Chapter Text
He had stopped running. He hadn’t meant to, really, but he was almost to tired to walk, let alone run. Shit. What a clusterfuck. Two Timber Bringers confirmed dead, six more likely to be dead. Luckily he hadn’t known any of them well, but if they had been his old squad mates, he would’ve stayed and fought like he did back at the Ember Mines. Still, that’s eight good men and women dead. And for what? Who is god’s name hires assassins for Timber Bringers of all things? One of the most universally beloved groups, and now people want them dead? What is this world coming too?
They’d been hunting in the jungle, tracking a nasty beast that ransacked a village down south. Standard operation, so the group split into threes, as was protocol. He’d barely survived that strike from above and the battle that followed. Those assassins worked with efficiency, but clearly weren’t used to upfront confrontation. They’d done things like this before, he figured. Bastards.
The city is in sight now. Has been for a while actually, but Lorn has been lost in thought. Aldur. It’s colossal stone walls stretching far into the sky, a scattering of green gathered at its base in the distance. They must have lost him by now, surely. He needs to make a report about this. How many units have been lost to these thugs without anyone even knowing about them? No rest for now, then. No, there will be plenty time for rest later, when the monsters behind those assassins are caught or dead. So for now he walks.
Lorn reaches the Flame Point by midnight. He unhooks the hulking contraption from him back, pointing it upwards, but angled slightly as to not accidentally burn himself to death. A jet of burning hot oil and searing flame is fired into the sky from the mouth of the contraption. He waits a few seconds, before a slight frown settles on his face. He fires again. And again. On the third blast, it seems the message is received. Mere moments later, the same gesture is returned from the garrisons atop the wall. The signal is given, and by the time he reaches the gate the danger of the surrounding land has been cleared of Plants.
“Ho there!” comes a deep, bellowing voice, seemingly belonging to the most impressively dressed of the guardsmen. “Where…” His voice trails off as he truly looks at Lorn in the soft glow of the thin metal lamp posts to his left and right, no doubt noticing the distinctly human gore and viscera caking his clothes. Lorn notes a wave of emotion flash across the man’s face, including, but not limited too: confusion, realisation, sorrow, and back to confusion. The man does not speak, but his pitying gaze is enough to convey his silent question. Lorn does not intend to answer it.
Instead, he pushes past the Wall Guardians, who make no attempt to stop him. They have no doubt figured out the situation by now. The loss of almost a full squadron of Timber Bringers will be felt sorely throughout the city. While they are no longer needed to keep Aldur safe, they are still beloved throughout the city. Their efforts throughout the course of the Green Tide and in the years since have been dearly needed to rebuild what was lost.
He passes through the gate with little ceremony, finding it already open as expected. It feels good to be back in the safety of the walls, yet the bitterness in Lorn’s heart has not subsided. He knows the streets of this city like the back of his hand, making a near straight line to the nearest Timber Station. As he walks through the back alleys, passersby stare at him with a mix of curiosity and confusion. None of them will stop him. There is a purposefulness in his hastened strides and harsh glare.
When he reaches the station he pushes open the door with what little strength his body still has left. He feels the eyes of the station crew on him, watching him stumble into the room. He is suddenly overcome by a pervasive sense of exhaustion. It is like a flip has been switched in his brain, reminding his body that it is supposed to be tired. He feels like a rock sinking in the ocean, and his walking grinds to a halt. His thoughts begin to shift. He knows he is safe here, that the monsters and evils of the outside world cannot reach him here. He can think of nothing else other than his own fatigue. He is not angry. No, he is far too tired for that. When he takes a step, it is no surprise that his legs buckle beneath him, and he soon finds himself falling to the floor. It is now, that he fully realises the extent of his wounds. His shoulder stings like hell, the metal crossbow bolt still lodged deep in his flesh.
He feels the lull of sleep calling him into the beyond. No. No rest now. But his body aches and bleeds, his old wounds feel almost indistinguishable from the new ones. His whole body is in pain. A dull, smouldering pain that eats away at his fading consciousness. It feels as if every eye in the world is on him, and he knows that if he speaks now they will all hear him. He has but the time to utter one single word. “Murder”. He falls to the ground.
He wakes in a small, drab little cell. The door is not locked, and it is clear he is no prisoner. Probably the only place the station had to offer. He checks his wounds, only to find them bandaged. They feel old already. How long has he been asleep? There is a sound at the door. An officer appears, not a Timber Bringer, but an officer non the less. The officer mumbles something about the chief, but Lorn is still half-asleep, so the words fall on deaf ears. He is ushered into a plump office, with a smartly-dressed, middle aged women sitting in a luxurious wooden chair, padded with purple velvet. She wears an expensive looking suit, sporting neck-long brown hair, piercing brown eyes and sharp features. The chief, he assumes.
“Welcome,” she says. She does not sound friendly, exactly, but the tone is not hostile. “So, perhaps you can finally help me understand just what happened to your squad?” he tries to answer, but she cuts him off, “We went back to that forest - figured that’s the only place you’d get trouble like this - but we didn’t find anything other than some smashed trees and dried blood. No bodies, or weapons, and any tracks were probably washed away overnight by the rain. So, what exactly happened in there?” She makes an attempt to sound indifferent, as though this is below her station, but it is clear she is keen to know. How could she not be? Solving the mysterious disappearance of 8 Timber Bringers was probably every officers dream. Well, not exactly that, but something similar at least.
“We…” his voice is raspy, his usual soft tone offset by his still aching bones, “We were attacked.”
“By?”
“I don’t… I’m not sure. Their faces were covered by cloth. I only saw ones face, after I knocked him to the ground. A crossbowman I think?” when she does not reply, he realises that she is still waiting for him to continue, “It was a surprise attack. We’d tracked the Plant to the forest, and had split into threes to cover more ground. The two others with me died instantly. I killed two of the attackers, and knocked one to the ground, when reinforcements arrived. I counted at least 5, maybe 6 more people. I would have died if the Plant we’d been tracking didn’t show up. I ran back here as soon as I could.”
“And your squad mates?”
“With 6 of them, and 5 or 6 other assassins, I figured they’d be done for. Besides, I could hardly stick around in the state I was in.”
“So,” she looks concerned, yet there is another expression lying just beneath. Too hard to read, but it does not look like shock. Curious. “You’re telling me that almost a whole unit of Timber Bringers was wiped out, not by Plants, but by people? Why that’s… that’s unprecedented.”
“I think… I don’t think we were the first. They were good, experienced with stealth, but less so with head to head combat. Didn’t seem the type to stay in the woods too often, unless they had a purpose. They weren’t common thugs at the very least.”
“I see. Well, thank you Lorn. This has been most intriguing. I can assure you, we will look into this issue to the best of our abilities. In the mean time, I suggest you take the next couple days off. Head home and rest, alright?” Her tone has taken a curious tilt, not hostile, but… cautious. Why? What did she know that he didn’t? Before he can ponder this for long, there is a knock on the door. A well dressed man opens it, wearing a relatively nondescript military uniform.
“Uh chief? Yeah uh… Mayor wants to see him.”
“What?” She says, “Why? I really don’t think that will be necessary.” She looks at the man long and hard, and he returns the gesture. There is a silent communication in there glares. After a few moments, she seems to relent. “Well then. Lorn, the Mayor wants to speak to you. Pyre here will escort you. Goodbye. May the Flame be with you.”
He mutters a kind of response, before he is shown out of the door by Pyre, the officer. Lorn stares hard at his uniform, yet all the stripes and pips seem to melt into each other, making his rank indecipherable. They part ways at the entrance of city hall, a grand building, with solid looking stone foundation, coupled with wooden interlacing. The entrance is a large yet fragile looking wooden door, guarded by two imposing Flame Keepers, the Eternal Flame’s own personal bodyguards. He wonders if they’d put their lives on the line for the Mayor too, if it ever came to it. Either way, they give him no hassle.
The inside is no less impressive than the building’s shell. Covered in expensive purple fabric, purple window drapes and red carpet. There is a smartly dressed men sitting at the front desk, who looks up as he enters.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?”
“I’m looking for the Mayor.” The man looks down at a ledger for a moment, before speaking.
“I’m sorry, there are no appointments scheduled for today.”
“He asked to see me.”
The receptionist stares long and hard at him, before seemingly recognising his tattered uniform. Most people would recognise it immediately, yet this far into the city, Timber Bringers are few are far between.
“Ah. Of course. Down that corridor,” he points to a well lit corridor lined with doors, “his office is the last one on the left. Knock twice and wait for a response. May the Flame be with you.”
He makes his way down the corridor, noting the names he passes on his way. There are a number of offices, with sturdy looking wooden doors. Proper Tree wood as well. Expensive, although that is hardly a surprise. He sees some notable titles on his way, namely: “RIGHT HONOURABLE HEAD AXE OF THE TIMBER BRINGERS”, “SUPREME HEAD PRIEST OF THE ETERNAL FLAME” and “CHIEF GUARDIAN OF THE WALLS”. He soon reaches the final door, simply labelled as “The Mayor”. Instead of bold, aggressive letters, it is written in cursive, seemingly hand written instead of typed.
He knocks twice, and after a short while, a soft voice responds.
“Come in.” The voice does not sound overly enthusiastic, and there is an almost strained edge to his tone. He opens the door, seeing a casually dressed man, with short brown hair and soft green eyes sitting at a cluttered desk, papers littering the floor, and covering every inch of the room.
“Oh. Please, do excuse the mess.” His voice is is softer now, but it has not lost its tired edge. There are clear bags under his eyes, and while he knows the man in still middle aged, he looks much older in his current condition. “I have been… busy these past few days. An incident like this is not to be treated lightly. I’ve not learned much. Lorn, was it? Perhaps you can help me. So, would you mind telling me what exactly happened?”