuming of course, they didn’t run into soldiers in the meantime.

Derek thought it odd how Ares rotated from person to person, as though his method of conversing was checking off items from a list. Funny how the man was supposed to be covert ops; stealthy, silent. And yet most of what he did was talk. Derek adjusted the bow on his shoulder, considering that it'd probably not be wise to be wearing it when they entered the city proper.

"Well, I'd say step one is to find us a safe house and a few alibis. If we go in looking like a motley gang of criminals, people are right to assume we're a motley gang of criminals." Derek looked between the Farakzans and considered.

"Is there some other place we can go before we contact Ballanger?"