walk to the east

Wit Danales knows better than most what a world without the Score might look like.

Lorelei watches the end of the world unfold in a thousand different ways, every little difference branching out from the Score and its generalities, every path thrumming with a discordant note in the fabric of reality. No solution, no outcome that comes about as dictated by the Score, is a good one.

It will not do. For himself, for his scion, for the world; Lorelei hovers in the stillness and tries to fill the gap, but every time he reaches for light he is burnt by the walls of Yulia Jue's pact. Constrained, he has no recourse but to reset—again and again—and hope that the ones the Score has forgotten about, the simplest things they do, will slip through the cracks and revolutionize his Auldrant.

At times, they succeed. Humans are such brilliant, ingenious creatures, after all. Some of the things his scion does surprises even Lorelei, and he has been Lorelei for longer than any of the other spirits, since before there was time and space. Once his scion even managed to divert He Who Would Seize Glory from his chosen path, though despite that, the flames of war had consumed the world. It was the closest the world got to a healthy survival.

So Lorelei comes to a conclusion: To save Auldrant, the Score must be destroyed… and only one who exists outside of the Score may bring destruction down upon it.

He sees. He watches. He waits.

Something approaches on the stream of time that winds about him like a chain—a ship, caught in a hurricane. This ship has been caught in this hurricane many times before. As always, Lorelei feels lives slipping away rapidly… but this time, something has commanded his attention beyond their cries. A moment in time ahead of them, there is something insignificant. Suspiciously so.

A young girl, clinging to a broken piece of wood that barely keeps her afloat. Her head is down; her eyes are closed. And Lorelei can feel nothing from her. None of his warmth resides within her, but then, neither does the raging heat of Ifrit, the ferocious tenacity of Sylph, or the cool, slow steadiness of Undine. Not even Gnome or Rem's presences make their home in her.

She lifts her head and stares at the moonlit waves about her with half-lidded eyes, and Lorelei realizes that she, too, is near death—but she responds to his presence.

N.D. 1995: In the month of the sun, a storm shall rage off the coast of the frozen lands, comes the echo of Yulia. It will ruin much, and nothing shall survive that is in its path.

"What… are you?" asks the girl, hazily, squinting at the dimly-lit sea. Her voice is young. Younger than Lorelei had thought, though when he looks at her he can see the record of her short life unfold before him.

She is an entirely normal little girl. Before this, she had been happy. Perfectly unremarkable, but utterly, blissfully happy.

In that moment, Lorelei makes a decision.

I am life, he tells her. You shall live.

It's a small, insignificant action. Unimportant. And for that very reason, the Score does not see one little girl wash up on the shore of a snowy island. She is unconscious, but there is a new warmth in her as she breathes in. A man with strong hands and an honest face happens upon her a few hours later, and rushes her into the local village to be examined by a doctor.

In the distance, far beyond Lorelei's reach, Shadow's interest stirs.

Lorelei recedes, lets the bonds of the pact push him back, and settles in to watch once more as he hopes against hope that this time, things will change.

"Hello, there. How are you feeling?"

A woman with closely-cropped brown hair raises her head and peers into the light of the dawn, searching for the source of the voice. There's a chuckle. A moment later, a hot drink is being pressed into her hands.

"Right here," says a man built like a bear to her left. He smiles at her as he secures his long hair in a ponytail. "You've worked hard, Wit. I am very thankful for your timely intervention."

She looks around the room curiously. It's nothing like the place she remembers passing out in. For one thing, there's no snarling monster trying to rip one of her limbs off as it dies.

The room is very clean and crisp—almost sterile—and the walls are a calm shade of yellow, nicely complementing the dark floorboards and the off-white bed sheets. There are two windows, each on a different wall, and through them she can see that the balmy weather of Port Tatarise hasn't changed one bit, despite her near-death experience.

Admittedly, a room this clean is a nice change. But still. Not what she remembers. The bandages on her arm and her torso weren't there either, last she checked. She shifts uncomfortably, resisting the urge to unwrap them and check the damages.

"We're in my home," says the man, drawing her attention. "My wife has been tending to you. I'm afraid that it's been a few days, but your body needed the time to recover."

"Well, I'm not dead," Wit notes optimistically. When she raises the cup to her mouth, she finds herbal tea. It makes her nose wrinkle.

He smiles again, a crooked curve of the lips that makes the scar across his cheek distend strangely. "If that's your brand of hope, I'd hate to see what despair looks like."

"Can't get much worse than a living hell," she tells him, setting the drink aside and trying to sit up. To her surprise, there's no pain involved in the motion. "Hmm."

"Adelaide's the best healer in this town. You're good to go," he tells her.

Wit nods. As she stands and slowly gathers her things, being gentle with her wounded arm just in case, she speaks. "I thought I recognized her. Adelaide Tatarise, the Scorer's girl?"

"She's Adelaide Clemence now," comes another woman's voice, and in through the door Adelaide strides, a wide smile on her full face. Observant eyes scan Wit's figure, and Adelaide begins scribbling something on an official-looking sheet. With one hand, she gestures vaguely in the man's direction. "The Score is fortuitous indeed, bringing this bear and I together."

"Must be. He's got one hell of a right hook," is Wit's dry contribution. "Just as likely to kill the ladies as it is to captivate them."

"Ah, but that right hook saved your life," he counters, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied smirk.

"Sure did. Thanks for that, by the way."

"You saved our daughter," Adelaide says warmly. "Medical care was the least we could do."

Wit shrugs. "I was around. I probably need to get going, too—you never know where other little girls are being threatened by monsters."

"Lusa?" Adelaide raises an eyebrow at her husband.

He nods and holds up what looks like a medical chart. A cold chill goes down Wit's spine. "I finished checking the basics about twenty minutes before she woke up."

"Then let's give her an overall assessment and get that paperwork in order."

The whole process takes somewhere around fifty minutes. In that time, Wit figures out that her shoulder is stiff enough to need warming up despite the lack of pain in her forearm, Adelaide informs her that she should avoid critical battles for a few more days, at least—she didn't spend all that time closing that nasty slash in her side up for nothing—and the doctor-patient confidentiality clause that Wit spots among the piles of forms forces an audible sigh of relief out of her.

"Scorers aren't allowed access, either," Adelaide adds when she spots the paragraph that Wit's lingering on. They look at each other for a moment, silent, then away by mutual assent. Adelaide smiles, a smaller thing than before. "…Not that many come by this port since Father passed. Nothing much happens, here."

"Tatarise isn't terribly important," Lusa agrees.

Adelaide nods. "But it's nice."

"Very nice," Wit murmurs.

Another moment of silence passes.

"The Order will probably send more Knights," Wit says eventually. "I've heard that they're moving around the world. This isn't the only port they've barged into under the banner of Score-related research."

"That's good to know. We'll have to teach Ariel how to interact with them," Lusa says. His jaw tightens. "Hopefully, other Knights won't be so careless as to let children follow them to work."

"There's always hope." Adelaide's raised brow lends a sarcastic slant to her words, and with that, Wit returns to her paperwork.

It's only when they take her out for brunch at a dusty, well-worn cafe that she starts to realize just how comfortable a life Adelaide has made for herself: the moment they sit down, a waiter is serving them with a smile. He fills their cups with coffee, exchanges some friendly jabs with Lusa, and takes their order after setting up a playdate between Ariel and his own young son.

What sort of life is it, Wit wonders as they talk, when you have the opportunity to stay in one place?

"So, you'll be heading back to Baticul soon?" Lusa asks, setting his cup down on the table. It makes a loud crack. Lusa smiles sheepishly. A server glances over at the loud noise, but rolls her eyes when she sees Lusa and turns back to her own business.

Wit shrugs. "I'll be stretching my muscles a bit in Tataroo Valley first, but… yes. I will, I suppose. I must."

Adelaide tilts her head. Her golden eyes hold Wit's gaze, and she raises one impeccable white eyebrow. "Well, you're welcome to stop by any time you're in the area. Even if that whole mess hadn't happened… I'm glad to know that you're alive. Let me know a little more often, eh? I think our girl will be clamoring to at least hear you if she can't see you."

Wit nods and tries not to think about how being traced to somewhere, anywhere, will be bad—for her and for them. "I'll send you a letter as soon as I return," she promises. "Should be soon—a week or two. Baticul's far, but it isn't Sheridan."

The first rule of travel is that nothing ever goes according to schedule.

Apparently, she's interrupted boar mating season.

Wit groans to herself as yet another boar charges her. She dives to the side, rolls in the tall grass, and crouches in it as the boar turns in confusion. Its hide glints against the shadows of the trees and the grey faces of the rocky walls, the dim visibility rendering its edges blurry, but its proximity is hard to miss.

What the hell did it roll in before attacking?

She sighs and starts chanting as quickly as she reasonably can. "Great shadows of the night, take my enemies in your grasp and smother them in everlasting silence. May their light be subsumed by the darkness—Torpor!"

The shadows of the trees, slight as they are in the brightness of the moonlight, stretch out with long fingers and twist themselves around the boar. When the boar attempts to move and finds its legs stuck, it snorts. As the shadows travel up its body it shudders once, twice, then it gives a frightened squeal, struggling as all the other boars she killed earlier did.

Alas for this one, she thinks, shaking her head when the squeals abruptly cut off and the first fonons saturate its body totally. Its death was fated—

"Yeah, no," she says to the clearing. She laughs, brief and mirthless, as she stands and makes her way to the boar. It shudders again, muscles straining. "Not about that."

It takes a few moments, but soon enough the boar is dead. Wit regards it with some sympathy. Your brothers served as a good test of my arm. You? You just chose the wrong person at the wrong time. Sorry, buddy.

But nothing in the wild is without a use, at least in her experience. Wrinkling her nose, Wit gets to work. It's a gruesome job, really, and the bigger the game is the worse the job gets (more material to work with, after all), but even with the gag-inducing stench she finds a decent amount of gald in its stomach and a small, dark jewel.

She makes a displeased noise when she pulls the jewel out and glares at it for a moment. After a long sigh, she puts it away and goes back to her task.

The night marches onward. Soon enough she is done, with the monster's carcass safely moved to the side to await fonic decay; a fire crackles cheerfully, she has herself a nice bowl of stew, and she sits with her back against a tree and her eyes on the entrance to the valley just a few feet away.

Her arm twinges when she moves to lift the bowl to her lips. With a grimace, she puts the bowl back down. "I already stretched you out. Stop complaining," she mutters, poking at it. She stops when the breeze changes, carrying an unusual sound with it.

"…any idea… are? You…"

A voice, she decides, figuring that it's probably not echoes from the mountains above. Wonder how people got here without me seeing them? I've been here for three days…

Whoever the owner of the voice is, they're still a fair ways off. Wit hums to herself and finishes the bowl off, setting it aside for the moment. She hadn't been planning on lingering. This, though? This might prove interesting.

Much closer by, and in the opposite direction, an awful-sounding screech heralds a dull thunk and the slamming of a carriage door. Harried footsteps follow a man's frantic curses.

Wit raises an eyebrow. All sorts of interesting things are happening tonight, it seems.

"Damn it all," comes the man's voice, and he shuffles through the mouth of the valley with his head hung low and his fists clenched. In the firelight, it's easy to see that he's a beefy sort. His clothing is loose and looks terribly comfortable—the sort that's suited for long rides. It clashes with the way his hair is carefully combed back, and she wonders if the accident (whatever it was) had woken him from his sleep.

"Hello there, stranger," Wit says to the man. He jumps and looks about until his eyes find hers, at which point he relaxes, if only slightly. Wit gestures to the pot by the fire. "If you've a bowl, you're welcome to share. Sounds like you're having a rough time of it."

He heaves a heavy sigh, though he makes no move toward the fire. "Yes, I am. To think that my birthday Score didn't foretell this trouble… What a day. I was counting on getting to Grand Chokmah by morning…"

"Definitely rough. I heard in the port to the west that a storm's forecast to hit the capital tonight. There's been all sorts of weather this year. Strange, hm?"

The art of conversation is a subtle thing, and information offered is a small measure of trust gained. He sits near the fire and sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bad news on a bad evening; Wit wonders if he would be unhappy to hear that the shadows have been longer, as of late, or that the days are short even on this sunny land-bridge awash in an eternal spring. Perhaps he will be pleased to know that the Oracle Knights are on the move, researching the matter in accordance with the Score, praying not only to Lorelei but to Yulia herself for guidance.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. He is a stranger; there is no need to tell him. Even those who reside within Daath itself tend to be blind to the inner workings of the Order of Lorelei.

Besides, she trusts the scientists more than she trusts the Order, trusts hard facts and hard work more than she trusts the decrees of fate, cold and ruthless. To say as much would be heresy, and Wit knows all too well what happens to heretics. She shifts, stretches her legs out, and the rough fabric of her shirt scrapes against puckered skin.

"Weather or no weather, I'm not sure what I'm going to do… one wheel's broken off the carriage, and it looks like someone sawed nearly through it beforehand. I can hold my own in a fight, but at this rate, I'll only make it to Engeve on foot."

Wit hums. "Would you like me to take a look at it? I work in a smithy, but I've dabbled in carpentry and repairs before. I may be able to help. If nothing else, I can tell you where to go in Port Tatarise to get it repaired."

At that the man smiles hopefully, though there's still a worried slant to his brow. "That's very kind of you, ah…"

"Wit. Pleasure to meet you…"

"Darius. Thank you very much," he says as he stands, wiping the dust off of his trousers.

Her smile is a tad wan. "Oh, don't thank me until we figure out if I can do anything. You may have to take a substantial detour."

"Even so, I'm glad there was another person here," Darius tells her. "Imagine if I'd had to eke it out alone! I'd be in poor spirits, and the attitude towards the journey makes half the difference, you know?"

Wit laughs at that. "Alright, alright. Let's take a look at your carriage."

"Luke, you can't just do that!"

"Why not? It's here, I'm hungry, and I sure as hell don't see anyone else around."

"…I can't believe it…"

"Huh? Did you say something?"

"…Nothing."

Wit tilts her head as she makes her way back to her campsite. It seems the voices she'd heard from the mountain were human voices, after all, and young ones besides.

And at least one is very rude, she notes. Darius, though understandably eager to get to Port Tatarise and repair his carriage, had at least been polite. Her lip curls. Best to do something about that—those boars were a boar to harvest.

She strides back through the wide entrance and resists the urge to raise an eyebrow when her eyes fall on the mysterious owners of the voices. One girl, one boy, one Oracle Knight, one… noble? One Fabre, judging by the red hair. There's only one redheaded noble family in Baticul that dresses like that.

She was right. This will prove to be interesting.

"Well, well," she says, making her presence known. The boy visibly jumps while the girl merely turns, an apologetic look already taking form on her face. "What have we here? Uninvited visitors in my camp?"

"…I am so sorry, ma'am," says the girl, bowing her head. "We didn't know there was anyone here, and he saw the food, and…"

The boy tilts his head as he chews. "What kinda meat is this, lady? It's pretty good."

The girl sighs, humiliated.

Wit finds herself pitying the poor girl, who seems to be acting as the boy's minder. It's not too uncommon to see clueless nobles wandering the country, but she's only heard a grand total of five sentences from this boy and she can already tell that he's truly a force to be reckoned with.

If he is who she thinks he is, it'd make sense, but—assumptions. She knows better than to act on half-cocked presuppositions.

She shifts on her heels, keeping her hands visible in the firelight and away from the warhammer strapped across her back. "Hmm… that sure is a question. But you both seem hungry, and I've eaten already. How about this: Tell me your names, and I'll consider it payment for the food."

The boy looks baffled. "Why do we have to—ow! The hell? What was that for, you frigid—ugh!"

"My name is Tear," says the girl, bowing her head again as she moves her foot off of the boy's. "His is Luke. Thank you so much for your kindness, miss…"

"Wit. The name's Wit." She resumes her previous seat and gives Tear a sympathetic smile. "They get more fun the higher up you go in the city, huh?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Luke demands. It's somewhat less threatening than he probably intends it to be, considering that he says it through half a mouthful of broth.

Tear just shakes her head and swallows a chunk of meat. "You must be from Baticul, then? I suppose so. Personally, I didn't know that they could be this clueless…"

"Well, everyone has to learn," Wit says, eyes flicking to the brief expression of hurt on Luke's face before it's replaced by anger. "How much you have to learn just depends on upbringing, you know? Sometimes people learn more about practical things, and other times they learn more about intellectual things… or they take to the blade, disregarding all else."

"That's true. Though it can be hard to remember," Tear says, sitting near to the fire. The visible portions of her face look tired. Her lips are pulled down slightly at the corners, she gazes into the flames with a distant look, and her uncovered eye is narrowed against the force of either Luke or some internal irritation. It's hard to tell.

Blessed silence ensues as the pair consumes the last of the stew. She can't complain; the stew is going into human bellies and not the belly of the earth. With a stew as half-decent as that, it'd be a shame to have to throw it out.

Wit waits until Tear puts her bowl down, then surrenders to her curiosity and asks. "So, what brings two kids like you out here?"

One beat. Another. Luke opens his mouth. Tear's expression immediately becomes pinched.

"We lost our way—" she starts to say.

Luke looks very nearly offended at this apparent gross understatement. "It's all her fault—"

"I told you, I didn't know that would happen—"

"—Why would you even try to attack Master Van in the first place? I can't believe you—"

"—I have my reasons—"

"—You're crazy, anyways, you cold—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on," Wit says, waving her hands. "I can tell that the story is… complicated. I won't pry. Just, if you were hoping to go to Grand Chokmah by land, there's supposed to be a big storm hitting within a day or two."

"Grand Chokmah? No… we'd like to go to Baticul," Tear says with a frown.

Huh. She tilts her head. "Tataroo Valley's an awfully strange place to be if you're headed to Baticul. Most people head south along the road and catch a boat from Chesedonia."

"What? Where the hell are we?" Luke crosses his arms and glares at Tear, whose lips thin with the effort of restraining herself.

"…Tataroo Valley, Luke. We're in Tataroo Valley." Tear nearly seems to force the words out.

Luke, on the other hand, makes no effort to hold himself back and rolls his eyes. "Yes, but where is this?"

Tear is silent.

"You don't even know?"

"I took," Tear says, teeth gritted, "a geography course."

"Hey, now, let's not get too panicked," Wit cuts in, internally marveling at the sheer animosity roiling between the two teenagers. She rummages through her bag for a moment and brings out a well-loved, carefully-bound roll of parchment. "Everybody has to look at a map from time to time. Why don't you look at this one? It's a bit old, but it should still serve well enough."

"That would be nice. Thank you," Tear says, spreading the parchment out carefully on the ground. "Luke, we're here." She points at a spot near the middle of the map. "If we want to get back to Baticul, we'll need to follow this route."

Luke gazes on with lidded eyes as Tear plots a course on the map. Half-interested would perhaps be too charitable a description, Wit decides. "Sure, whatever. As long as you know where we're going."

"…I should be able to get us back, yes."

"How about I help you out?" Wit offers as Tear hands the map back to her. She keeps to herself the suspicion that the two of them together couldn't keep a route straight if they tried, instead choosing to put the map away and face them with a smile. "I've been at this traveling thing for a fair while, and it's about time for me to report back to my smithy in Baticul. It's always nice to have extra hands when you're on the road."

"She's one thing, but you?" Luke asks with a scowl.

Wit smiles at him. It's a nice smile. "I cook. Do you?"

"…Fine, whatever."

"We'd be grateful for your assistance," Tear says, relief shining through in her voice. "Please take care of us. I would like to leave as soon as possible…"

"Then that's what we'll do. Let's work well together," Wit says, getting to her feet.

"Just don't get yourself hurt. Her healing artes will only go so far," Luke mutters. He ignores the look that Tear shoots in his direction.

Colonel Jade Curtiss considers himself to be a fairly level-headed man in most circumstances—perhaps too level-headed, by some standards, because his calm as he tilts his head to the side to avoid a very large scythe that whistles through the air in his direction has some of his newer men shooting him terrified looks.

Hm. Not preferable. He'd picked those recruits himself. If they can't handle seeing strange things in tense situations, they won't survive very long.

"Largo the Black Lion," he says, stance crisp, posture perfect. He makes a gesture with his fingers to Kain behind his back, and his aide disappears into the interior of the Tartarus. When the young man is gone, Jade's fingers remain crooked. "To what do I owe the pleasure of such a greeting?"

Largo's chuckle is rather dark. "Word has it that you've kidnapped our Fon Master. It's the duty of every Oracle Knight to defend him—and that includes rescuing him from the clutches of the Necromancer, if need be."

Jade smiles. Largo smiles. Why wouldn't they? After all, it only makes sense. A lost Fon Master would certainly need to be recovered, and who better to go after him than the God-Generals? It all seems so simple. Clear-cut. A truth bathed in black and white.

It only makes sense. Doesn't it?

Jade's arte explodes under Largo's feet. Largo leaps back and smiles in thanks as his scythe is dropped back into his hand by a winged monster. He gears himself up for a charge, then cocks his head and instead leaps back again—and just in time. Bullets whistle through the air. Jade throws himself to the side and hurls his spear at the highest arch of the Tartarus's deck. As the spear reaches the highest point of its trajectory, a blond woman with two pistols is forced to leap from her perch and land behind Largo.

He calls his spear back into his arm and readies himself for another strike—

The sixth fonon swirls in the air, actualizing itself, manifesting with an impressive degree of strength. It creates a barrier between Jade and the enemy while a teenager with pink hair and a stuffed animal clutched in her arms leaps off of a liger and dashes to Largo's side.

"We can't find the Fon Master," says the older woman to Largo, keeping a careful gun trained on Jade. That's fine. The sixth fonons are interfering with the gradual explosion of fifth fonons he's been building under their feet, and while they won't stop his spear, to incite further hostilities than is needed would be wasteful.

The teenager stomps her foot. "That Anise probably took him away when we boarded!"

Anise may be playful, but she follows orders, Jade thinks to himself, eyeing his opponents just as they are eyeing him. By now, she will have. Though it's probable that the lower levels have been invaded—unless Kain managed to get to the bridge in time.

He has no time to hope. If he wants any, he'll have to create it. The wood grain of the deck feels hot underneath his feet; the sun beats down on his hair. He ought to have tied it back before this whole mess began, but these guests were somewhat unexpected.

Somewhat. That's the key word here. Perhaps it's more accurate to say he expected them to come along at a later time.

From the interior, he hears the screams of men, both of his and of the men belonging to the Oracle Knights. Kain will need to initiate the secondary plan, then. Shame.

But his larger concern, at the moment, is navigating this situation with all the finesse required to pull off the new plan brewing in his mind. He's certainly more than capable of improvisation. The only thing is that at the level of secrecy required by this mission, he'll have to take care to lay all the false tracks he can.

"Calm, Arietta. Legretta. The ship has been searched?" Largo asks.

"We're getting there," Legretta mutters, glancing at Jade with a clear wariness that makes him want to sigh.

She's heard of him. She'll know what to expect, then.

"Lovely as this little party is, I can't say I entirely approve of my staff being killed off as-is when I've invested so much effort into them," Jade says, even-faced. "I'm afraid you'll need to leave. We're quite busy, after all, and such gross accusations belong elsewhere. There is no kidnapped Fon Master here."

Largo laughs at that. "Aren't you the crafty one? We'll have to see—damn!"

Jade lets the arte go and doesn't stop to pay attention to the explosion. It doesn't matter if they manage to dodge; the particular combination of first and fifth fonons serves to create a spectacular smoke-screen, which he uses to dash into the interior of the Tartarus and slam his fist into the nearest alarm. He quickly shuts the door with a series of inputs on the nearby console, then makes his way through the dimly-lit corridors to the nearest voice command module.

He breathes in, then out. It's not a calming gesture. He's calm. He's just taking a moment to account for all the different variables that can and will result from this. "By my name as Necromancer, heed my command," he says into the module. "Initiate emergency plan 'Corpse Hunt'. Ah… and 'Fonic Embrace', as well."

As the lights power down, first fonons flood the Tartarus, and he makes his way to the exit route in his quarters, he smiles.

Searching for the Fon Master, are they? They'll have to escape from Tartarus first, and when they do that, they'll find themselves in St. Binah.

It's really quite a shame that there will be no one left to guide them out.

Colonel Jade Curtiss has a contingency plan for every situation, and backup plan upon backup plan for that. He hasn't found the source of the fonic disturbance in Tataroo Valley, nor has he gotten Fon Master Ion to Baticul, but he will.

Just as soon as Kain and Anise catch up with a very determined Fon Master and the "mercenary" in his company headed for Chesedonia.

This is an edited version of this story. I had it up a few years previous, but I've only just now gotten around to finishing up edits! The first chapter is being posted on a Wednesday, but this fic will update on Fridays.