======Genesis======
Kathleen. Coerna. Grant. Nio. Alvydas. A… shallower line-up than expected, but if Kathleen is at all perturbed she doesn’t show it. The status quo is always the easy option for people with so little time to think.
Still, a leader, a medic, a survivor, a tinker and a believer. And a guard. What else do you need?
The air is still with death as you exit the Bastion. The only movement comes from Devo, PPE muddy with blood as it shifts the corpses, one by one. Nio twitches as you pass. Its promises to keep in touch with your expedition do nothing to settle your anxieties.
At first, the walk is filled with nervous chatter (or in the case of Alvydas, glances), but a few hours marching is enough to stamp out any unnecessary words. The sun seems to grow brighter with each passing minute, your waterskin surrendering each drop of water more reluctantly than the last. If it were up to you, the group would be following the river, but Kathleen opts for a more direct path, trying to cut out a meander and avoid any infection. It should save a day -- if you make it that long.
The puddles, remnants of the final raindrops, taunt you with grimy hydration which splatters up your boots and the cuffs of your trousers.
You watch Nio with concern; she meets your eyes every so often before quickly looking away. What happened in those woods? You heard her voice, faintly piercing through the trees. The distance speaking to your failure to protect them.
As the hours pass, the pace slows, until even Kathy can’t continue on willpower alone. You make a sharp turn to intercept the river, losing any time you might have saved. You tut to yourself as heads begin to droop. Despite your thirst, you remain hyper-vigilant -- when the others are at their weakest is exactly when you need to make up the difference.
The water glitters through the filtered light, clear enough to see the minnows. You let the others have their fill before drenching yourself, the cool nectar soothing cracked lips. For a moment, there is a glimpse of that promised utopia. But there is a long way to go yet.
You follow the river upstream from here, the clean water bolstering morale for the rest of the day. The next obstacle assaults your nose before your eyes. The familiar smell of decay. The water is still just as clear, and your gaze turns to examine the environment. It meets a grey structure, stark through the trees. It curves, from grey sand to grey sky, outlining what must be Peregrine’s power plant.
You approach, with caution, until you see the first bones. Old, matted with yellow grass in a pile of bodies surrounding the structure. The smell is far worse than it ought to be, given the age.
Mouldy blue intersperses the ivory: mushrooms which emanate a rancid smell worse than that of the bodies. Grant pronounces them ‘evidently inedible’. Not that it needs much spelling out. In silent agreement, you begin the circuitous detour around.
A Bastion long gone, succumbing to the horde? Clustering round the man-made rochaithe? Or a grave, arranged by hands too weak to dig. A fraction, barely, of all the fallen. Picked clean of cloth, of face, of names.
You spot, in the nearest huddles of bones, some scraps of leather. Chierks rotted beyond recognition. Yours would be so easily lost. There was belief here, once.
You leave the site behind in the hands of the mushrooms. Whatever protection it once offered has faded, if it ever existed.
The following day is quieter. It would be easy to lapse into complacency, with no sight of any trouble (the benefits of a smaller group). But you have a job to do. Grant seems comfortable here in his favourite expedition spot, keeping watch with an easy eye. Nio remains jittery, but eager to help, barrading you with questions on guns, fighting, defence. You explain and re-explain as best you can. It would do them good to earn some self-sufficiency.
And at camp that night, they finally spill open under your worried gaze.\\
“I was with Devo, then… I just saw black and fainted. I don't think I was hit though. Maybe it was just a bad reaction. If we go back out there… NOT now, but you know, in the um, future, we can see what it was?”\\
Her eyes shift away and she takes a breath before beginning again with some composure.\\
“When I woke up we were already back at the Bastion. Oh the sound you heard? I guess I cried out when I fainted. That's - not very helpful is it. But it's the truth. Please…just help me, later, when I ask. I can't say anything more.”\\
Your concerns are far from allayed. But all you can offer is your most reassuring “alright”.
As you venture higher into the mountains, the little camp begins to settle into some sort of routine; patrols and watches fall into place without instruction. Nio and Coerna tend to cluster together, as do Kathy and Grant, leaving you to the silent quietude of Alvydas.
Over Kathleen’s snoring, you can faintly hear the beginnings of rainfall. Enough to keep the Bastion going? Almost unconsciously, your hand goes to your chierk. You look up to feel Alvydas’s eyes on your neck. You open your mouth to explain, but zie simply nods and meets your eyes. You nod back, drawing a hint of a smile. And though the watch is no less reserved, it passes with a little more comfort.
The next day is spent in the rain along the riverbank, searching for a permanent site. Looking into the valley, you can see the clouds petering out towards the speck that is the Bastion, denying them reprieve for now. You look further, to where Strangeness’s pilgrimage must have journeyed, past the city of Din Talin. And beyond, to the hazy grey on the horizon which must be the sea and the vanishing dots which might be the islands of Anastius and Horasa.
Back, now, to the peaks clambering above you, holding back the worst of the rain. At least, until-
A sudden shift.
A distant rumbling.
It looks like dust settling from here, but the sound echoing betrays the weight of the landslide. It crashes down towards you, rolling closer and closer and closer-
Until it stops. It feels close enough that you can see the pebbles. But it has stopped.
And then comes the deluge.
Almost snowy, in all its foam, roiling and rumbling with haughty disregard for the limits of the banks. You see, in crashing support, a flood of crimson which tumbles like an ungainly ballet dancer plummeting towards the front row.
There is just enough time for Grant to drag you all behind an outcrop before the thundering is all around you. It sweeps the ground clean of topsoil, taking your legs with it. The tumult carries you downriver but the river is gone, your vision replaced by a red mist. Your head dips under the seas incarnadine and the metallic tang of rust fills your mouth. The trees of green turn red around you, their branches snapping under your grasp.
It might be minutes or seconds or hours, but eventually you feel the flow begin to lessen, your tired legs carrying some power through the current. And then your boot finds the soft squelch of mud. You drag yourself to ground that resembles a jacuzzi rather than a paddling pool.
The others appear, one by one, as you scan the area, trying to find the lay of the land beneath watery pink.
There is a familiar square a few miles away.
The Bastion does not dismiss you so easily.
Only one of you receives the grace of banishment. Grant S. Odys floats face down, the water stained redder around him.
Leaving behind -- whether, on some distant cloud, he realises it or not -- the salvage of a Bastion which might yet be.
{[]}{{tag>writeup4 gm_ben complete}}