@hagroden I'm surprised that didn't come up in the year they've known him for. I'll change it.
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Ranch House
Montana lacked perhaps, the inherent rage for this unknown figure that his fellow held, rather, he could comfortably say that his interest had been piqued. The older male knelt, and collected the posters from the ground which they were cast upon. His fingers ran over the paper. New, it lacked the frayed quality of pre war paper, and the ink had yet to be bleached by the ashland sun, or shredded by the biting winds. Ink being the biggest indicator it was new, along with images generated by technology, rather than the skilled hand of an artists rendition.
Simply put, if they had been faked by this merc, it would require access to tech that was hard to come across in this region of the ash.
He drew one of his smaller blades from his shoulder holster, and used it to pin the documents to a nearby tree, so the Wanderers to inspect them at their leisure.
"I will hear him, Eld Fen." Montana strode over to Specter, hands folded behind his back, mirroring the peaceful stance the opposite merc had taken before relaying his warning. "Intelligence is often a commodity to be sold in our line of work. It is given for free with great care, and rarely without intent."
Even given the possibility that this mercenary was simply the softer hand of the slavery group sent to size them up, much could be learned from a conversation.
"We three will hold council here. I will sit with my back to our number, our guest will face them, with his back to the ash."
He motioned to the ground beneath them, and took a seat, his legs folded in front of him. He motioned for Specter to take his place in front of him.
"Nicodemus, if you could alert those available that we have a guest, one who brings information.
-------------
Makorai was not impressed by what he heard come from the Alchemists mouth. Truthfully, POW's being zapped in the head was an uncomfortable back thought that he'd likely try and drown with a nip of liquor, but it wasn't just the POW's, it was people like Caddie who ended up being covered in bandages because an experiment 'went wrong'. That was the kind of thing that sometimes kept him awake at night, trying to reconcile his beliefs with what he was defending. He told himself it was just a paycheck. That was mostly true.
'This took a sobering turn.' he thought, producing a clear plastic bottle, and taking a sizeable gulp. The burn brought with it the first bit of input from Makorai, in the form of a warning in a hushed tone.
"And how about we keep our hands off my favourite serf yeah?" His eyes didn't move from Aran's but he indicated over to Caddie with a brief nod.
He leaned away from the man, and turned himself back to the room. Bless Kora and her mouth.
"Well, the field team welcomes you Maddie, look forward to working with you and all that. Fun times, maybe the field team will go out and burn a village or two hm."
Probably not the most tactful joke to make.
Montana lacked perhaps, the inherent rage for this unknown figure that his fellow held, rather, he could comfortably say that his interest had been piqued. The older male knelt, and collected the posters from the ground which they were cast upon. His fingers ran over the paper. New, it lacked the frayed quality of pre war paper, and the ink had yet to be bleached by the ashland sun, or shredded by the biting winds. Ink being the biggest indicator it was new, along with images generated by technology, rather than the skilled hand of an artists rendition.
Simply put, if they had been faked by this merc, it would require access to tech that was hard to come across in this region of the ash.
He drew one of his smaller blades from his shoulder holster, and used it to pin the documents to a nearby tree, so the Wanderers to inspect them at their leisure.
"I will hear him, Eld Fen." Montana strode over to Specter, hands folded behind his back, mirroring the peaceful stance the opposite merc had taken before relaying his warning. "Intelligence is often a commodity to be sold in our line of work. It is given for free with great care, and rarely without intent."
Even given the possibility that this mercenary was simply the softer hand of the slavery group sent to size them up, much could be learned from a conversation.
"We three will hold council here. I will sit with my back to our number, our guest will face them, with his back to the ash."
He motioned to the ground beneath them, and took a seat, his legs folded in front of him. He motioned for Specter to take his place in front of him.
"Nicodemus, if you could alert those available that we have a guest, one who brings information.
-------------
Makorai was not impressed by what he heard come from the Alchemists mouth. Truthfully, POW's being zapped in the head was an uncomfortable back thought that he'd likely try and drown with a nip of liquor, but it wasn't just the POW's, it was people like Caddie who ended up being covered in bandages because an experiment 'went wrong'. That was the kind of thing that sometimes kept him awake at night, trying to reconcile his beliefs with what he was defending. He told himself it was just a paycheck. That was mostly true.
'This took a sobering turn.' he thought, producing a clear plastic bottle, and taking a sizeable gulp. The burn brought with it the first bit of input from Makorai, in the form of a warning in a hushed tone.
"And how about we keep our hands off my favourite serf yeah?" His eyes didn't move from Aran's but he indicated over to Caddie with a brief nod.
He leaned away from the man, and turned himself back to the room. Bless Kora and her mouth.
"Well, the field team welcomes you Maddie, look forward to working with you and all that. Fun times, maybe the field team will go out and burn a village or two hm."
Probably not the most tactful joke to make.
Montana's ascension of the stairs was not weighted down by what he left behind. Nor did he feel vindicated by Oren ultimately being spared by Dawn. Rather, he had reached a point of understanding questioning her further was useless. In reality, he cared not if she lived or died in that basement, and the burden he felt in regard to her well being was non existent, as was any anger that their position would be relayed back to Erubesco upon the prisoners likely release. Tactical did not always intersect with ethical, and the Wanderers would always relent to a more ethical approach when they could.
Without that small bit of compassion, they wouldn't be who they were, and Montana knew he'd likely have no desire to follow them.
Stepping out into the air, crisp against his ageless skin, he heard the voice of Eld question an arrival. Headhunter, a mercenary. Much like prostitutes, mercenaries maintained a certain neutrality that allowed them to walk in certain circles with he foreknowledge that if resource wasn't involved, there would be no action. The understanding that they could be bought created an air of safety among those who could afford.
However, the Wanderers were a strictly voluntary group. Which left an air of ambiguity to this far from chance meeting.
Montana was interested in his angle, and there was simply no better way to gauge that than letting him talk.
Like the mercs namesake, he appeared beside Eld.
Unlike Eld, he chose to stay silent, offering Specter little more than a nod that said, continue, by all means.
Without that small bit of compassion, they wouldn't be who they were, and Montana knew he'd likely have no desire to follow them.
Stepping out into the air, crisp against his ageless skin, he heard the voice of Eld question an arrival. Headhunter, a mercenary. Much like prostitutes, mercenaries maintained a certain neutrality that allowed them to walk in certain circles with he foreknowledge that if resource wasn't involved, there would be no action. The understanding that they could be bought created an air of safety among those who could afford.
However, the Wanderers were a strictly voluntary group. Which left an air of ambiguity to this far from chance meeting.
Montana was interested in his angle, and there was simply no better way to gauge that than letting him talk.
Like the mercs namesake, he appeared beside Eld.
Unlike Eld, he chose to stay silent, offering Specter little more than a nod that said, continue, by all means.
Just a reminded, no one get put out due to the lack of interaction for characters in the ash, who aren't a part of the Wanderers. I often have Montana wander off and am more than happy to facilitate something.
Ranch, Basement
A few droplets of water had landed on Montana's shoes, dousing their polished sheen with a mixture of water, and spittle. It was all liquid, and the distinction made no difference as he knelt to wipe his shoes. "The water and food will remain with you, should you muster the strength." He bound her hands in front of her, and left the plate, now flanked by the flask, within her reach.
He turned away from Oren, fixing his voids on Dawn. "In a time long passed, I'd have considered a variable like this unacceptable." He walked toward the door, and the stairway above. He paused when he was beside her. "One could suppose that altruism is still alive in the ash." He patted Dawn's shoulder, allowing his murderous intent to dissipate into the deep pool of his conscious mind.
Dawn's interference marked an end to Montana's torture regimen, because she had ascribed Oren importance beyond her usefulness for intelligence, and beyond her life being ended to avoid their location being returned to the Erubescian military. Thus, in Montana's mind, further torture would be fruitless.
A few droplets of water had landed on Montana's shoes, dousing their polished sheen with a mixture of water, and spittle. It was all liquid, and the distinction made no difference as he knelt to wipe his shoes. "The water and food will remain with you, should you muster the strength." He bound her hands in front of her, and left the plate, now flanked by the flask, within her reach.
He turned away from Oren, fixing his voids on Dawn. "In a time long passed, I'd have considered a variable like this unacceptable." He walked toward the door, and the stairway above. He paused when he was beside her. "One could suppose that altruism is still alive in the ash." He patted Dawn's shoulder, allowing his murderous intent to dissipate into the deep pool of his conscious mind.
Dawn's interference marked an end to Montana's torture regimen, because she had ascribed Oren importance beyond her usefulness for intelligence, and beyond her life being ended to avoid their location being returned to the Erubescian military. Thus, in Montana's mind, further torture would be fruitless.
Capital Base, Liberty
His outfit exemplified ridiculousness on such a grand scale that Mayday had nearly lost his composure to a wave of resignation that threatened to wash his eyes into the back of his skull. The mission, and its importance, were what kept him from expressing his frustration with his clothes, and by extension Erubescian culture. To express dissatisfaction would be an insult to the time and effort Liberty had taken to set up this undertaking. Something Mayday did and would not take for granted.
Ultimately, it had been the mirror that nearly did him in; when he saw the man reflected outward.
Pants, two toned, one side of lavender strippers, the other, a crimson red whose design was heavy, haphazard strokes.
The fabric clung to his legs, floating up slightly right before his ankles, exposing the skin from there down. His shirt was untucked, but designed to be so. His buttons lay open to the stomach, where a lavender waistcoat held its place. Over it all was a sleeveless coat, reaching down to his thighs.
"Look at me." Mayday's voice was filled with disgust.
"Look at me." The second voice, foreign to the first was a sultry tone, brimming with the self satisfied confidence he imagined Erubescians to have. Lastly, he placed a rather obnoxious hat on his head, complete with large rainbow feather. One side of the hat was tacked up, no doubt to add an element of roguishness to the piece.
Mayday, through training, had learned to be outwardly comfortable in such clothing; to swing his hips and blend in with the bloated upper class of the Kings men.
Inwardly?
Nothing could stop the hatred.
Tight lipped, with his nose pointed skyward, Mayday left his room, locking his cold eyes onto each and every person who crossed his path. Even the slightest smile would be subject to strict retribution, brought to you by his icy disgust. Beretta had no doubt gotten dressed in her disguise before him. He had gotten dressed in the training room rather than their shared space, due to the meeting coinciding with the end of his daily regimen.
He crossed the hallways without snicker or incident. Which left him relatively clear minded for the task ahead.
An unexpected name called by one Agent Beretta left his eyes wide with shock. The sultry snapped out of his swinging hips instantly.
Sitting, in front of him, was a Councilor, specifically his councilor, the head of Liberty Espionage.
Mayday's face flushed immediately, his healthy skin turning a light pink ahead of a very hasty salute. His back was ruler straight, eyes set with purpose. All in all, he looked fairly ridiculous being so rigid in such an elaborate suit. "Councilor Laxton." he sounded breathless, just managing to get the words out. "Agent Mayday, reporting for duty."
He stood beside Beretta, failing to acknowledge her, and Kahn immediately.
As an afterthought.
"Agent Beretta, Agent Kahn." Perhaps if the Counselor wasn't sitting there, he would have offered Beretta something a few degrees warmer than his cold professionalism. Either way, he had little doubts that their progress today was going to be sharply scrutinized.
His outfit exemplified ridiculousness on such a grand scale that Mayday had nearly lost his composure to a wave of resignation that threatened to wash his eyes into the back of his skull. The mission, and its importance, were what kept him from expressing his frustration with his clothes, and by extension Erubescian culture. To express dissatisfaction would be an insult to the time and effort Liberty had taken to set up this undertaking. Something Mayday did and would not take for granted.
Ultimately, it had been the mirror that nearly did him in; when he saw the man reflected outward.
Pants, two toned, one side of lavender strippers, the other, a crimson red whose design was heavy, haphazard strokes.
The fabric clung to his legs, floating up slightly right before his ankles, exposing the skin from there down. His shirt was untucked, but designed to be so. His buttons lay open to the stomach, where a lavender waistcoat held its place. Over it all was a sleeveless coat, reaching down to his thighs.
"Look at me." Mayday's voice was filled with disgust.
"Look at me." The second voice, foreign to the first was a sultry tone, brimming with the self satisfied confidence he imagined Erubescians to have. Lastly, he placed a rather obnoxious hat on his head, complete with large rainbow feather. One side of the hat was tacked up, no doubt to add an element of roguishness to the piece.
Mayday, through training, had learned to be outwardly comfortable in such clothing; to swing his hips and blend in with the bloated upper class of the Kings men.
Inwardly?
Nothing could stop the hatred.
Tight lipped, with his nose pointed skyward, Mayday left his room, locking his cold eyes onto each and every person who crossed his path. Even the slightest smile would be subject to strict retribution, brought to you by his icy disgust. Beretta had no doubt gotten dressed in her disguise before him. He had gotten dressed in the training room rather than their shared space, due to the meeting coinciding with the end of his daily regimen.
He crossed the hallways without snicker or incident. Which left him relatively clear minded for the task ahead.
An unexpected name called by one Agent Beretta left his eyes wide with shock. The sultry snapped out of his swinging hips instantly.
Sitting, in front of him, was a Councilor, specifically his councilor, the head of Liberty Espionage.
Mayday's face flushed immediately, his healthy skin turning a light pink ahead of a very hasty salute. His back was ruler straight, eyes set with purpose. All in all, he looked fairly ridiculous being so rigid in such an elaborate suit. "Councilor Laxton." he sounded breathless, just managing to get the words out. "Agent Mayday, reporting for duty."
He stood beside Beretta, failing to acknowledge her, and Kahn immediately.
As an afterthought.
"Agent Beretta, Agent Kahn." Perhaps if the Counselor wasn't sitting there, he would have offered Beretta something a few degrees warmer than his cold professionalism. Either way, he had little doubts that their progress today was going to be sharply scrutinized.
The older male was wordless in his response. Like Oren, he understood that words weren't needed when a moment like this arose. They existed to comfort the captive, and, comfort the captor. A ritual to absolve the former of fear, and the latter of guilt. Which was redundant as far as they were concerned. Oren, who had steadily earned Montana's respect, had no fear, and the regenerator who expressed this respect with a single nod, felt no shred of guild. No pang of conscious.
From within, he withdrew a blade. It was long, slightly curved toward the middle, and ending in a straight point. Wrought of modern steel, and buffed by the bodies it had been plunged into during its career. It held a strange sheen in the low light. It had been dipped in poison, none save an experienced, or extremely astute observer would notice this small fact.
Before he could act, he heard a pair of feet descending the stairs. He could distinguish each wanderer by the sound and style of their gait. At times, even their moods, by the hasty or lackluster sound of their movements. If he was correct, this was Dawn descending the stairs.
"Montana."
The blade returned to its sheath, tucked neatly by his ribcage.
Montana was well aware his body could, at times, move quicker than thought, and that a contest between his body and her mind wouldn't be unlike two gunslingers with their hands poised above their revolvers, twenty paces at high noon.
He had sheathed it because he respected her wishes.
Instead, Montana knelt beside the woman, and produced a small canteen of water. He angled her face upward with a finger beneath her chin, and slowly tipped the contents toward her mouth. Water of life.
From within, he withdrew a blade. It was long, slightly curved toward the middle, and ending in a straight point. Wrought of modern steel, and buffed by the bodies it had been plunged into during its career. It held a strange sheen in the low light. It had been dipped in poison, none save an experienced, or extremely astute observer would notice this small fact.
Before he could act, he heard a pair of feet descending the stairs. He could distinguish each wanderer by the sound and style of their gait. At times, even their moods, by the hasty or lackluster sound of their movements. If he was correct, this was Dawn descending the stairs.
"Montana."
The blade returned to its sheath, tucked neatly by his ribcage.
Montana was well aware his body could, at times, move quicker than thought, and that a contest between his body and her mind wouldn't be unlike two gunslingers with their hands poised above their revolvers, twenty paces at high noon.
He had sheathed it because he respected her wishes.
Instead, Montana knelt beside the woman, and produced a small canteen of water. He angled her face upward with a finger beneath her chin, and slowly tipped the contents toward her mouth. Water of life.
Dutch might have found the problem. One would expect a smile, or perhaps a look of satisfaction from the male. His face reflected neither. There was a problem to be solved, and until it was sorted, he'd only give a, "There ya go." to acknowledge his discovery.
He had thought it was the belt, the aged thing looked like it could hardly turn the motor, on account of its cracks and stiff nature, but deeper he dug, he found one of the electric boards had been burned out, likely by the last owner. Fella probably figured there was little point in fixing it. Dutch figured he had been right.
Scavvers hadn't come around here thankfully, and he had enough spare metal to make a work around.
Few minutes later, plus more than a few beads of sweat, and the generator spluttered to life, replacing the smell of oil in the air with smoke.
The second generator had been far more simple. Just some debris in the fuel tank, it roared to life along with the first. Like two great beasts who were shaking off a few decades of sleep.
Course, that didn't mean they'd have electricity just like that. The breakers were off. He'd flick the circuits on that he'd checked, and leave the ones off that were broken. Didn't want anyone getting shocked from a rogue wire touching a ceiling like. House was sturdy though, Dutch had been impressed. Whoever lived here put a lot of time and energy into it.
"Mina and them'l be able to have a hot shower tonight.
Now he smiled, a big old smile as he flicked the switch on the water pump, and those PVC pipes began to build up water pressure.
He had already checked the heaters. One still worked, a big one, but not enough for the Wanderers to all shower at once. They'd need to take turns and sort all that out.
Still. He felt well greased and accomplished.
"Well, alright." Took a few minutes, but he watched the needle on the water pump begin to build up PSI all on it's own.
Dutch smiled. Time for breakfast.
He had thought it was the belt, the aged thing looked like it could hardly turn the motor, on account of its cracks and stiff nature, but deeper he dug, he found one of the electric boards had been burned out, likely by the last owner. Fella probably figured there was little point in fixing it. Dutch figured he had been right.
Scavvers hadn't come around here thankfully, and he had enough spare metal to make a work around.
Few minutes later, plus more than a few beads of sweat, and the generator spluttered to life, replacing the smell of oil in the air with smoke.
The second generator had been far more simple. Just some debris in the fuel tank, it roared to life along with the first. Like two great beasts who were shaking off a few decades of sleep.
Course, that didn't mean they'd have electricity just like that. The breakers were off. He'd flick the circuits on that he'd checked, and leave the ones off that were broken. Didn't want anyone getting shocked from a rogue wire touching a ceiling like. House was sturdy though, Dutch had been impressed. Whoever lived here put a lot of time and energy into it.
"Mina and them'l be able to have a hot shower tonight.
Now he smiled, a big old smile as he flicked the switch on the water pump, and those PVC pipes began to build up water pressure.
He had already checked the heaters. One still worked, a big one, but not enough for the Wanderers to all shower at once. They'd need to take turns and sort all that out.
Still. He felt well greased and accomplished.
"Well, alright." Took a few minutes, but he watched the needle on the water pump begin to build up PSI all on it's own.
Dutch smiled. Time for breakfast.
Erubescian Citadel
"Good Morning"
The voice said, like was rubbing in how sub-par his morning was going to be. He was rubbing his head while the first set of rubbing was going on. "Where the hell am I..." Makorai's face was a mask of genuine confusion. Behind the bucket that had somehow found itself covering his face space. He sniffed, pressing his nose against its cool surface. Smelled like sterility to him. Cleaning products too. He knew where he was.
Maintenance 21 B. The one with the sub-par filtering that allowed all of that horrible hallway light to flood in uninvited like it was crashing on Mel's couch. It explained why the bucket was on his head. Taking the bucket off would just add a new kind of thumping to the steady baseline that was already happening. He didn't want that, he had some meeting to get to, much to his displeasure. Something about...something? He couldn't remember. The big whig who promoted him to whatever it was he is, a field ops representative or something, had insisted on it. Said something about a good track record. Makorai had nearly burst out laughing, well, he sort of did. Had to mask it as a cough. Good track record his ass. All he did was shoot a Wanderer, shot a few times at Kora's nemesis and didn't manage to die either time. Woo.
Well. The first shot was half a mile out. So, pretty good.
"This is why I'm not ever productive." he mumbled, using the shelf to steady his rising body. "No good deed goes unpunished forreal."
He didn't take the bucket off when he opened the door, opting to reach into his coat instead, and pull out a small flask, which he quickly brought to his lips. What he really needed was a Bloody Dutchess. White liquor and totmatoe juice. Something healthy for breakfast.
Did he keep drink supplies in here? Makorai took the bucket off of his head finally, and rummaged through his makeshift bed.
No, that was 21 A. Fuck.
Well. Makorai would do that after this meeting. Not go to 21 A, he'd go to his lodgings. 21 A was for emergencies, and like any good Knight, he knew to save his emergency rations.
He stepped out into the world, blinking away the bright lights, spraying his mouth with that two minute fresh breath disinfectant Mel had insisted was integral to masking his day drinking. Good kid.
Elevators, corridors, and eventually he was at the Oak room. Some Knight Commander had made him stand to attention in the last one. Makorai has responded by flicking a bit of nose debris onto the tip of his superiors lip when he wasn't paying attention. 'Cuz I has aim like that. He thought to himself.
Mako made his way into the room, and saw a name plate. His name plate. 'Makorai Saika'. Maybe he wouldn't put his feet up on the desk for this one. Maybe he'd just sit like a regular human being.
"Caddie!" Makorai flashed her a winning smile, turning his glamour on briefly to add a faint glow and greater impact to his wink right after. "You're looking chipper today." He leaned over and gave her a brotherly peck on the top of her head. He liked Caddie. She let him pass out in her closets and listened when he talked. He did some listening too.
"Good Morning"
The voice said, like was rubbing in how sub-par his morning was going to be. He was rubbing his head while the first set of rubbing was going on. "Where the hell am I..." Makorai's face was a mask of genuine confusion. Behind the bucket that had somehow found itself covering his face space. He sniffed, pressing his nose against its cool surface. Smelled like sterility to him. Cleaning products too. He knew where he was.
Maintenance 21 B. The one with the sub-par filtering that allowed all of that horrible hallway light to flood in uninvited like it was crashing on Mel's couch. It explained why the bucket was on his head. Taking the bucket off would just add a new kind of thumping to the steady baseline that was already happening. He didn't want that, he had some meeting to get to, much to his displeasure. Something about...something? He couldn't remember. The big whig who promoted him to whatever it was he is, a field ops representative or something, had insisted on it. Said something about a good track record. Makorai had nearly burst out laughing, well, he sort of did. Had to mask it as a cough. Good track record his ass. All he did was shoot a Wanderer, shot a few times at Kora's nemesis and didn't manage to die either time. Woo.
Well. The first shot was half a mile out. So, pretty good.
"This is why I'm not ever productive." he mumbled, using the shelf to steady his rising body. "No good deed goes unpunished forreal."
He didn't take the bucket off when he opened the door, opting to reach into his coat instead, and pull out a small flask, which he quickly brought to his lips. What he really needed was a Bloody Dutchess. White liquor and totmatoe juice. Something healthy for breakfast.
Did he keep drink supplies in here? Makorai took the bucket off of his head finally, and rummaged through his makeshift bed.
No, that was 21 A. Fuck.
Well. Makorai would do that after this meeting. Not go to 21 A, he'd go to his lodgings. 21 A was for emergencies, and like any good Knight, he knew to save his emergency rations.
He stepped out into the world, blinking away the bright lights, spraying his mouth with that two minute fresh breath disinfectant Mel had insisted was integral to masking his day drinking. Good kid.
Elevators, corridors, and eventually he was at the Oak room. Some Knight Commander had made him stand to attention in the last one. Makorai has responded by flicking a bit of nose debris onto the tip of his superiors lip when he wasn't paying attention. 'Cuz I has aim like that. He thought to himself.
Mako made his way into the room, and saw a name plate. His name plate. 'Makorai Saika'. Maybe he wouldn't put his feet up on the desk for this one. Maybe he'd just sit like a regular human being.
"Caddie!" Makorai flashed her a winning smile, turning his glamour on briefly to add a faint glow and greater impact to his wink right after. "You're looking chipper today." He leaned over and gave her a brotherly peck on the top of her head. He liked Caddie. She let him pass out in her closets and listened when he talked. He did some listening too.
Ranch House
The Night shift had always been a traditionally Montana vocation. While his twilight vigil was often shared by another Wanderer, if one did happen to fall asleep on their watch, they could rest easy knowing there was a sleepless pair of eyes endlessly staring into the rolling plains of the ash. Experienced eyes, that noticed the shift in shadows as clearly as one noticed the sun dancing off of a measure of glass. Lately however, his time had been occupied, his attention, had been redirected to suit his latest purpose. He had left the midnight hours to the Wanderers alone, to tend to one Oren Kovalenko, The Erubescian Alchemist. His endless stare had now settled on her, intent on extracting whatever information she had on Helena, and the curious intent of her requisition by the military power.
The failed attack, would not have been too suspicious, if not paired with yet another attempt after the mother had relinquished her care into the hands of some of the Kingdoms most wanted. The Ash was not ideal for most, Montana knew that well enough. He understood that Helena's mother knew that well, yet despite this, he preferred her daughter in their care.
Kora's simple action spoke volumes to the regenrator.
Oren's refusal to fill in the redacted, black barred sections of these volumes lent an interesting subtext, but did not give the clarification he needed.
Through sheer force of will, a gift influenced failsafe or both she had revealed nothing to him. Their time together showed him that she would simply never break, and more vicious torture would just serve as a release of frustration. Something he did not need.
The other, Larke, had been akin to Mina's pet-name once the right buttons pushed, the right threats made once Oren's lack of communication had been made known, along with sending Spire in to interrogate her if he didn't cooperate. A proper songbird.
People like that would often mix in what the interrogator wanted to hear, to appease them. He was wary of this too.
One had helped, one had not, and instead offered him something different from her lips. Obscenities and spit.
Which is why he had decided that on this day, he'd kill her. Not out of anger, but because she represented a danger that should perish. Perhaps he'd take her to a hill to watch the sunrise if he was feeling uncharacteristically altruistic.
Montana descended the stairs, but made little to no sound. He moved silently out of habit, since survival was rarely a motivator for him. In his right hand, an offering. A full plate of food, hot from the gas stove. A variety of canned meats and vegetables, with a side of some signature Soren baked goods.
His left was empty, for it offered nothing save her death.
The older male knelt beside her, and undid one of her hands, so she could eat. A utensil was left by the the plate.
He stood, and said nothing. Watching her with those unblinking coal black eyes.
The Night shift had always been a traditionally Montana vocation. While his twilight vigil was often shared by another Wanderer, if one did happen to fall asleep on their watch, they could rest easy knowing there was a sleepless pair of eyes endlessly staring into the rolling plains of the ash. Experienced eyes, that noticed the shift in shadows as clearly as one noticed the sun dancing off of a measure of glass. Lately however, his time had been occupied, his attention, had been redirected to suit his latest purpose. He had left the midnight hours to the Wanderers alone, to tend to one Oren Kovalenko, The Erubescian Alchemist. His endless stare had now settled on her, intent on extracting whatever information she had on Helena, and the curious intent of her requisition by the military power.
The failed attack, would not have been too suspicious, if not paired with yet another attempt after the mother had relinquished her care into the hands of some of the Kingdoms most wanted. The Ash was not ideal for most, Montana knew that well enough. He understood that Helena's mother knew that well, yet despite this, he preferred her daughter in their care.
Kora's simple action spoke volumes to the regenrator.
Oren's refusal to fill in the redacted, black barred sections of these volumes lent an interesting subtext, but did not give the clarification he needed.
Through sheer force of will, a gift influenced failsafe or both she had revealed nothing to him. Their time together showed him that she would simply never break, and more vicious torture would just serve as a release of frustration. Something he did not need.
The other, Larke, had been akin to Mina's pet-name once the right buttons pushed, the right threats made once Oren's lack of communication had been made known, along with sending Spire in to interrogate her if he didn't cooperate. A proper songbird.
People like that would often mix in what the interrogator wanted to hear, to appease them. He was wary of this too.
One had helped, one had not, and instead offered him something different from her lips. Obscenities and spit.
Which is why he had decided that on this day, he'd kill her. Not out of anger, but because she represented a danger that should perish. Perhaps he'd take her to a hill to watch the sunrise if he was feeling uncharacteristically altruistic.
Montana descended the stairs, but made little to no sound. He moved silently out of habit, since survival was rarely a motivator for him. In his right hand, an offering. A full plate of food, hot from the gas stove. A variety of canned meats and vegetables, with a side of some signature Soren baked goods.
His left was empty, for it offered nothing save her death.
The older male knelt beside her, and undid one of her hands, so she could eat. A utensil was left by the the plate.
He stood, and said nothing. Watching her with those unblinking coal black eyes.
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