RPA Writing Marathon - [Updates every 2 days]

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Welcome one and all to one of RPA’s time-honoured traditions: the writing marathon! This event is designed to spark your creativity and test your endurance. Every 48 hours, a new prompt will be made available, for which you must create a short story. See below for the rules!

Rules:

1. Your story must be new text (i.e. not copied and pasted from an existing RP), based around the theme of the relevant prompt. New prompts will be revealed every 48 hours.

2. Stories must be between 100 and 1000 words.

3. If the story is M or R rated, please label it as such. Obviously, all the standard RPA rules also apply.

4. You may submit a single story per prompt.

5. Please post your stories below in [hide] tags, with the prompt title clearly shown in the spoiler text (to do this, use the code [hide=Prompt title text here]).

6. Deadline for submission for all prompts will be midnight EST on the 30th of April. This is to be fair to members who might not be able to log on every day - we’d rather test your creativity than your writing speed!

7. Badges will be awarded to all players who rise to the challenge! Completing 6 prompts within the month will earn you a bronze medal. Completing 10 will earn you a silver. Completing all 14 will earn you a gold!

Spoiler: Prompts (be sure to check back regularly!) 

Day	Prompt
2nd April	Stitch
4th April	Moonlight
6th April	Clay
8th April	Sabre
10th April	Present
12th April	Concoction
14th April	Raise
16th April	Distraction
18th April	Spike
20th April	Glitter
22nd April	Vindication
24th April	Mountain
26th April	Joint
28th April	Scarlet

Spoiler: Competitors and Scoreboard 

Competitor	Completed Prompts
Alura	1,2,3,4,5
Vaidia	1,2,3
Asharasahara	1,2
Omac	1,2
Member 5	-
Member 6	-
Member 7	-
Member 8	-
Member 9	-
Member 10	-

And lastly, a big thank you to our previous organiser of this event @Karma; :)

Spoiler: |M| Stitch 

Annie felt the whisper of a breeze blow through the storm gathering outside, but it gave barely a moment's respite from the sweltering temperatures. Her skin beaded with sweat, lungs struggling as if she were underwater. The plastic lantern that she had brought from the boat flickered ominously and grew dimmer. She cursed quietly. The old farmhouse sat creaking and rotting: long strands of green crept up the walls and forced their way in beneath crumbling eaves. Nature had almost reclaimed it, obscuring the paneless windows and exposing the mouldering interior to the muggy climate off the coast.

She had grown up here in the wild heat and riddle of waterways, spending many days gliding through the swamplands to explore. That was why it had been strange to discover the house perched on an improbable patch of arable land along a forking wetland path. Further north a great river fed the freshwater swamps, allowing some spots to be used for crops in low-tidal dry seasons. Even there, she had never found such a weird, forlorn site such as this, with its half-decayed scarecrow falling down its beam like a ravaged corpse in the cleared field. Despite the dangers of going ashore alone, her curiosity had compelled her.

Lifting the lantern, she listened to the tattoo the leaking roof beat against the floorboards, a shiver running up her spine. She had expected to find nothing more than bats perhaps, but the close air carried a hint of smoke that mingled with the rows of dried herbs that hung from the rafters. She stepped forward to brush her fingertips along a clipping of dessicated lavender and a movement caught her eye from the near doorway. She jerked backwards, peering into shadows.

"Hello?"

There was no answer nor sound beyond the thunder and the hiss of falling rain. After straining watchfully for a few minutes to divine another presence, she turned to leave. As she reached for the door, a large animalistic outline with the head of a beast and the body of a large man separated itself from the shadow in the corner. She stepped back toward the center of the room, heart thudding. Pinching herself to wake from dreaming, she saw the man continue towards her. Falling away several more steps, Annie ran blindly. Strong arms wrapped around her, the deer head atop her captor's neck balanced on welted stitches across his throat.

Annie fought as brittle laughter rose over the man's shoulder from an old crone of a woman. Her blackened and gapped teeth bared in delight as she creaked out, "Bienvenu Cheri. [Welcome, dear.]"

"W-Who are you?!" Panic bubbled up in the words as she found herself thrown still struggling into a box. The heavy lid closed before the metallic slide of a lock. She slammed the soles of her boots against it and pummeled the unseen lid with her fists, but it was no use. It was too dark in her prison to even see her own hands.

Gulping in a misty breath, she willed her heart rate to slow, pressing her hands to the lid of the box and listening closely. There was the heavy stump of feet, but above them there was the sound of metal on metal, of pouring, of a hushed, crackling voice speaking. The words were obscure and familiar, perhaps in the way her grandmother might have spoken the language. Beneath her fingertips Annie suddenly noticed divots in the wood. Stroking carefully with her fingertips, she traced long, thin lines that perfectly followed her fingers. Nailmarks.

A soft, keening wail rose unbidden from her throat and she began to thrash against her confinement. She struggled until, exhausted, her frame slumped weakly. Time became immaterial, the storm still raging as black, dull unconsciousness engulfed her.

Cold water poured down Annie's face, rousing her abruptly. One large animalistic man stood nose to nose with her, dirty fingers grasping a dripping pitcher. Her hoarse throat contracted in a scream. She shivered, wild eyes taking in the farm around her with her boat banked on the far side of the house. When had they moved her? Had she fainted?

Slowly swiveling her head, Annie ached as she realised that she had been bound to a post. Pain shot through her when she tried to flex her fingers, thick threads dug through skin and muscle, securing her hands. Nausea rose as she saw that blood-soaked grasses were stuffed into the rough gloves. A terrified laugh came out of her, tears welling up as she lashed about briefly. It hurt too much.

"Please!" She cried, "Why?! Please, let me go!"

The old crone appeared, chuckling as her long and fading skirts swept the ground. "Il est temps de le coudre. [It is time to sew.] We sew, we reap."

Her broken English did nothing to assuage the horror that lanced through Annie.

"S'il te plait tante! Je t'implore! [Please, auntie! Please!]" Screamed the young woman desperately as she expended the last of her strength. The old woman smiled and laid a hand over Annie's heart as if appreciating the request. Lifting a sharp bone needle, she threaded it before Annie's eyes. A heavy burlap sack was thrown over Annie's head and in the next heartbeat she felt bone pierce skin. She shrieked, lips stretched wide as expert hands completed the first stitch, thick thread lacing across the open gape of her screaming mouth until, with one practiced motion, the old crone pulled it violently shut, the cinched web trapping the woman's screams.

Tears poured down Annie's face, the salty drops mingling with blood and rain as the old woman continued to sew from crown to toe stitch by painful stitch. Annie remained conscious as long as she could before sinking in her bindings, insensible. Below her, the old scarecrow had been cut free. It had fallen to the ground in a heap of burlap and bones, the skeletal fingers of one hand protruding through their sewn prison as if in unheeded warning.

Spoiler: Moonlight 

The shadows stretched long across the office. Lamps became tall, thin figures and monitors blazed blue like pulsars flickering to their absent workers. Alone, in one remote corner of the sixth floor a woman sat slumped, eyelids drooping as she tapped away at the keys. Music bubbled from her headset. She had rather listen to soothing classical instruments, but that would only draw sleep nearer. A yawn stretched her mouth as if to confirm her thought.

Emailing another report, she stifled a second yawn and pushed back from the desk, rising and stretching her back. As she did, a yellow glimmer caught the corner of her eye. When she turned her head to look across the city outside the large bank of windows that composed one wall of the building, she admired the way the moonlight limned them in silver. Natural neon, she thought of it, though she supposed neon itself was elemental.

The yellow glimmer appeared again and she looked at the little ledge outside the window to see two tiny yellow lanterns floating in the dark. As she moved closer she realised that the glow emanated from a cat who had somehow managed to come this high. It sat and watched her curiously, piercingly. She felt on display.

After a moment of regarding each other in silence, the woman blinked and turned to head towards the little break room.

"See how our luck runs tonight," She murmured to herself as much as the cat. Perhaps there might be a bit of something to share with the visitor. As luck would have it she did find a packet of tuna and placed it in a saucer. With another empty dish below, she retrieved a bottle of water and made her way along back to the corner office beside her own desk where there was a window that could be unlatched. As if it knew what she held, the cat followed her.

"Fire exit's half across the building, how did you even manage it?" She asked as she carefully opened the window and set the saucers on the sill. She cracked open the bottle, eyeing the cat as warily as it eyed the bottle. "You'll fall up there if you are not careful, you know."

The cat gave its forepaw a long lick as if to indicate its insult at the implication that he might not be ginger enough to wander where he wished. She found herself smiling despite herself.

"If anyone ever finds out that I let you into this office, that'll be the end of me, you know."

Purring, he ignored her in favour of the offering she gave.

It had only been a minute or two when her phone began to ring. Excusing herself, she went to answer it. Clients who no doubt did not know or care what time of night it was here. She answered their questions and wished them good luck in their meeting. They disconnected almost before the words were out of her mouth.

As she re-entered the office to check on her feline guest, the office worker noted that he had hopped from the sill and now sat calling to her from the moonbeams that spilled from the window onto the boring efficiency carpeting.

The weary office worker smiled, answering the call and going to pet the cat. When she touched the moonlight, she transformed into a cat herself. Startled, she regarded what she could see of her sleek form, her own candle-bright eyes looking to those yellow lanterns for answers. He spoke to her, but not in words and not in the yowling tones that humans heard when cats tried to speak. His words were strange and melodic.

Long ago, he told her, she was a cat. It was long ago, when they still were the rulers of the word, before speech and rulership were taken and given to the ape-like humans. They had loved their luxury too much, having no interest in governance of all the other creatures and that had been the fate assigned them by the gods. He himself had lost his wife when she was transformed into a human to help teach the new creatures how to govern the earth in their stead. His whiskers wavered with emotion as he said it, grief mingling with joy.

Over time, he continued, she had been caught in the wheel of industry, her hard work and skill that had once been revered by the greatest minds in human civilisation increasingly overlooked until she was reduced to an office worker, killing herself slowly to make all things run smoothly and efficiently. She had given all she could to humanity over many years of life, death, and rebirth. She had seen kingdoms rise and fall and in her ways she had gifted herself to humanity in both high places and low... And now, he had finally found her again. The gods had reunited them and for her service had gifted her once more her original form and nine lives to live with her mate in repayment.

Overjoyed, they leapt to the sill together, their love and leisure renewed and the paperwork left to the humans who had long forgotten who she had been and what she had given to them.

Spoiler: |M| Clay 

In the midst of a great battle, amidst the tall shadows of an ancient forest, fighting rang through the woods and fog settled in so thick that the soldiers could barely see their hands before their faces. The heaviness fell over the battlefield woven through the trees until the sounds of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded and the calls of enemies and comrades alike seemed to fade away to nothing. In the quiet one mercenary band stood, green-tailed fireflies flitting amongst them through the dark like will-o-wisps.

Not far off, within the silent, liminal spaces of the forest was a lad sitting on a stump, with a flock of clay hummingbirds flitting about him. Clay deer grazed nearby, their movements slightly mechanical despite their masterful construction. Rabbits formed of the same clay peeked over the long grasses and chipmunks raced. Even the stream that burbled near at hand was filled with clay fish that swam placidly. The grey-green stains on the young man's hands and sleeves seemed to match that from which the clay creatures were sculpted. The tck, tck, tck, tck of their lovingly crafted limbs, wings, and scales was replaced each dawn with the sounds of the natural sorts of wildlife to which the wider world was accustomed; features somehow cured and transformed into those of real animals. The youth beamed at his newest creations and tucked his feet up on the stump in delight as a clay butterfly landed on his nose.

For the soldiers, on the other hand, time seemed to stand still. No matter how hard they tried to find their way, the stillness followed and they could not reach the edge of the forest. Confused and exhausted, the captain of the little band of mercenaries sat heavily on a log to ponder his lot and regard the familiar and somehow foreign surroundings. From a thicket burst two rabbits who chased after one another, bounding off through the trees. It was the first sign of other life the men had seen in what felt like eons and they pursued. One of them managed to pierce the clay heart of one rabbit with an arrow, its body fading back from life to the stream's mud from which it was formed. Its companion, startled and afraid, sprinted back towards the youth, leading the soldiers with it.

They found the young man alone where he sat happily by the stream sculpting a little hummingbird, the frightened rabbit nestled at his side. The men had, like all children, heard the tales of the wild woods and their hidden depths, of the hills where fairies came to spirit away the babes left behind by mortal men and broker deals with the desperate. Sometimes, it was said, they would call mortals away, though they often heard they favoured children and the beautiful. These men were neither, battle-scarred and brutal.

This lad, too slight and frail for a soldier, lifted his head, honeyed brown hair falling around his shoulders like spun waves and his green eyes wide with curiosity. They regarded each other a moment until the slender youth lifted his hands, clasping them as if something were hidden. The captain of the mercenaries tilted his head and held out his hand. With a small, proud little smile the young man placed a little bird formed of clay into his glove. The man admired the skilled moulding and the curious style that he could not place. It did not look like the work of the craftsmen in these parts, but the youth's unusual dress gave no hint of where he might be from nor how he had found himself here. One smooth finger touched the bird lightly and of a sudden it seemed to spring to life, tiny wings flapping with a tck, tck, tck, tck.

Amazed, the soldier watched as the bird rose and flew off, a melodic song rising from it despite the eerie stillness in this place. He swatted it to earth where it cracked and clattered brokenly. This was no ordinary man. A demon? One of the fair folk, with his fine features and gleaming eyes? His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword as the green-eyed youth looked at him innocently as any child would, curiosity replaced with hurt. With a growl he steeled himself and drew his sword.

Distraught, the beautiful youth reached out pleadingly, his fingers grazing the captain’s wrist above his glove. In a moment, the man began to turn to clay. One of his men attempted to help him, the lad’s touch shattering the second man to dust also. Gasping, the soldiers drew their swords. The horrified young man tried to run as the remaining soldiers lifted swords and drove them through his slender body, piercing his back. Tears spilled from his green eyes as the life ebbed from him, the rust of his blood enriching the earth where he fell. All his beautiful creations fell to dust as vines captured his fallen form, embracing him back under the earth. The stream flowed backwards until it dried up, the canopy of trees receding as the vines that had curled up their height dragged them down under a little hill.

The soldiers thought it was a trick of the eyes, until they stood amidst the trees of the well-known forest alone once more. The oppressive stillness had returned. Here they would remain lost in the eerie, hidden in-between of the wild woods in penance for the violence they had brought.

In the villages around the forest the story is still told to children and travelers alike that if ever they hear the warning of the tck, tck, tck, tck of clay wings or see two rabbits running through the fog they should flee home, lest the wandering shadows of the soldiers slinking amidst the trees turn their gleaming swords on them as well.

Spoiler: Sabre 

Battle lines drawn, the two armies ranged across the rolling field, their generals glaring across the high ground beside their austere noble masters. With horn and drum and shout, the stillness was broken in the rush to join the fight. The infantry armour dented and buckled under the strike of swords. Weapons clanged against metal visors, the earth rushing up to meet one fallen knight who had rushed too far forward into enemy territory, his fist still gripping their seized sigil in his hands. His hold weakened and its post snapped under his falling weight. The jaws of a war dog snapped and shredded the fallen banner to tatters. It growled deep and barked a warning as the knight staggered to his feet, helmet left broken in the dust. He grasped for his sabre and finding it missing, gave a war cry and flung his weight into two approaching infantrymen, pinning them.

One of the infantry pinned beneath the knight managed to free his sword arm, sending his blade up between the joints of the man's defenses. With a burble and gasp, the knight slowly expired, the two men pinned beneath him slowly scrambling to push him off. His slayer retrieved his sword with one foot planted on his chest and turned, charging headlong back into the fight.

It was a bloody day, men fighting and falling on all sides, the spryest of them running through the fight to deliver powder and ammunition to their comrades. One unlucky lad braving a run to the fighters nearest the front was struck by cannon-fire, the powder he carried erupting around him, flames licking up skyward and encompassing the nearest men around him so that they staggered away from him blindly. Some fell. Their clothes stuck to their bodies, slicked with sweat and clinging to their injuries.

The generals pressed their men forward, each gripping tightly to their spy glasses, each desperate for victory. One smirked as the wardog laid the tatty remnants of the banner the knight had sought to recover at his feet. They had paid in blood to recover it, but today it seemed that fortune would favour them. Rising to his feet, he raised one hand to his lips, lowering it again to reveal a silver whistle pursed between them. With a few shrill toots he waved across the field and shouted, "Alright, then, boys, that's it then! Two out of three, that's time to eat! Well done!"

Groans and chuckles rose up from the dead, their half-broken corrugated box armour and foam swords matted with dirt and grass. Benny Knight's bike helmet had a wicked gash in one side that a ring of his mates admired as they elbowed one another and set off for the house. The powder boy and his bucket of water balloons was soaked head to toe and anyone who had been in his vicinity when the well-aimed ball had found the contents with a satisfying sound of bursting during the battle were now also damp. The sun was lowering toward the earth in the distance and Gerath's terrier yipped and jumped excitedly as she sprinted around her favourite boys, proud to have done her part in retrieving the half-chewn flag for them.

The harrowed rival king threw his paper crown into the thread-bare lawn chair with a sigh. Next time, he told himself. His second-in-command clapped him on the shoulder with a hand encased in his mum's latex dish glove and shot him a grin. "Better that time! Nearly there!"

Sharing a conspiratorial smile, they loped off after the others as Osian's father came out to lead them around to the garden to wash up before supper.

Spoiler: |M| Present 

"Look, Ange, I know, but I-"

"It isn't that simple, it's just a really bad time right no-"

Temper flaring, Aria's words clipped a bit in her annoyance. "Well, it isn't and you know that. I don't know why now you want to fight about it. There isn't anything that can be done for it tonight and by the time I do it won't even matter."

There was an equally annoyed warble through the phone and she ran her tongue along the sharp edges of her teeth as the other woman shouted. Abruptly, the line disconnected. "You know I care." She whispered meekly into the empty receiver.

Flinging her mobile onto the muted grey duvet, Aria blew out a long, slow breath and stared at the night-darkened city through her own reflection. She was getting old, and the bright points of light below seemed less exciting to her than they had when she had viewed them from the plane. What had it been? Three weeks? A month? The days and places had begun to run together in this never-ending year. She had been paraded along with her group of researchers and policy makers in a seemingly endless series of locations. No matter how urban, how rural, or how welcoming it had begun to feel like a punishment. It was all foreign and filled with illness and death and misery. It was just... deeply sad.

The hardest part was the long hours alone in a sea of people who simply did not care. Her own eyes glimmered back at her and she blinked back tears.

That same sea washed up on her home shores also, and now it had touched her own family as well. This plague, this illness that lanced through each community was at her own door whilst she was away and no matter how much she cared, no matter how much she missed them or wished that she could be present she knew that it was not possible. Even if by some miracle she could find a way to leave her beleaguered team just for a couple of days she knew that it was likely he would not last long enough for her to see him again. If she did make it, would he even see her? Would they allow her into the hospital even if he permitted it?

The hot rush of tears threatened her again and her breath caught in her chest. Slumping heavily into the velvet chair in her hotel room, she bowed over the elbow that rested on the little round table. It felt like the world was pushing down on her shoulders. She almost hated herself more for her melancholy, for knowing that she was not alone. How many countless families had she spoken with, how many nurses and doctors, social workers and volunteers were experiencing the same exact thing. So she felt a little trapped away from home. So she spoke differently and she had some 'odd' habits. So she wasn't 'from around here'. The world felt like it was ending... an oddity or two were the only pieces of home she had.

Her breath shook as she inhaled and she sniffed, tugging off her badge and setting it aside so that she could shrug off her blazer. She was tired. Who wasn't? There was nothing special here. It was selfish in a way, but - she reminded herself - it was natural for everyone to still feel these things even if they could not act on those emotions while they were all quietly doing their best to cope with them. It was understood, it was human... but it was necessary to carry on despite them.

Her mobile vibrated on the bedspread and she stood wearily to pad over to it. When she unlocked it, a text from Angie lit up the screen in blue and white.

"He's dead."

Aria's eyes searched the message as if there would be more, but nothing came. She swayed in a half-circle and her knees buckled, toes digging into the carpet as she hugged her knees into her chest and rested her head there. The phone fell from her fingers.

Spoiler: Warning 1: Stitch 

The needle feels so thin between you fingers. Does it even exist? Or is is but a hiss of sensation, gone before thought knows it to be being. But you grip it still, trusting impression more than sensation, for what is existence but a parody of thought? Touch the thin blade (cutting) between the fingers. You know what each motion means. You feel it it like titanic quaking that would end an age, like the lifeline of beginnings. But you see it so simply. A meager collection of threads.

The first stitch made. Do not be so reckless with that which you make. You only have so much blood to give. There are phantoms that ask you to prick their not-selves, take the edges of quiet longing and weave it into cacophonous corporeality. Their cries fill the spaces between the pain. If you work, will you know silence? If you work, will you finally remember?

Another stitch made. You do not know what your hands are any more. Keep going. Keep going, for to stop is to find a prison in entropy, chasing at your heels, biting the flesh there and taking away the means of running with each stagnating step. You remember structure. You forget what body is.

The Final Stitch. The Final Stitch? Who are you now? Threads end, hands bleed, and you are now still. The Phantoms are your shadow now, or perhaps they always were. You whisper into that Shade, but your words are only a hiss.

Beware the thread, and needles that are too sharp.

Spoiler: Stitch (M to be safe) 

He had a headache.

The room was dark, quiet. The only other body in it was still and breathing softly. There were no blinking lights, barely any light at all.

Hours passed. Very few wandered in and disturbed the little haven they had been given. When they did intrude, it was a cacophony of noise and light. He resorted to blindfolding himself with the heaviest material around, muffling his ears at the same time because he could.

He still had a headache.

The only thing blocking out his sight and muffling his hearing had done was narrow his senses down to the magic in the room, in the space station, drifting through space.

He was certain his newly obtained awareness of magic was the cause of his headache.

The concept of time only came when someone mentioned it. Otherwise he sat in that void far from the planet he could vividly see through the blindfold and often times countless layers of thick metal and human bodies. He would find himself staring at it when it settled ahead of him for a brief moment as the space station rotated far above it. It wasn't quite like looking at the sun but he thought it looked the same. Flares would arch up off the surface sporadically, areas glowing brighter than others only to dim. Pinpricks of light moving, colliding, merging. There were dark patches but it was relative. The entire planet glowed and those dark patches were still illuminated by something innate.

When the planet drifted out from directly in front of him, his gaze would always drift back to the still form in the bed before him.

The form was nearly as dim as the bed underneath it. Only a small shape glowed with any light and even that wasn't much brighter than the rest of the body.

"They're dying."

He didn't look up, didn't react, as the voice softly filled the room. Or was it his head? The light in his own chest brightened briefly before a trail of magic extended from it, forming a shape to the left of his chair. "I know," he offered, the words croaked from a raw throat. He needed water. His limbs felt like lead.

There was clinking at the bedside table as a second form solidified to his right from a second trail of magic. The water was glowing when it was presented to him in the glass cup. "Drink," a second voice gently commanded.

His hands stayed tucked in his lap under the blankets.

A hand settled on his back at the base of his neck. The cup was pressed to his lips and he took a long pull of water.

Nausea rushed through him hard and fast. He stumbled to his feet, two bodies made of magic quickly pressing against him, guiding him as they stripped him of the blankets slowing his movement down.

Neither touched the blindfold.

Bile burned his throat as his body convulsed over the sink. Tears streamed from his eyes soaking into the blindfold. He barely noticed as the pain in his head worsened and the nausea tore through him.

He found himself on his knees against the cabinet doors beneath the sink, hands still clenching the rim of the counter somewhere above his head. Tremors coursed through his body, a combination of fatigue and cold.

"Diggory."

It was the first voice. It ached with something he couldn't name.

"You should be looked over by a doctor, Diggory," the second voice spoke, the words tight with emotion.

He gave a slow shake of his head. It made his headache worse. "They said I was fine."

"You might have been," the first agreed, "but you aren't now."

"If you don't get help, you'll die."

He chuckled at that. "That sounds a bit dramatic."

"You were vomiting blood."

He turned his head out of habit but there was no need. He could see in every direction without distortion, without moving his head, and he could clearly see the form associated with the first voice giving the second form a soft, chastising look. The second form had taken a step towards him, a step ahead of the first that the second would not have seen the look unless it glanced back.

When the first voice said nothing, he knew that the first was confirming and agreeing with the second.

"Call someone, then," he spoke, resting the side of his forehead against the cabinet.

The two forms vanished but the magic that had created them remained outside of him. One glided out of the room through the wall, the other darting out through the door. He watched them because he couldn't not and tracked where they went, who they pulled at. The one that went through the door - the magic of the second form - found the nurse that he had liked, the one that had been gentle with him but respectful and kind and treated him like he was still human. There would be no visual stimuli, no sound, no physical sensation for the nurse as the magic curled around the nurse's core and pulled. He knew without really knowing that it would take a bit before the nurse followed through with the emotion and thought the second had passed on.

The first had gone towards the pair in a nearby office. They would probably take more coaxing but the call would go out when the nurse arrived and it would be fine.

The light behind him flickered like a flame of a candle catching a shift in the air. He opened his eyes against the damp blindfold out of habit and it drew his awareness back into himself. He looked back at the body on the bed but was unable to move closer. The stitch in his side rivaled the pain in his head, not to mention he was certain his legs would not support his weight. So he sat there, eyes and awareness locked onto that faint, flickering light.

Spoiler: Moonlight 

The door opening startled him. He jerked sideways, bumping into the cabinet doors. His fingers slipped free of the counter.

Hands grabbed him as he crumbled towards the ground. Words were being said, something shouted, but none of it made sense.

The three people the two forms had gone after had arrived at the same time, connecting with each other a few doors down. The nurse was speaking, the smaller of the other two already returning with the bundle of blankets he had left behind as the larger helped support him with the nurse. Between the three of them, he was wrapped back up in the blankets as more bodies spilled into the room.

He just wanted to sleep.

"Stay awake, Diggory," that first voice urged. "You can't sleep yet."

"Want to," he mumbled back.

"I know you do," the second voice chimed in as someone brushed a hand over his forehead, "but you have to stay awake for us for just a few minutes longer, ok? Can you do that for us?"

"C'n try," he slurred. He knew the voices weren't actually the ones speaking to him. They were speaking for the people around him, the ones he couldn't hear, couldn't understand, and there was a part of him that knew that he should be concerned by that.

There was a shift in the bodies around him and the duo the first form had gone to fetch backed up, replaced by other nurses. Four nurses, two on either side, hefted him up onto a gurney.

He must have passed out at some point because he came to without his blindfold on. A weight had settled in his body that coaxed him to go back to sleep but there was a buzzing in his mind that he knew would keep him from sleeping even if he had wanted to. He could feel different tubes connecting him to equipment and fluids but all he could see was the ceiling above him and the magic of distance stars beyond the levels between him and the vastness of space. An interesting light slowly drifted across the ceiling but he didn't bother adjusting his awareness to find out what it was.

"Moonlight," the second voice answered in wake of his silent pondering. "Your window's facing the Moon at the moment. Earth is to your right."

Mention of the planet drew his awareness out of him anyways and both the planet and moon glowed beyond the walls of his room, beyond the limits of his view of the ceiling. He brought his attention around, focusing on that all too familiar flickering light. He frowned, a tension filling his chest as he discovered the flickering light was in a different room farther away than he cared for.

"You're in intensive care," the first voice supplied, both forms he had been ignoring stepping closer the spike of anxiety. "Once they clear you, you'll be taken back. Those that have your best interest at heart will make sure you do."

"Do they know what's wrong?" he asked, wincing from the pain in his throat. The headache he hadn't even noticed flared when his voice echoed through his head and stayed at that flared level even as he fell silent.

"Your body is failing," the second voice spoke, the words dry and short even as the second form moved about gathering another glass of water.

"As far as they can tell, there's nothing causing it," the first explained. "There is speculation that its because of magic but there's no evidence that they can find to support that theory."

The second form slipped an arm under his shoulders and sat him up. He closed his eyes against the moving room, throwing his awareness outside the senses of his body to keep from being sick again or making the headache worse from vertigo. The water was cool on his tongue, though, and he swallowed several large mouthfuls greedily. It soothed the pain in his throat for a moment and drew him back in, taking comfort in the solid arm at his back.

"And the truth?" he asked as the second form pulled the glass away.

The pause spoke loudly of the uncertainty. Not even the spirits of the Crystal Heart knew.

The first voice spoke up again. "I would say their suspicions are accurate but it's nearly been a week since the Professor healed the Crystal Heart. If your body was going to fail, I would have thought it would have been closer to that event."

"Could have been the lack of magic for five months that caused this," the second put in, laying him back down. "Run a machine too hard for too long and it breaks down. It's the same for the human body and magic. If someone pushes their body to handle more magic than it's used to, they destroy their body from the inside out."

"But he hasn't been using magic," the first countered. There was a bite to the words, emotions tangled together too tightly for him to piece apart.

"I can see it."

Silence followed his words and he opened his eyes so that he could look at the first form properly. "I can see it," he repeated, "sense it probably more finitely than you were able to."

The form recoiled, shaking its head in denial. "But that shouldn't..."

Whether it should or shouldn't, it probably was and none of them were going to voice that. Somehow he had been given sight to the world he had been so eager to see but it took a toll on his body and without knowing how to shut it down or turn it off, he was left bleeding himself dry.

The second voice filled the silence. "Look. Maybe it's from a lack of sleep. He hasn't slept since the repairs done to the Crystal Heart and I doubt the few minutes he had been out hadn't been nearly enough to repair whatever damage there is from it."

Spoiler: Warning 2 - Moonlight 

You know it will start when the Hour of reflections comes. Take with you three things-- a rock from the deep mud of the roadside ditch swamp (do not clean it), a cat's whisker found with fond memory, and the disposable chopsticks left beneath the couch. Pay no attention to those who sneer at these talismans; it is when they remark on them no longer that you will know it has all begun.

Speak only to those who have a shadow in the moonlight, but have caution for those whose silhouettes do not match what you expect. If you must say words to Those Ones, use only the same words they speak to you, otherwise you will finds those words unspeakable again. There may be others like you during the Hours, but do not look into their eyes, for the reflection you see in them may not be what you expect, but it will be what you will become.

When the end of the Hour comes, take the stone, and use the dirt to mark your brow. Pay no mind to the feeling of that is like crushed glass raking on your skin, and trust the damp sensation to only be mud. This will help you keep a clear head when walking the Final Path. You will also meet the Guardian, who speaks in euphoria and asks a toll to be given. Though it seems a high price, give the whisker away now, and ignore the emptiness you feel when the Guardian leaves, and know that which runs down your face are not really tears.

At the end of the Reflection, hand the one that looks like you the other pair from the chopstick. Hold them up to the moon-- the one who has a shadow is the one who is real. Strike down the impostor, no matter the pain you feel with each blow. This will be the End. When you wake

forget.

Spoiler: Warning 3: Clay (M) 

There is something that moves in the earth beneath your feet. It is nothing more than vibrations from the passing traffic, you tell yourself, but you have gotten far too good at molding lies into realities that even you sometimes forget what isn't the truth. That face in the mirror you wear each day, so plastered with painted lines and contours. You practice hiding it. It is nothing more than silly thoughts that you cannot entertain.

The shifting becomes greater.

You used to walk to work each day, taking the sidewalk along the park with the nice river. That was always where is seemed worse, vibrations resonating with each percussive step you would take, making your bones ache. Was it the sibilant song of the trees that spoke to you so? The turning chorus of the rivers flow? Your steps faltered as the ground lurched, and people stared. You no longer walk to work.

From the car, you must still pass by the park. Once, you catch your face in the mirror, and see yourself burning. The lies have wormed their way deep into your flesh, festering in the pores like a gallery of grasping fingers, twisting deep until the fires set them permanent. They push your rogue lips into a smile, and you look away. You stop looking in the mirror.

One night, you wake with a mighty quake of the earth. But sleep was but another lie these days, your mind wandering into the deep hours where darkness waned into light, and you would once again twist yourself into another false idol. You know what it is you must do. You leave the prison of your home, and walk to the park.

There, though there is no light, the trees sing and the river drones, and the grass beneath your feet is but a veneer to truth that begins in the deep earth. You only have your hands, but you know to dig, even though there are stones to cut your hands and doubts to twist in your muscles light lead laden blood, and your nails may peel away from the backs of your finger. You dig.

You dig, until the soft plush grass is peeled aside, the rich soil shifted aside, and the stones are but forgotten burdens set aside. Your fingers reach, push deep, until they meet clay, and it is something like bliss. You do not stop. Not until your are far down in the earth, among the roots of the trees, until you can join the earth yourself. You lie down, your work done, and feel the gravity press down on you. There is no light to be seen, as the weight of the world presses down, suffocating.

And there, you rest.

You wake in the morning in your own bed again.

And, when you look in the mirror, you see yourself again. Made of clay.

Perhaps, this time, you can mold yourself into the truth of who you are.

Spoiler: April Crow and the Stitch 

Assignment number one. Male, monk, said to be allied with the side of light. I'm to meet up with him in the middle of town, somewhere next to the fountain that connects the two loyalties. I've heard very little about him, other than him being younger than most of the monks I have met, though I have been warned that there is something unique about him and his situation. As always, I will keep an open mind and a handy dagger close to me.

The city was quiet, which wasn't too unusual for this time of night, though still offsetting nonetheless. It was strange to see the park that usually bloomed with people to be completely empty.

"He's late." I said, tapping my boots.

There was the shuffling of feet coming from behind me. Not a word was spoken by the wannabe monk, for obvious reasons. His mouth and his eyes had been stitched shut. I had heard of something like this before, though I’ve never seen it executed before. It’s when a monk breaks the vow of “See no evil, speak to evil.” He must have witnessed something dark and upon speaking it was punished greatly. He wore very little, merly a few rags to hide his lower stomach and upper waist. They barely covered his scars and bruises, which was extra visible due to his ghostly pale and scrawny nature. It was clear that he had been starved and beaten along with refused sunlight for quite some time.

I shook my head, “I am here to help you, young one. What is it you need?”

He moved his hands to speak a language that I did not recognize. It was one I had been yearning to learn, though it is hard to find free time in the battle of good and evil. I recognized a few words and phrases, likely based on what he had seen and been punished for, and yet there were a few lines that clearly needed a bit more context. Something about a demon, that much I knew, but there were parts about warriors of different backgrounds, something about chains, and random bits about bugs. It didn’t make sense, and if it didn’t make sense, then I couldn’t help him. I had to tell him as such. I hoped that he had only seen what he should not have and could still hear what I needed to say.

I explained to him that I could not understand and that I did not know how to help him. It sounded like he was crying, or maybe he was growing, but either way it was being blocked by the stitching and drowned out by the fountain behind us. There has to be a way for us to communicate. I thought of cutting the stitches with my dagger and freeing him, but it was dangerous to mess with such magic, and it could insult the local monks and their heritage. The last thing I needed was more enemies. I reached into my bag and locked for anything that might help us connect to each other, and I could not think of anything magical that I could use, though there was someone I could call.

I clapped my hands, “Luca! I need your assistance.”

Besides us an angel appeared in a puff of white smoke and a golden glow. He had pretty white wings, a beautiful flawless smile, and oh, a lack of pants. He was sipping an alcoholic drink out of a fancy glass, glugging it into his mouth while shouting something spots. He then blinked, looked around, and then sighed at the sight of me. “April Crow, I should have guessed. I’m a little busy, okay? I know, I know. I’m your guardian angel or whatever, but only because you work for my boss and I’m loyal to him.”

I sighed, “Do you ever wear pants?”

Luca shrugged, “You’re the one who summoned me from my home in the middle of the night, but sure, judge me for my attire.”

I shook my head and motioned towards the monk, “Luca, he can only speak in sign language and I need a translator. He needs my help”

The angel shook his head in shock, letting his glass fall to the ground and shatter at his feet, then looked at me. “That boy’s eyes are sewn shut! I can see why he needs your help, we better get those off!”

“No, as strange as it may be, this is a custom of his people and we cannot interfere.”

Luca nods as if he understands, then shakes his head in disagreement, “I’m sorry, what?”

I reached towards him and grabbed him by his shirt, motioning to the fountain behind us, and looking him straight in the eyes. “Unless you want to get your pretty little wings wet, you’ll stop messing around and help me.”

He backed off, waving his hands and sucked in his wings to appear more human. “Fine, fine. Just back off the wings. It takes a special brand of holy water to get them this shiny, I ain’t about to let some backwater devil fountain drain my glitter away.” He snapped his fingers, expecting something to happen, and then stepping back when he didn’t. He sighed, shrugged, and looked at me. “Nope, I got nothing. Kid is magic locked all the way around.”

I sat down on the fountain’s outer ring and took a deep breath, “So I can’t help him. From my understanding, monk law is that he cannot be released until the evil that he has seen is resolved, but unless he can communicate what it is, then I can’t resolve it, and I am the worst balancer of light and dark there is.”

Luca shrugged, “Well, you’re the only balancer of light and dark. Mostly people choose sides, especially witches like you. Besides, maybe the kid can draw it or something.”

I pointed at him, “He’s blind, Luca. There is no way can draw it, and even if he could create a rough drawing, his communication is likely blocked there too. Maybe that’s why most of his signed language was complete nonsense to me, even if I am still learning, and why you couldn’t get a message through. There is no way to communicate.”

Luca nods, “Then we remove them. Forget the monks. This is clearly dark magic.”

I took a deep breath, “Balance, Luca. I can’t take sides. I can’t help him. I can’t even ask him his name. I failed him.”

Spoiler: April Crow and the Moonlight  

Assignment number two. I had been assigned with observing the latest werewolf rituals for the boys that have come of age since the last blood moon. It’s strange to be tasked with only observation, as I assumed this job would mostly be hands on, though I suppose I’m here if anything were to go wrong and knowing this city something will always go wrong. Besides, hanging around a pack of hormonal transitioning werewolf teenagers is exactly how I imagined spending my Saturday night.

They were all lined up in a row, half dressed, and covered in painted symbols that I did not know the meaning of. Most of them looked nervous, some looked hungry, and a few looked out right terrified. There was one in particular that I took notice too, as he was shaking and hyperventilating, almost at a point of tears. I motioned over to him to see if he was okay, though he didn’t respond, as all of them had to stand still and wait for their instructions. I wished that I could intervene, but that is not why I was there, and so all I could do was watch.

One of the elder wolves came out into view. He was much larger than the boys as he stood like a man though with the face of a wolf. He pulled out a gun, firing it into the air, and howled to initiate the competition. Most of the boys ran out into the forest and faded into the shadows, sniffing for the meat hidden only a few hundred acres into the woods. One boy still remained, as he fell to his knees and began to whimper. The elder shook his head and aimed the gun at the runt, pulling the safety off and reading the trigger.

I ran to his side and kicked the weapon from his grasp. “What are you doing?”

The Elder rubbed at his sore hand and glared at me, “Me? Aren’t you here merely to observe? What business do you have attempting to stop me?”

I blinked, “You’re going to kill him?”

The boy looked up at me, fear and heartbreak in his eyes, his lips quivering for help as he shook his head “I’m not strong enough. I can’t kill.”

I stepped back and then looked up to the Elder, “Kill? I thought you had strung out meat. Are you saying there are living people out there?”

The Elder rubs the head of the boy, “Do not speak, Rhoul. I will make it quick.” He pulls the boy’s hair back, revealing his claws and digs them into the boys throat. He then looked back to me, “An injured wolf must be put down. Physical or emotional, it matters very little. It is for the better of the pack.”

Rhoul started to cry, unable to hold it back, as blood started to drip from his throat and down his chest. He was able to mumble out a few words, “I’m… sorry.”

My eyes flickered to life, as a magical fire appeared in my grasp and I launched it at the elder wolf. He was blasted backwards and into a tree behind him. I bent down to wrap my scarf around the boy, grabbing him up in my arms, and lifting him onto my back. I did not take the time before running off into the forest ourselves. I watched as the elder leapt him, turning into a large beast, and chasing after us. I didn’t have time to waste. I threw back a second fireball and let it ignite the grass between us.

When I put enough distance between us, I sat the boy down and used my water bottle to clean out his wounds. The cuts weren’t deep enough to be fatal. I rubbed my hand through his hair, “Are you okay?”

He shook his head and refused to look at me, “He was supposed to kill me. You should’ve let him.”

I sighed, “Rhoul, is it? That’s a pretty name, it means wolf doesn’t it? Look, I know how you must feel. I am not much of a witch either. I used to be pretty bad, then I tried to be good, and now I’m here.”

I heard someone approach from behind. I had suspected that the Elder had caught up with us, and he had, but I did not expect the entire pack to have surrounded us. They had come for Rhoul. I imagined that some of them had to have been his friends or his family, now all come to kill him because he was not willing to kill another. It was a sick ritual. All I wanted to do was blast my way out of here. Take him somewhere safe. Even if I could, I knew I shouldn’t, and I knew I wasn’t powerful enough to start a war with the werewolves. All I could do was move out of the way.

I stood up, letting him fall back onto the grass. I couldn’t look at him, and I couldn’t look at the rest of them either. I just looked up at the calming moonlight. It was a full moon, though shaded in red, and despite it’s creepy atmosphere it was still beautiful. I could still feel it’s power radiation over me, restoring my connection to the earth and to the seas surrounding us, and I used that to drown out the sounds of his screaming. I focused on the waves and the oval shape of the moon instead of the dreadful sounds of ripping flesh and bone cracking snaps, blood curling wails and the laughter of the other wolves.

Spoiler: Clay 

Sleep.

How long had it been since he had lest slept? From the sound of it, quite some time, but it felt as if he had barely lived an hour.

The weight of his body spoke of having lived for far longer than that.

If sleeping meant that time would pass by quicker, he would do it in a heartbeat, but despite the exhaustion of his body, there was no actual desire to sleep. Wasn’t he already sleeping - not awake or aware of the world around him? Wasn’t he asleep enough that it shouldn’t matter if it was what it had once been or what anyone expected.

Wouldn’t time pass by all the same?

A hand carded through his hair drawing his attention to what he was seeing. The ceiling came into view bracketed by the two magic crafted forms on either side of his bed. A hand touched his right shoulder as the hand in his hair ran through it a second time.

“Sleep if you can, Diggory,” the first voice offered. “There’s nothing you have to be awake for.”

Involuntarily, his gaze moved to the flickering flame so far away.

“Don’t worry about them,” the second assured him as his right shoulder was gently squeezed. “We’ll wake you if anything happens, bad or good.”

“Sleep, Diggory,” the first repeated. “It’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t sure if he had managed it or if he had simply laid there watching magic drift around the station as the universe moved beyond the space station. When the piece he had settled in was disturbed, it was by the people barging into the room in a ruckus with too much light.

“The shuttle’s ready,” the first voice supplied, though who the voice was speaking for was beyond him.

“They can’t be serious about leaving the Professor behind,” the second scoffed. “Do they seriously not think he’ll let that slide?”

Moving was like dragging his body through clay; strangely he didn’t tire from it, though the headache returned.

Hands were on him, pushing and pulling at him, but he brushed them all aside and stood properly from the bed. The first step towards the door was barred by a person. There were no distinguishing features, no details, as he looked upon a form that held only a single color. If the form spoke to him, he didn’t hear them. What he could tell, though, was that they were trying to help. Only, they weren’t helping him by standing in his way.

With careful hands, he cupped both shoulders and directed the form to the side. He didn’t know if he had simply moved the form or if the form had moved willingly and didn’t care; the form was unharmed and the other forms had backed off at his action and that was all that mattered.

The flickering flame seemed so far away even for his seemingly endless strength. He approached the door and watched as magic filled it, stretching between here and there, tying the two locations together before making the distance nonexistent. With a sure step, he stepped back into the room with the flickering flame and crossed to the chair he had occupied for whatever extent of time it had been. The magic was already gone from the doorway as he looked to it.

“Well,” the first voice spoke up, “that’s certainly a way to tell them that he won’t.”

The second snorted. “We’ll just have to see if the implication makes it through their shock.”

“For Diggory’s sake? I hope so.”

“For their sake, I hope so,” the second voice corrected.

He wondered what the second voice meant by that.

The forms he had left behind arrived subdued compared to how they had entered the room he had been in originally. The form he had moved stayed near the door with another but the other forms moved into the room with care. One form approached him with an innate object. The other forms carefully transferred the flickering flame onto a different innate object.

He took the hand of the form before him, the one that had brought the innate object, and allowed the form to place him on the innate object.

The form kept him close to the flickering flame and gratitude filled his chest. He hoped the form knew how much he appreciated the gesture.

The entire group went from one part of the station to the other and he watched the magic dancing around what quickly became their destination. Even getting within a nominal distance of the dancing magic was like a balm to some pain he didn’t understand enough to know or recognize. The flickering flame even steadied but it didn’t get stronger; it simply stilled and that was comforting enough for him.

The now still flame was placed at the back of the small space and strapped in. He in turn was helped into a seat next to the small light as close as the space allowed. Together they sat there for a moment as the rest of the bodies moved about, ebbing and flowing in some system he didn’t know.

A shudder ran through the space, the magic quaking briefly before it started drifting. The shuttle had pulled away from the space station and the magic trailed behind as the vessel turned and started for the planet below.

The form he had moved earlier sat down beside him. It had more shape to it, more definition and details but there still wasn’t much of a face and the form was all still one color.

“How are you holding up?” the second voice spoke.

“Alright,” he offered. He flicked from the pain the word brought and hoped it came out right.

The form carded a hand through his hair as the second voice said, “We’ll be landing in a few hours. Get some rest.”

The form stood up and walked away, leaving him alone with the small light. Exhaustion pulled at his body but not his mind.

Spoiler: Sabre 

Sunlight was hot against his skin and what little counted for clothing as he opened his eyes. Surprised, he sat up catching sight of clouds rolling in on the cool wind. He didn’t understand. Hadn’t he been...hadn’t he...

It was like the memories had always been there as he blinked. There was no sudden onslaught of information, no pain. From one instance to the next, he simply remembered. “Diggory. Richard.”

“You seem more stable than before,” Richard offered tentatively, appearing before him.

Ghost Diggory walked up from somewhere to his right and gave a bark of a laugh. “After that debacle, I’m surprised he’s not dead.”

His gaze moved over the forest around him as Ghost Diggory and Richard started talking. Well, fighting would be a more proper term for their tone but he knew neither had any animosity for the other. The annoyance thrumming through Ghost Diggory was from the situation. He was unsurprised that Richard was equal parts cautious and curious which was part of Ghost Diggory’s annoyance.

The crash had barely done any damage to the surrounding biome. What pieces he could physically see were embedded into the earth but the plant life was relatively untouched. There had been no loss of life outside the branches and portions of plant life that had been smacked or cut, the fauna well protected.

Beyond his normal sight, he could make out the rest of the crash. There was no disorientation nor discomfort taking in the whole area of effect, finding he could easily take in the information as if he had been doing it his entire life. He would have to ponder that later.

The crash sight was massive compared to what he could easily walk within an hour. There were pieces on the opposite mountainside a good day’s hike away if not longer and then more on the mountain behind that. The mountainside behind him was littered with debris but the majority of the crash was three mountains away to his left with a scattering of debris between. Walking would probably take him close to a week but Magic was already humming through him, anticipating his desire.

‘Not yet,’ he offered it calmly, soothing its excitement without really thinking about it as he turned his attention to a more specific task.

He doubted anyone else would have been able to see the beacons that appeared across the area of effect even if they had been able to see Magic and it wasn’t a doubt of skill as it was more a feeling Magic was doing it specifically for him.

He wondered if Iro would have been able to see them.

“What’s the plan, Diggory?” Ghost Diggory asked as he stood.

He looked to both of them, expression neutral, curious. “Gather the people together first and then go from there.”

“It is not very likely that many survived,” Richard put in.

“Possibly,” he agreed, “but even if they are, their families deserve a body to bury.”

“Do you even know what happened?” Ghost Diggory put in, the annoyance back.

He met Ghost Diggory’s gaze able to pick out enough clues to guess in his own mind. “Do you?”

Richard stepped closer at that, a hand going to Ghost Diggory’s shoulder. “No. We’re missing the stretch of time from when you boarded the shuttle and when you awoke here.”

That wasn’t surprising. He offered a nod as Magic wrapped around him, happy to do as he desired. His feet left the ground to hover a few inches above. “I don’t know the details but I have an idea. Once everyone’s accounted for, I’ll fill you in.”

The ghosts vanished as Magic shot him into the sky. Magic took him in a large arch across to the first beacon on the opposite mountain. He found a person he didn’t recognize but they were alive. There was a second not far off and he drifted through the trees to it. The second was in bad shape but Magic refused to heal them.

He didn’t force the matter.

Magic did wrap around the dying figure carefully, doing as he asked and at least stabilizing the body so no more harm could come to it during the flight. It wrapped around the first figure at the same time, equally careful, before he let Magic pull him and the two prone figures into the air.

There was a cluster of five beacons gathered together near one of the still intact shuttle hull pieces. Magic was happy to take him to them but he had it put him on the ground out of their line of sight. As much as he preferred to just drop in and deal with the consequences of his actions, he didn’t want to get shot at. There weren’t words but it was almost like Magic was offended at the thought that it would let him get hit. He chuckled, amused. He wasn’t doubting Magic. It was just the principle of the matter. Magic ceded, albeit disappointed.

Someone shouted when he caught sight of the hull. He could see them far clearer than they could see him. One left the hull to join the person who was on guard while the third moving body stayed with the two unmoving. To his surprised, the one that had remained behind to protect the unconscious had a sabre in hand. He wondered if the weapon had been a personal item or if it belonged to the organization.

“Diggory?”

He watched as the two on top of the hull stilled. It wasn’t until he stepped into the rough clearing that he saw the hull piece had half buried itself into the dirt. “It’s me,” he assured them, raising his hands as if that would sooth their unease. “I’ve got two unconscious with me. They’re our people but I don’t know who they are.”

He let the bodies drift past him into proper view and only one person slid from the top of the hull piece.