A certain Field Commander Manuel sat in his chair, his two hands interlocked the tips of which touched his chin.

  ?Hm…? He was cogitating within… Calculating, perhaps—anticipating and awaiting. He was still synthesizing that which he had been told earlier, seemingly; his mind aflare.

  Yet then, a rumbly noise. Emerging from the front of his tent, wobbling the slit, was a most fair elvish-like lady with raven hair; her posture elegant and docile, her hands mutually grasping. Her yellow, almost gold-toned, eyes shined his way, only to evade the moment his own met hers.

  ?[You summoned for me, my sir…]? the widow, and covert informant, thus mellowly spoke. She had to maintain the accent in her voice, although the field commander was never the wiser.

  ?[Why, yes I did… You arrived fast.]? Manuel replied, his tone casual and naturally cordial.

  The widow smiled with a short titter. ?[You don’t regularly summon me, and I have always awaited any moment to…talk with you more.]?

  ?Heh.? He liked that. ?[Well, come then… No need to stand by at the entrance there. This is your tent as much as mine.]?

  Maintaining her pleasant smile, the widow approached his desk. She opted to sit herself upon it rather than any of the chairs, looking him down. Enticing to the man, for sure.

  ?[So…]? Her finger circled his desk. ?[Is there…a reason for…your summoning?]?

  Usually, she would go to him whenever she had…new intelligence to provide; briefings during which she and him would overstay each other’s times with more…divergent discourses. However, him summoning her directly had been rarer; she could only insinuate a few reasons for this, thus.

  ?[Is this business or…maybe…something else?]? She only leaned in closer. She then began to fan her face somewhat with a stylistically appropriate fan instrument. ?Ooph. [Is it me or is it awfully…heated in here?]? She loosened her collar only slightly, as if an almost deliberate move—although, it was…genuinely rather insulated within this tent.

  And this one was still not used to wearing such…squeezing feminine dresses—Far Western fashion was still rather uncomfortable for her.

  Manuel meanwhile took his time to reply, as if to allow himself to bask upon the sight for just a moment longer. ?[Business, my fair madam.]? he finally replied.

  And the widow’s demeanor changed, her posture straightening. ?Oh…?? It was almost as if she were disappointed or perhaps even…mildly surprised—not anticipating this, since… Well, reasons. ?[I have no new…words to offer. So, well, what is…]?

  ?[All shall become clear shortly—but, please,]? he waved his arm, ?[have a proper seat.]?

  The fair madam ahemed and swapped her buttocks from his desk to his cushioned chair.

  ?[I just wanted to ask you a few things, madam…]? Manuel cut straight to it, without even his usual flirtations or innuendos, ?[And forgive me, I shall be quite procedural with this. But you were with the Fallen for quite the some time, no?]? An obvious question with an obvious answer, merely asked for rhetorical flow.

  ?[Yes…]? the widow answered anyway, a fact he already knew.

  ?[You are perhaps the only one here I can verify this with directly…]? Manuel continued on; ?[The Fallen… As we’ve discovered from our encounters, they seem armed even if poorly coordinated. But would you consider them…well-armed?]?

  ?Oh, uhm…? This was a different kind of line of questioning from him; one she was perhaps not quite prepared for. ?[I… I don’t know…how to answer that; I’m sorry.]? She was being honest. ?[I suppose it…depends on how one defines well-armed? They are…more armed than…most bands of their respective kinds.]?

  ?Hm.? Manuel nodded, contemplating. ?[That’s certainly for sure… Our troops have identified a myriad of encountered weapons. Old fashioned muskets, yes, but also…rifles. A few grenades in some instances, and even…breech-loaders—you know what those are, surely?]?

  Her eyes looked to the side for but a moment. ?[I do, yes… Those are the…ones where…one—it is from a breech, the method of loading. Not from the barrel.]? She stumbled her words, although it only made her appear more natural.

  A woman should not be expected to understand the intricacies of firearms, in Far Western eyes.

  ?[See, from what I have come to understand of the Fallen, their actual inventory is surprisingly sophisticated; it has been their tactics which failed.]? Manuel spoke on. ?[At least, so I thought… Maybe I was wrong to think so. And I never did ask you directly, did I? So, let’s change that. What do you say?]?

  ?[…their tactics…]? She held on that line for a long moment… ?[…are complex. But now they are led by madmen.]? She exhaled, a momentary jitter in her jaws. ?[I am sorry. My husband would’ve been able to answer these questions so much…better than I.]? Swollen somber left her voice. ?[…he was, as you know, a military leader before…he was betrayed. Much of my own knowledge comes from him, but he never told me everything…]? There was a tension in her breaths. ?[And even after…my own betrayal, there is still this strong…apprehension I must break through with every word I speak.]?

  ?[Treason is a gradient, as they say…]? Manuel’s hand slid closer to her. ?[Believe me, my dear, I understand completely. As I have said a plenty: you are brave, and the weight of what you have done must be crushing—the continued doubts, the endless question of whether or not this was the right thing.]?

  Manuel no doubt believed he was reading her perfectly.

  ?[…you truly are terrifying in how you always understand.]? And she followed with it, her own hand grasping his in kind… ?[Truly terrifying…]? She looked at him, donning such a smile. ?[You remind me so much…of him…]?

  Business and personal had become too entangled, indeed.

  ?[Minus the ears, doubtless.]? Manuel gave a single chuckle; but he then withdrew his hand, aheming. “Greenfield,” he cut right back to it, ?[as the locals call it. Or as we know it as: Greenfield. The Supreme Garden. You’ve heard of it, surely? That native realm smudged in a valley in between the southern mountains, renowned for its…grand border walls?]?

  ?[Barely…]? she replied. ?[I am still becoming accustomed to the surface’s geography.]?

  ?[Oh, well… It’s a fascinating place which I’ve only been to twice in my tenure. An ecology alien to the rest of this continent—exotic fruits and edible sweets. Major agricultural exporter, thus.]? he casually explained; ?[Though, in recent years it has shifted due to the discovery of a rather potent nitrate only found there; combine this with its own one-of-a-kind supply of resilient burn wood, it has been shifting into a native manufacturer of…]? There was a short pause. ?[…indigenous firearms—and bombs.]?

  The widow tilted her head, as if processing. ?[…I see?]? she acknowledged, as if trying to see…the point.

  ?Hm.? Manuel mumbled, his eyes looking at her as if attempting to read. ?[Greenfield tends to label its specific brand of firearms. I was wondering if you might have encountered any during your tenure with the Fallen…]?

  Her eyes fell down… ?[…I wouldn’t know. I apologize.]?

  ?Hm. [Neither would our own troops, evidently.]? Most Company footmen could not read the native language.

  The Company never did bother retrieving any of the weapons they had stumbled upon for potential identification either; it was destruction on sight. A mistake, though only in the retrospect.

  ?[Dwarven Industries,]? Manuel moved on, ?[sound familiar by chance?]?

  The widow’s eyes remained downfaced; she shook her head. ?[No. I don’t believe I have…]?

  ?Heh. [Theirs is a fascinating story. Man only harnessed industry in this century; beforehand, it was always the dwarves… Especially the New World ones, from what I heard. Except, the difference between us was, man had mass society and commercial theory; the dwarves were…too small and too rigid, manufacturing the same trinket for generations in the name of familial custom and not economics—innovation, divergence, all heretical.]?

  ?[The Fallen have dwarves, as I have said before.]? The widow seemingly misunderstood the nature of the question. ?[They draw from any race that isn’t man.]?

  ?[Yes…]? Manuel leaned in. ?[But I am not talking necessarily about dwarves in the abstract—rather, Dwarven Industries… A consolidation of New World dwarven clans into an incorporated enterprise, yet another product of New Elkland’s shift towards…enforced multiracialism.]? He slid a piece of parchment onto his desk, on it being a drawn emblem of sorts. ?[I was just wondering if you had ever encountered any of their…symbols by chance.]?

  ?…[not that I would be aware of.]? the widow yet again so answered.

  ?[Neither had our own, evidently.]? and so again replied Manuel… Indeed, Greenfield firearms were one issue, but Dwarven Industries had rather specific branding any Company man should have immediately identified.

  ?[Is there…]? Her eyes again so met his own, ?[a particular reason for…these inquires, fine sir?]?

  ?[Tell me,]? Manuel however did not answer, ?[I suppose to ask this more precise question: at any point in your tenure, did you ever witness, be informed of, or had any awareness of…any, say, potential contact or trading between the Fallen and…people from the surface?]?

  ?…[that is…]? Certainly a question, indeed. ?[Plenty. Forest elves, world gnomes, green goblins and green orcs—not darkened ones.]? Indeed, she listed the obvious surface contacts.

  ?[I should have perhaps narrowed what I meant by ‘people’.]? Manuel thus specified; ?[I meant more specifically any…strange, mysterious, suspicious, or obviously clandestine rounded ears.]? He touched his ear, stretching the lobe. ?[Like this. Men—or, I suppose, women.]?

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  ?…uh.? The widow just looked at him, seemingly confused and slightly concerned. ?Oh, [well…]? How was this to be answered… ?[I am sorry,]? with anxiety in her breaths, worry in her eyes, she looked into him once more; ?[to ask again: is there reason for this question? I know you must have one, my Manuel.]?

  Manuel rolled his lips, interlocking his hands as each first finger tapped. ?[You are a traitor, no? So, you are obviously familiar with the concept… Treason, betrayal, treachery.]? he thus simply began to say; ?[No doubt, you are seen as a traitor. A traitor to your cause; a traitor to your whole race, even… After all, the Fallen intends to wage a race war against all of man.]?

  ?[They already have been waging one,]? the widow clarified, ?[for thousands of years. Kept beneath the dirt by the Adventurers’ Guild. Only now has it surfaced so openly, involving a power such as yours.]?

  ?[Precisely.]? Manual so said, as if his point were only further augmented. ?[And, speaking from experience, no other race can truly match mankind…when it comes to the game of treachery. Man eats himself first, then the elf.]? A proverb, he thus said, from the New World.

  The field commander left this note to hang for a moment, before exhaling out—his posture relaxing.

  ?[Dearest apologies,]? he thus tonally transitioned, ?[I believe I have needlessly stressed you so with this… I should not expect you to know or have known…every intricate detail of the Fallen’s habits and doings. You are merely one woman—a very eyeable one, might I add.]? He of course had to add.

  And the widow donned a flattered smile, humbly blushing.

  ?[That is all then. I merely wanted to give this a go, and I did… Clarity will come eventually, even if not today.]? He ahemed. ?[Well, then; you may leave.]?

  The widow nodded and stood herself up, giving a gracious bow… She turned around, his eyes habitually peeking down—even without intent.

  ?[…actually,]? yet the widow paused and turned herself back around, ?[now that business has been concluded…]? Indeed, she proceeded to once again sit herself upon his desk, hips emphasized. ?[May I stay…with you…just a little longer?]? There was a certain tone in her voice, her breathing exaggerated. ?[Provided, of course, you aren’t busy…]? She loosened her hair and flicked a wave. ?[After all, it’s only fair.]? Caressing, she exposed additional skin from her collar. ?[Considering what you’ve done for me; what I’ve done for you… What we’ve done for each other.]?

  If I had a physical body…

  Perhaps I would fall for it too.

  An irresistible widow—a venomous spider.

  We truly did design them well…

  Oops. And there flew a spoiler.

  -||-

  Two flags flew side by side. One white with a green frog; the other with seven stripes. Groans, coughs, sneezes, and screams sung in the air; a song of…contemporary treatment. White tents of varying sizes dotted about, each also embroiled with that ever-distinct green frog—an almost universally identifiable emblem in the Far West, associated with medicine.

  Although sometimes the flag and color pattern would be inverted—green predominate with a white colored frog. There was some variation thus, yet the identity remained the same: The Society of the Wandering Green Frog.

  A simple fable, that one was; however, it was old—very old. Adapted and readapted; changed and altered… Yet the fundamental premise remained the same. Once upon a time, there had a been man; cursed by a witch or the gods, turned into a green frog. The green frog set out to find a cure for himself, though found cures for everyone else along the way—either by requirement or by his own volition.

  Again, variation was considerable; new versions emerging throughout different eras in the Far West’s history.

  Red could not help but ponder this fable as he himself traversed through this sprawling medical camp.

  A thousand years ago, the Far West was alien to itself compared to how it was now. The Central Continent, meanwhile… A thousand years prior it no doubt looked just about the same—minus, of course, relatively ‘recent’ changes with respect to the grand scheme of history.

  At least, such was his view. As had been put by someone he once knew: what made the Far West different was that it constantly climbed upwards in quest for some higher fantastical comfort, never settling, where everyone else would remain seated in what comforts they had found. These words were not uttered as praise, but a simple truth. Such had not stopped him from initially misinterpreting; young, energetic, and fervent…he had thought that man a sympathizer.

  Sometimes Red wished he could apologize, having come to better understand what he had actually meant. Though, there was no longer a man whom to apologize.

  A wagon up ahead, his yellow-amber eyes spotted. Situated it was near a…pole of sorts; naturally, the unicorn—whom so many eyes were on—was ransacking that very pole with its glittery saliva and pristine equine teeth. Absent from the wagon’s back were the bodies—having been collected and were being sorted in the open site nearby. Also noticeably absent, however, was a specific mage with whom Red was supposed to rendezvous.

  “…Gods’ sacred, did she leave that thing alone by himself.” That was a breach of their agreed upon protocols; under no circumstances was the unicorn to be left alone in a populated area, not especially a Far Western camp.

  Of course, such had not stopped him from doing the same a few…several times, such as in Grandberry—no thanks in part due to these very poles imbued with pixie dust paint; always and always would the unicorn’s tongue become so utterly infatuated, preoccupying it. Red never understood why, which was also the problem… The unicorn was predictably…unpredictable; although every single time so far of the creature’s lick-chewing infatuation had seen it locked in place, he was just waiting for it to do something…stupid.

  Such as chew on a man’s amputated arm or devour a newborn child—fuck if he knew…

  When Red arrived, he skipped passed the unicorn without even giving it a single eye; he went straight for the open though shaded site the wagon was parked near. There, he found slightly elevated beds or stands…upon which were naked bodies—some wrapped and covered; others still exposed. There were not many, minded, though enough to make a potent smell…

  “I count more than twelve…” Red muttered to himself, eyeing about. Indeed, if he recalled right, the Company’s purported reason for waging this campaign against the Fallen was to avenge ‘the Massacre of Twelve’… Yet it was obvious the Company’s losses had already surpassed that. Disease and death by infection did not count, he supposed. Such was hardly insulting to Far Western prestige, and it was the insult that mattered most.

  Venturing through this bodily collection, the adventurer quickly spotted the…allegedly Raven bodies, each of which had been stripped nude. Even in this assortment of death, theirs stood out most. And, to none his surprise, he found seated on a bench close to those specific bodies, an equally specific figure. Shadowy black-cloaked, though her hood was down; maroonish hair allowed to be exposed; her yellowish-amber eyes facing down and low.

  She was alone—besides the staff doing their doings in the background about, though neither their voices nor they themselves counted for the moment.

  Red paused, simply eyeing… Still no Blue; thus, she was obviously somewhere else. Without a second thought, he immediately turned himself around and readied himself to depart this area…

  Only to not do that.

  Instead, he hesitated, a tension within… Before he turned himself right back around and approached.

  “Hey, you.” Such was not to say he was arriving friendly, of course. “Raven!” He stomped with assertive, almost combative, steps.

  However, his sudden loud voice and stomps caused a jolt. “Buh?!” Indeed, she was spooked… “Oh, it’s you.” Yet she bounced back quick—quite literally.

  “Yeah. Me.” Red merely said, halting at her. “Where’s Blue?” he then interrogated; “I mean—my companion. The freelancer…”

  “I know her name,” yet the survivor and alleged Raven so replied, voice low; “she told me, remember?”

  “…right.” Indeed, she had. “Anyway, where is she?”

  The survivor shrugged. “Beat it out of me.” she replied—an idiomatic phrase, not literal. “Why would I know?”

  “Because she’s clearly relating to you too much.” Red was fairly blunt. “I know her. She wasn’t gonna leave you alone.”

  The survivor’s sight withdrew slightly aside… “Yeah… You’d be right.” She sighed. “She was with me for a little, but not for too long. She seemed edgy, though… More than even me.” She was being surprisingly forthright; albeit there really was no point in deception in this moment.

  Red simply nodded… “Yeah. She decided to make herself useful, didn’t she?” He already could predict.

  And, indeed, the alleged Raven nodded. “…Green Frogs don’t have a lot of spellcasters, so she went with the doctors after they finished with me. Don’t know where she could be now.”

  “I’ll find her.” Red thus replied, confident enough. “Thanks.”

  His voice signaled that he was about to turn around and depart… Yet the adventurer was still standing there—a fact the survivor’s blandly staring eyes were obviously aware of, as if anticipating a withdrawal that simply did not happen.

  “…what?” She was confused. “I’m not lying. That’s literally what happened.”

  “Yeah… I know, I know.” Red tacitly shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “It’s just…” His words stammered… Just what? Not even he knew even if he, perhaps, maybe did deep within. “Don’t you Ravens come with, you know, ravens…” in order to salvage, he simply asked; “What happened to yours?” Indeed, usually a Raven would not be found too far from her corvid familiar; yet he did not recall seeing any trailing along during the journey back hither.

  “I am not a Raven.” Yet, of course, the alleged Raven so answered; “Don’t have one.”

  “Yeah, of course you aren’t…” Truly, what had he been expecting from asking that?

  A silence ensued—a weird one. Red just stood there, his yellow-amber eyes gawking at her own back and forth; eyeing the bodies, then eyeing her.

  “Why are you lingering?” he then asked.

  “Why are you lingering?” and she counter asked.

  Neither of them answered.

  The silence returned, and he just kept standing; he just kept eyeing… She was not attending to him, however; her eyes were fixed downwards.

  “So,” he once again opted to open his mouth, “remember anything yet? Did they batter your memories clean?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.” She scratched the bridge of her nose, her legs shaking slightly.

  Red returned his eyes to the bodies, spotting specifically the one that was fresher than the others—not riddled with necrosis and desiccation.

  “That one,” he simply pointed, “partner of yours?”

  “Mhm.” And, to his surprise, she nodded her head. “She was my cosign. Shame she didn’t make it.” Her emotions were obviously being kept reserved—forced affect.

  “You were the lookouts, weren’t you?” Red then decided to say; “They went in, you stayed out. New blood, maybe? After nobody came out after the set hours, you two went in.”

  Her posture tightened. “…we weren’t strategic. Should’ve scouted from that top ridge. Walked in. Got hit. You saw the aftermath… Painful. Don’t know why I’m alive.” Again, she was being rather honest…

  His only question was whether this was deliberate tactical honesty or…something else—genuine, or low willpower, or…

  Hm…

  “Ah. Imma make a guess here,” he relaxed his posture, “you’re convinced you aren’t long for this mortal plane—that it?”

  “…huh?” And she promptly gave him quite the semi-widened eyed stare.

  “Don’t think I don’t know how your web is played, Bureau bug.” Red continued on, voice casual; “Something obviously very stupid is being played in the dark, and you’re the only who survived… And I have the feeling it would’ve been preferable if you hadn’t, let alone to be captured by the Company.”

  Indeed… Red was deducing; such was simply screaming from her mellow tone—that end-of-life honesty or lowly reflection. Of course, he was inferring and inference was, well, inferential. Neither determinative nor factual.

  “I get the feeling you’re certain there won’t be an interrogation—you won’t make it.” he nevertheless continued on; “Poison? A blade? An accident? A dart? Or do you plan on doing it yourself?”

  “…don’t pretend you understand anything—or me.” the survivor firmly replied, not at all amused by his words.

  “I’m not pretending,” Red still kept his voice casual, “I’m just laying it out on the field what I think.”

  “You think too much.” Was that an observation or warning?

  He did not know; he could only smirk. “Honestly, I am just a moron. Fuck if I know what comes out of my mouth sometimes.” he so replied.

  A silence resumed; he eyed the bodies.

  “The officer I spoke with said he’ll see to your friends’ handling. They’ll be given their proper burials.” Ravens had their own funeral rites and customs—to be respected. “Assuming you are Ravens, at least.”

  “Hm.” She merely made a noise and nothing more.

  “I’ve been given a job… We’ll be departing soon.” Red then began to say; “Doomberry, cave clearance… Wanna come with?”

  “…” There was a moment of processing… “Huh?” She looked at him, as confused as she was surprised.

  “I’ve got skills you don’t; you’ve got skills I don’t.” he went on; “We could use you—your stealth.”

  “…uh?” She really…had no idea how to actually process this. “What…? I don’t… That’s… ”

  “Company hasn’t actually detained you; you can still board that wagon.” Red glanced at her, seeing those yellowish-amber eyes… “You won’t be here anymore. You’ll be away, not around to be a potential liability.”

  “You’ll just be the one interrogating me…” she already could guess.

  “Maybe…” Red did not deny. “But we’ve been needing a scout, and you’ve got more clearances than us. You help us; we’ll help you… We help each other.” Indeed, she herself might not even understand it, but he felt compelled to help her… One Graillighter to another.