32nd Autumn’s Feast, ?. 1792

  Eleven men. Carbines drawn, sheathed sabers rattling; eyes sharp; dangling lamps affixed to their belts. They followed the one and only route, one group of nine having been left outside with the horses. Company cartography was rather efficient, especially during active campaigns which marked previously ‘visited’ locations; thus, they were able to successfully relocate this area with minimal molestations.

  Quiet, beyond their own echoing steps and breaths…with the occasional slipping rock.

  There was no conversation; only concentration. Talking was only necessary when there was something to say; otherwise, closed and sealed. An elite unit, their motions were disciplined, though their exact movement tactics were still ultimately…contemporary.

  Not ones to frequently check their corners or move as a methodically automated tactical squadron. Though, their own instincts converged on reminiscent behaviors and, indeed, unit awareness.

  Their boots stepped over the still present rotted corpses of goblins, gnomes, and a few orcs; their noses tuned out the weakened stench.

  Until, finally, befaced they were with that identifying obstacle.

  ?[This must be it, then.]? one so astutely remarked; ?[Where they blew the cave.]?

  ?[Evidently so…]? A certain sergeant-major began to scan around. ?[Find the switch. Left wall. You know the shape.]?

  They searched the cavern walls, quickly locating it.

  ?[Huh. It really does look like a–]?

  ?[Keep it inside.]? Hathway interrupted.

  ?[Sorry.]? This soldier proceeded to handle the shaped handle.

  The hidden passage split, rumbling open; revealed was a darkened way.

  ?[At my lead.]?

  They continued on, the sergeant-major at the lead.

  ?[Adventurer said there was an upper ledge.]? Indeed, the moment Red had finished with Manuel that prior day, Hathway had intercepted him for further elaborations. ?[Once we reach an intersection, there will be an alternative route leading to a higher point.]?

  And, indeed, such words ultimately proved accurate. They reached such an inter-point between two possible ways, one obvious and the other subtle; it was the subtle one which was relevant.

  ?[Lamel, Elkson,]? Hathway pointed to two of his own, ?[reconnoiter.]?

  The two selected scouts acknowledged and traversed up that way, the rest remaining where they were—catching a small break. Though, being in such a cave like here and more especially a cave of the Central Continent, they could only remain on guard and attentive. Indeed, always assume there was something…hiding in the crevices.

  ?[Did, did you hear that?]? And, certainly, one of them thought he had heard… ?[Crawling…]?

  ?[I heard it too.]? Hathway, remaining calmer, noted. His eyes concentrated on the originating direction of that sound; the others did too.

  Such was all they could do. Watch…

  This…crawling sound continued, and it was a strange sound—a strange crawl. Something on the walls; something unnatural with the way its crawls…clanked… Metallic.

  Yet they could not see. They felt watched. Or perhaps it was an illusion of cave.

  Not too long later, however, those two returned—as foreshadowed by steps echoing in advance.

  ?[Nothing.]? Such was immediately reported. ?[That ledge’s suitable vantage point, but chamber’s completely dark. We threw alchemical flares to inspect. Nobody’s home. There is a wagon, though, and logistical objects—crates.]?

  ?Hm. [That’s our chamber, then.]? Hathway so replied.

  ?[Also,]? the other reported, ?[two entrances: one frontal large, one corner small.]?

  ?Ah. [Classic arrangement.]? Hathway merely remarked, turning his eyes. ?[Faron, move up there; you’ll be the upper watch.]? That particular soul was their best shooter and fastest reloader. ?[Lemel, Elkson remain here; you’ll be his rear watch. Make sure nothing sneaks up. The rest of us, we’ll continue on.]?

  -|-

  Wide and almost dome-ish; such was this spacious cavern chamber. Once again, darkened completely. As soon as they had entered, they formed a makeshift line, eyes scanning about…

  ?[All quiet from up here!]? They thus heard their stationed high watcher shout, who proceeded to toss yet another one of those so-called ‘alchemical flares’—being a product of Far Western alchemical science and material sorcery.

  It ignited in a sparkly and pixie-dusty…bluish shine, burning fast and bright; so potent, one or two was enough to reveal plenty. However, it was perhaps too bright at its source and was only temporary. Their eyes encoded what they could of the space before the flare extinguished.

  ?[Alright. Loosen forward. Place luminescent flasks in a perimeter.]? Hathway thus ordered, and his troop acknowledged by moving and acting.

  Flares were only one of such lighting equipment they carried; the other were so-called ‘luminescent flasks’, which were certainly an interesting innovation.

  These flasks were transparent glass tubes filled with a liquid concoction of a proprietary—thus secretive—‘enchanted alchemical formula’ composed of a specially cultivated bioluminescent algae, aquatic microfibers, pixie dust, and other undisclosed ingredients and augmenters. This produced an efficient illumination of violet and blue light—technically brighter than most oil lamps in terms of radiant output, yet perceptually it was a subtle and paradoxically darkened brightness.

  Different wavelengths of light and such.

  Nevertheless, these luminescent flasks were capable of sufficiently revealing a wider area and had greater illumination reach than any lamp—making pitch darkness into a visible twilight.

  Yet they were also fairly delicate and were only effective as long as the so-called ‘enchanted’ algae were alive and well. Although the particular species cultivated had become adapted to mutually…eating each other’s own radiated light, they still required other finite nutrients in their solution.

  Brightness wildered with age, life expectancy being a few weeks—which, granted, far exceeded the some ten hours of their oil lamps. The algae, likewise, would rather go dormant than immediately die, which made the flasks technically reusable. The primary caveat, naturally, was the expensiveness of their production and culture maintenance.

  Thus, such tended to be better suited as fixed positioned lighting sources to illuminate a wider area in conjunction with personal carry-lights—not outright replacements.

  Although, not all of this was immediately relevant…

  At any event, Hathway’s troop had spanned themselves out and had begun to place their allocated luminescent flasks into a distributed perimeter. The luminescence sufficiently revealed most of the chamber, albeit to varying degrees of luminosity—another caveat to these formulaic flasks… Inconsistency.

  Yet, nevertheless, the darkness had abated; they could see the chamber. Hathway and his troop promptly began their task: verification, confirmation, and potentially discovering new information.

  ?[Corporal-major,]? Hathway turned his eye, ?[search around. You two]?—he pointed to two randoms—?[with me.]?

  While the rest searched around, Hathway and his selected two thus went to those ‘logistical objects’ of notice, their oil lamps shining on the wooden crates…

  ?Hm…? The sergeant-major side-paced, eyes focused; he visually scanned each of them, until hitting the largest of all such crates—an awfully cubular cube… He simply stared, musing within. ?[Unmarked. But this one is obviously Dwarven Industrial.]?

  ?[And these are Greenfield manufactured…]? one of his accompanying soldiers, inspecting the lesser crates, so remarked; ?[The purpose is self-obvious from the shape… Individual rifle containers—identical to the ones we handled in Strawberry.]?

  ?[Evidently so…]? Hathway simply acknowledged.

  ?[This whole area seems abandoned, though.]? the other remarked.

  ?[Yet people were still found dead…]? Thus, abandoned yet not forgotten… Hathway shifted his eyes towards that larger tunnelway—a darkened abyss which led who even knew where, but evidently not back up there. ?[You two, change of orders. Watch that tunnel.]?

  The two with him nodded and promptly moved to secure that tunnelway.

  The sergeant-major then left the crates, confirmation having been all but done… For, indeed, Greenfield exotic woods and Dwarven Industries’…dwarfiness; there was no mistaking origin. He proceeded to head for the wagon, cogitating as he halted and stared at it…

  Hm… Its size, he noted. He eyed the crates again, visualizing…proportions. Could this wagon of this particular size have really transported all of those crates? Had it even transported them or was it a correlative association by proximity? Maybe these crates were always there.

  Yet he then shifted his eyes to the black tarp left abandoned on the rocky ground… Why else would such a thing be present if not for concealment?

  Hm… He was thinking.

  ?[Sergeant-major,]? yet the corporal-major of his accompanying group crept up from behind and nearly caused a flinch, ?[we’ve searched around. Haven’t discovered anything notable…]?

  ?[Which only begs further questions, hm.]? Hathway thus replied; ?[This chamber had to have been used for some field purposes… There had to have been more here, but the only things left to be found are those crates and this wagon… Why?]? Indeed, he had to wonder… ?[The adventurers did not find a horse. The Fallen must have stolen it, but not the whole wagon? Why leave this only evidence behind?]?

  ?[Could’ve been a meeting point, maybe? Not a whole base.]? the corporal-major voiced.

  ?[Potentially…]? Either way, this still felt awfully selective to him. Hathway stood there for a moment longer, contemplating… ?[Alright,]? he turned his eyes, ?[Corporal-major, start loading this wagon with the Greenfield crates.]? He stepped back.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The corporal-major did not bother asking ‘why’; he only followed, relaying to his free men. Coordinated, they worked to collect, handle, and carefully load the derelict wagon with the empty Greenfield-affiliated cargo, crate by crate, until there were no more crates left unloaded.

  And, indeed… ?Hm. [Well, it seems they all fit well.]? Hathway remarked, his participating soldiers wiping off their own sweat. ?[Perfectly, in fact; the wagon seems at capacity.]?

  ?[Yeah… Don’t think we can fit that Dwarven crate at all…]? one remarked; ?[Seems too big.]?

  ?[So it does.]? the sergeant-major mumbled… His attention then drifted to the black tarp. ?[Cover it with the tarp.]?

  Their short break over, his men proceeded to lift the black tarp and place it over the wagon’s exposed back… And all of the crates were perfectly covered, with only a subtle upward bump.

  The sergeant-major sighed… ?[Either the mother of all coincidence or this wagon was the transporter, these crates its hidden cargo… Those Ravens were transporting firearms.]?

  ?[Hm… May I remove the tarp?]? a soldier asked.

  Hathway nodded.

  The black tarp was removed, the soldier hopping onto the wagon to inspect… ?[Upon second inspection, I think we could fit a few powder barrels in here…]?

  ?[We didn’t find any barrels, though.]? another remarked.

  ?[No we did not…]? Hathway continued to cogitate…

  ?[And what about that Dwarven crate?]? another soldier mused; ?[Either it was already here or it was transported at another time. It’s a big box too…]? Indeed, dwarfy-big. ?[What could’ve been in it?]?

  ?[Well,]? Hathway thus began to say, ?[we have our observations which we have noted. No need to be hasty; we’ll save conclusion for after we interrogate that Raven…]? He sighed again, as if already anticipating.

  ?Uh…? Abruptly, however, came a tunnel watcher’s shout. ?[I’m hearing a strange sound from this way! Not movement or anything, but…]? Indeed… ?[Crawling—that bizarre crawling again, more this time…]?

  ?[What he said.]? the other tunnel watcher confirmed. ?[…monsters, maybe? We aren’t equipt for that.]?

  ?[Are the crawls becoming closer?]? Hathway shoutingly asked.

  ?[Don’t know, but noticeable—strange… I, I don’t like this.]? It was eerie—these mechanical crawling sounds.

  There were things on the walls, somewhere they could not see.

  Yet they felt seen.

  ?[Alright. That’s our signal, then.]? The sergeant-major so decided. ?[We’re leaving. No reason for staying longer than necessary; we have what we needed.]? Indeed, better to report back with what they had found than perish seeking more. ?[Although, we’ll take one of the crates.]?

  Interim

  A short night’s sleep, traveling since before sunrise… At long last…

  The County of Doomberry. A realm of dark evergreen and pinewood trees, bordering the Southern Mountains which naturally demarked Huckleberry’s southern boundaries.

  A fascinating locale, truly—home to quite the weather anomaly.

  To summarize succinctly, the region which Doomberry County occupied was, with respect to the surrounding locales, a topographical depression in an otherwise higher elevated area—a sort of ‘dent’ or, more accurately… An old, old, old primeval crater long eroded, with no defined ‘craterness’ left beyond the topographical scar. This alongside its proximity to a precipitation sink that was the Southern Mountains—amongst a myriad of many other factors—caused Doomberry to be, essentially, engulfed in near constant fog.

  Indeed, Doomberry County was amongst the foggiest places in the Central Continent. This fog was not perpetual, of course, varying in degree, intensity, and presence through seasons, hours, days, et cetera; it was dependent on meteorological circumstance.

  Even so, this so-called ‘perma-fog’ had earned itself a reputation amongst the locals and especially non-locals… Superstitions of spirits and ghosts haunting the shadows, people disappearing into the fog and never to be found again—eaten by the fog.

  The coniferous forests of Doomberry, despite being a common feature of Southern Mountain-bordering realms, had likewise earned themselves a unique reputation of being particularly gloomy. While most Huckleberrien forests had once been home to the fiendish Tree-People, Doomberrien forests had long been said to be inhabited by wolf-fiends.

  Folklore varied between these creatures being kindred to demi-kind—wolfkins—or, more assumedly, a beyond ordinary phenomena of former mans transforming into wolven abominations.

  Indeed, both the county’s name and that of its two vice counties—Gloomberry and, well, Doomberry (Vice County of)—were not random selections, but a reflection of…long-standing cultural associations. This was a realm of gloom in which doom would befall; everything from its terrain, coniferous flora, foggy weather, and so on fed into this notion.

  Yet Doomberry County was also a primary source of silver in the Huckleberry Dutchy, naturally making it a vital strategic region. Indeed, the moment the Elderberry Alliance had initiated their civil war, they vied to control this gloomy county of doom.

  The county had found itself divided between Alliance-sympathizing…Doomberry (Vice County of) and Loyalist Gloomberry whose vice count was also the titular holder of…Doomberry (County of). Certainly, in yet another example of Centralish feudalism operating as it did, at some irrelevant bygone point the Vice Count of Gloomberry had somehow inherited the county-level title and held it since. The Vice Count of Doomberry wanted his namesake title back, seemingly.

  Suffice it to say, Doomberry County was engulfed in its own civil war within the greater Huckleberrien Civil War, and both the Elderberry Alliance and Grandberry Loyalists supported their respective claimants.

  Much of the fighting in the southern front of the war had befallen here, and it showed.

  As the unicorn—itself no doubt relishing in this gloom of doom—galloped onwards, having been much speedier than its usual…lazy cruising speed, dragging forth the wagon behind to which it was locked, an eerie quiet echoed through the dense foggy air around. Nobody else was on this cobble road.

  Unmarked graves decorated the roadside, and armed patrols were a common sight, though the party themselves were ignored. Having arrived from the landlocked and fishless Fishberry, a Loyalist realm, it was seemingly presupposed that these assumed-to-be adventurers were neutrals or even supporters.

  Beyond the expected eyes gawking at their unicorn, none had actually molested them—to Red’s surprise. Indeed, he had presumed that Doomberry would be a hostile environment… Bandits, mercenaries, paranoid men-at-arms and levies skeptical of outsiders, Alliance raiders frolicking about, and death being a common sight.

  However, all was quiet on this front.

  Perhaps because the perma-fog hindered any activities or perhaps because, and more likely, the war was paused—as was common in these lands during season shifts. Winter was slowly arriving, with mid-to-late Autumn already being unpleasant in this region.

  However, as they continued to venture forth down this roadway, they did eventually encounter remains of a looted carriage band, bodies left to rot.

  They did not seem to be warriors, the victims…

  “Hold…” Red, in fact, flicked the harness, the chimeric equine acknowledging his mandates, actually pausing.

  “Burial?” Blue, observing, immediately guessed.

  “We have the shovels. Might as well.” Indeed, they had so ‘borrowed’ such from the Company’s inventory, in addition to provisions.

  Red hopped off the wagon. Blue did as well, handing him a shovel.

  “Wait, burial?” Maroon meanwhile looked at them strangely… “Why? Wouldn’t it be better not to linger? Who knows what’s hiding in the fog—could be goblins…” She was not used to Doomberry’s gloomy fog, it seemed.

  Neither was Blue, minded, although because Red remained calm, she managed to feign calm. Red, indeed, had been through here many times before.

  “It’s customary, for both travelers and adventurers alike.” he thus replied, his yellow-amber eyes eyeing Maroon’s own; “Bump into roadside bodies, you bury them. Least we can do…” He proceeded to climb the wagon, handing Maroon a shovel. “And you’re helping.”

  The three would spent an hour burying the bodies. By the time they finished, the fog had lessened; the road ahead was clearer.

  -||-

  “It’s cold…” so shivered the ice mage, clenching herself. “And wet… Yet again, we aren’t truly that distant from the rest of the Dutchy, but the climate wholly changes.”

  “Too bad this wetness gets stuck in this sinkhole of a realm.” Red so muttered… “Rest of the Dutchy’s been drier than a Demon’s asshole.”

  His eyes were focused on his Company-provided regional map, destination marked by the field commander. Being a Far Western-made map, it was both stylish and detailed, including county boundaries, wartime areas of control, and marked roads. He could keep track of where he had been traveling.

  The target destination was a cavern, because of course, located in a forest’s center—also because of course… Indeed, always a cave at a woodland’s heart. It was further south, however, closer to the mountains… He would have to change routes.

  They had still yet to encounter any monsters throughout their journey—by now, he was expecting to, yet…

  Truly, how times had changed; even a decade prior, the roads had once been a danger without adventurer protection. Although, technically, these roads were still a danger. Monsters hiding in human skin. That was his concern.

  Nevertheless, Red made note of the marked places on the way to guide his route… The nearest town to their small forest of interest was located east of it, a town called…

  “ ‘Littlest Blueberry’?” Blue’s eyes had been peeking, her head practically beneath his arm. “…seriously?” Indeed, there was already both a Little Blueberry and a Blueberry County. “I suppose there is only so many potentially unique ‘-berry’ suffixed titular names until you run into overlaps.”

  “Yeah…” Red just mumbled, acknowledging less her words and more his thoughts. “That’s where we’re going, then…” Which proceeded to escape his mouth… “Should be there before sundown… Right at border between Gloom and Doom, fantastic…” Their target was uncomfortably close to the front… Who knew how much had changed since this map’s production.

  -||-

  A few many more hours of breakless travel, they had finally arrived.

  The small town of Littlest Blueberry.

  Or, at least, what had…once been a small town.

  Empty, desecrated, quiet beyond the wind. Defensive palisades cracked, wooden gate broken. Carrion birds crowed, still lingering. Even before entering, it was obvious what had happened.

  “…Trinity…” Blue’s eyes fell to gloom as she peeked out from the wagon’s edges, Maroon also staring although remained silent—aloof. “And here I hoped Humbleberry would’ve been the last I would see—how naive…”

  The unicorn continued moving down the central main street… Wooden buildings were long burnt and charred—crispy ashen. Dead were scattered about, neither fresh nor too old… Intermediate. The stench was subtle.

  Whatever happened here was not recent, which was the only reason Red opted to enter.

  “Think we can loot a coat from here?” Maroon, trying to hide her shivers, merely remarked—as if trying to be colder than she already was.

  “There’s nothing here.” Red astutely observed. “Town was too close to the front, I guess… Got caught in the middle.” His plan was to establish himself with the locals prior to heading to their targeted location; to let the nearest community know he was an adventurer, doing a quest, and so on.

  That way, there would be people to notice should his party never return.

  Though, there was nobody here…

  “I’m not seeing any dead children.” Blue, desensitizing, meanwhile was beginning to notice… “Compared to that Humbleberry village, this town seems…larger, if my memory is correct. But the volume of bodies…” Was not comparable.

  So far, it seemed less. For a village town of this size, which was not the largest by any accounts… Nevertheless, one would expect more.

  There were corpses on the open streets and around—weapons near, some armored… Combatants or militia. There were a few unarmed scattered about also. Yet most seemed… “Clustered” Blue continued to note, pointing; “Red, look… So many…are clustered over there.”

  Indeed, clustered.

  This village town was barely dense, thus had pockets of space within, often used for temporary establishments or…gatherings. And the majority of the corpses seemed concentrated in these pockets.

  “I noticed.” Indeed, Red had eyes.

  “So, what?” Maroon meanwhile began to ask; “…the dead are clustered? What does that mean?” She seemed to be…genuinely wondering.

  Blue looked at her… “You don’t know?”

  “…mh.” And Maroon evaded her eyes.

  “Herding.” Red decided to be the one who answered; he glanced her way. “Town was attacked; they lost. Garrison or militia was killed, town was sacked, randoms were murdered, and whoever was left was sorted out, grouped, and slaughtered. Girls and ladies were probably raped along the way—maybe even a few boys and men too… Depends on the mood and ire.”

  He was intimately familiar, it almost seemed.

  “…uhuh.” Maroon…had a different sort of shiver, Red’s glance noting her reaction.

  “Though, again,” Blue then began to say, “I feel as though the…death quantity is lacking, and, again, I have yet to spot any…small ones. Hm…” She withdrew from the wagon’s edges, turning to Red. “Does Huckleberry…enslave…mans?”

  “Not anymore.” Red answered. “Elderberry might, but I’m not sure… Haven’t been there in a while. There aren’t any laws, though—it’s just custom. As you know, enslaving mans isn’t popular anymore.” Indeed, market trends—especially alien—favored other races these days.

  Regardless, this destruction seemed almost too thorough.

  The Alliance was looking to take control over Doomberry, not ransack it. His next assumption would have been Grandberry yet again, however… Blue was right; the visible dead so far seemed too low than this town’s size would suggest. Considering there seemed to have been, at least from their limited observations, some kind of sorting of the population…

  Indeed, slavery would be the next assumption… Yet by whom? Many horrors had happened in this war, yet enslaving each other’s rural populations was surprisingly not one of them—from his awareness, at least.

  There was no point in enslaving land-bounded serfs and tenant peasants, anyway. They were already tied to the fief’s titular ownership.

  “Well, no point in lingering. We’re moving on.” Indeed, the wagon did not stop. Ahead was the second of the two broken gates.

  “We’re not going to–” Blue had already gripped a dirtied shovel.

  “Not this time… It’s getting dark. Maybe when we’re done.”

  The unicorn puffed as it observed the residual carnage, as if disinterested in the leftover sight. It ventured through the gate, dragging the wagon out of that town and once again onto the road beyond…

  However, not even a slim distance away from the town, Red’s ears began to hear… As the unicorn’s own attention abruptly flung leftwards, towards an elevated hill of dark green grass…and that which was on it.

  Click. Snap. Bang.

  And the unicorn neighed an almost freakish bellow, freezing still. A whistling bullet struck the ground, lesser equines neighing, galloping, charging; wheels turning, steel clanking, voices shouting…

  Indeed, a sudden descending battalion.