Oranges, huh? Sounded expensive. He'd just have to steal one on the way over and do his best not to eat it. The bird part was tougher to understand – he could tell boy from girl pigeons well enough back home. But then he'd seen the skyrats of Altalusia and he honestly couldn't tell. The ones by the Empire were even freakier. Guess he'd just get that in Crorefell – Zalan was a local, after all.

„Umm...sweet and all.“ And it was, kind that rots more than teeth. „Give that dancing fuck an orange, he'll eat it and then go back to drinking.“ Knew the dancemessage would be different from the silken one, but hard not to point it out.

„And the skinks – they need their own orange too?“ at this rate, he was stealing a crate.
 
The others were easy as the grin that cut across his face. All bristly wildness and red madness in his eyes. "We'll always have Hestio,"
 
Blink. And another. This fucking guy.

Grabbed his face with both hands, fingers massaging the corners. Dirt mixed with sweat and marked him in the warpaint of a potato warrior.

„Hestio.“ Didn't laugh outright, but he should've. Never been a captive there, but he'd sent men there in the past. „I could just drown you in the creek, you know. Might be a nicer experience.“

Arms down and any levity gone from his face.

„You are a renegade fucking officer.“ Because you had to make an example of men like that. Wasn't exactly good for morale – but it provided the right kind of fear. Instilled discipline.

„Wanting to die is nice and all...but why kill them too?“
 
Took a moment to mull it over. Eyes used to seeing things burn brighter than most people saw the stars, looking at an inchworm crawling through the potato trench.

"Don't doubt the creek would be a better way to go," he put to it. Eyed the potato soldier. Gearing himself up for whatever part he had to play in this. "But the way it goes, will be the way it goes," he shook his head. "Dancer won't dance, less he thinks he has a ticket to the ball, and the skinks," he laughed at that one. "They know the score. They are cut loose," looked back down to the worm. Half way through the dirt. "They join the party well," he shrugged. "They must feel reason to it,"

The fucking Empire crushed one too many skulls. Buried more dreams than any of the gluttons at the whips could even imagine.

"Suppose, I got to feeling, if I am going to die, best have it spark off a bang." Looked at the tattooed symbol beneath his wrist, inked in deep henna red. A color like dried blood. The seal of the Aghni Rakshas, Fire Keepers. Old lines that ran up both arms, and both legs. Tradition older than the empire. "But hell," he laughed, and shrugged. "Could be, you sell us all down the river," no lie in that. Put another potato in the dirt. Careful about the worm. "All hopes, and prayers to the god of pigeons now," smirk cut across his lips. "Widershins,"
 
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Whole lot of words for a man who didn't wanna drown without drowning the ball and chain too. At least the message for the fabricfucker wasn't an invitation to come die at Hestio. Maybe Dancer'd be smart enough to give it the finger come time, but Trevor doubted it. Man had many qualities – careful wasn't one of them. Skinks...well...he didn't know them. So maybe it was alright if they got crossfucked in all this.

„If you won't save your own life.“ Shrugged. „I won't bother with taking it either.“

Life would've made more sense if he cared about coin. Would've given everything proper weight and size. Would've told him what needed doing. Simple math. And if the numbers ever got too big? You just split it across more people. Once folks had to get schooling to count, it was already too much.

„Hope against the pigeon – gods are all dicks.“

Smacked his hands together.

„Right. On your feet, Sir.“ Mock salute and all. „Gotta get the potatoeing done before they mash your ass.“
 
"Hope against the pigeon," he groaned as he worked himself up. "And you are like to get shit on," he laughed. Gave a little salute of his own to the young man. "Though they say that's more luck, than bad," grinned. "So maybe you are onto something, potato sergeant,"

Down was up, and up was down.

But one thing was certain. The potatoes needed planting. So plant the potatoes they did.

Till one of Lihark's boys came out of the farmhouse. Bronsan. Kid still Hard as nails. But still had some of his fucking baby fat on his cheeks, despite him looking like a proper rake. Kid as all squinty eyed and trying to look hard as he stepped over.

"Yo!" the kid called out.

"Yo your fucking self," Zalan said with a grin as he worked another spud into the dirt.

"The fuck," Bronsan looked to Trevor as if he might know the answer to the question. Cleared his throat. "Old Miss says its time you two go and get some grubbin,"

Zalan laughed. "Lihark's good with that?"

Bronsan scratched the scraggly hairs on his chin. "Uh, yeah I mean, I wouldn't be out here if he wasn't,"
 
So it was Lihark. Ah, close enough.

Potato brigade would report for duty, then. He liked food enough to suffer whatever company might throw into the mix.

Water ran cool and looselipped. Revealed the truth of their sunburned skin, as well as the many small nicks sweat hadn't had time to visit just yet.

Twicewet and halfclean, as ready as they were gonna get.

Pushed the door open to the mainroom. Looked changed – too many people. And people were like furniture, took up room, changed things. Not like he spent too much time inside, but he liked it the way it was – before all the disturbance.

Didn't acknowledge the one he now knew as Lihark or his men, but hoped Millie would tell 'em where to assplant. Couldn't make out Jip right away – but the guy was always around.

„Where do you want us, Ma'am?“
 
"Oh," she sounded almost relieved to hear Trevor's voice. A gentle smile working itself through the lines of worry that pulled at the corners of her face. "You boys just, have a seat up here at the little table with Jip and I,"

Zalan nod. Shuffled over. Eyes trailing back to spy Lihark, sitting about the main table. Maps and wooden markers spread and strewn about.

Bronsan rocked on his heels and just sort of watched. The look of a man who was confused as to what exactly he was supposed to be doing.

Didn't matter none. Zalan's eyes shift toward the table and the seat old Millie had offered. "Thank you, Ma'am," he said as he sat down.

She worked at a large pot set over a cookfire. Potatoes, carrots, mushrooms with chunks of chicken. Freshly butchered, plucked, and stewed. Old bones for the clear stock. Round lenses of oil and animal grease swirled and dance about the currents where a spoon had swirled, and the heat still coursed.

Served up steaming bowlfulls with a hunk of old bread.

"Least I can do after all the work you two have been doing," voice all titter and glass.

Zalan nod. "More than I deserve," picking at the welts on his palm that had formed

A man from Lihark's table strode over, all brute step.

Zalan's brow arched.
 
The kids table. Smiled – because fuck it – they were all someone's kids. But it didn't sit right. You didn't push the host to the smaller table. You didn't wait for people to sit down and eat before having a guy swoop over to mess with them. It was familiar, all of this. Every camp had guys like that. Always pushing limits, testing the water for soft things to gouge.

Funny, people never noticed how most of 'em died in the night. Quiet. Never mentioned again. How many people did it really take to deliver Zalan to the noose? Given how resigned the fucker was, his best guess was one – and even that was just to flash the right papers. They may let you into Hestio without those, but they were unlikely to let you out.

And Millie's tone...

He shook the thought for the moment. Being a dick wasn't meant to be fatal...just incurable. Picked at his plate as he heard the steps getting closer. Didn't spare a glance. No way was this mutt more important than the mess of his plate.

So when the steps stopped, it was Trevor who spoke first.

„Lihark – pull your guy back.“ These knives were sharp for a farm. Perhaps he could barter with Jip when he was done here. „We're eating.“

Every fucking camp. He'd spent long enough planting spuds to know that the dirt remembered how to take beyond tubers.
 
Came a time in every man's life where enough was enough.

Die here. Die in Hestio. If it wasn't for the Salamanders, he would say it didn't fucking matter. If it wasn't for Silk, he would say better to just get it all over with. Old dog had gone and lived his days. More than most sellswords. Damn well more than most of his kin.

But here. Here was a chance. And it was always a gamble. Long as the odds were. Horrible gambler that he was.

Lihark, hawk eyed as he was, saw the look in Trevor's eye. Lip twitched. Five men about him. Lightly armored, heavily armed. He didn't much say anything.

"Or what, farmboy?" the wild boar of a man taunted. Cruel grin splayed wide. Took another step toward their table.

What did they have? An old nan, and some sharp kitchen knives made for cutting steak.

"What in the mirrored hells are you going to do about it?" he thumped a hand on the small table.

Miss Millie shrank back. Nervous. Little sound like a mouse trying to avoid a rat hound.

The steam off the spuds tickled Zalan's nose. The flame from the cookfire crackled sweet in his ear. Something about the potato sergeant. Made him feel lucky.

Down stabbed the knife, straight through the big man's hand. He screamed. And tried to yank his hand back. Zalan just grinned as he drove down his weight.

"We are fucking eating, you hog fuck," all growled through teeth. Yanked the knife out and slit the fucker's throat.

Lihark's men sprang up. Hands to knives, swords and clubs.

Bronsan just kind of stared. Looked almost impressed.

Miss Millie screamed as the big man grabbed at his throat with his other hand. Fell against the table and thwacked against the floor.

Table flipped over. With a clatter of plates and smatter of food. Zalan tossed the bleeding man's blade at Trevor. "Looks like we are getting shit on," he grinned like a mad man. Eyes full of fire.
 
Shoulda kept his fucking mouth shut. What was some spit in your food, really? Just added spice. Hardly worth all the blood that followed when you got too big a head. Blood gushed from the asshole unused to dying. They always had that surprised look. Always wondered how death could ever come as a surprise to fuckers who dealt in it so frequently.

He could hardly keep up as the table flipped over. All that food spilling. Wasn't even sure he was that hungry. But there used to be a time he'd kill them all just to make sure he could eat before his food got cold. And a shameful part of him still tickled with it. If they died quick enough, he could probably scrape the still warm potatoes off the floor.

One of the knives he liked got tossed his way. Thumped against his chest, dullside. He grabbed it by the blade before it found the floor. The unarmed were armed. Those knifed uncut. These omens were too good. This would all need to be paid somewhere else.

All that food...

His eyes still failed to pull up from the floor. Did this mean he'd have to count Millie and Jip too?

The smack came sideways. Good angle for Trevor. Head moved aside just enough not to be caved in. Deadknife found its way into the man's armpit as the Jipknife dug under the floating rib.

But he was still a light fucker, and the swing sent him flying. One of the knives his birdass kept, the other remained dug in. Thankfully wasn't too big a room. Back found the wall. Ass found the floor.

As he blinked away the bzzzz between his ears, he could see Zalan. Wild, eager. Was that really the same fucker who would rather hang himself than run? Some men couldn't die without company. Had to take guys with them. Made for good songs, Trevor guessed.

Fingers slowly questioned the Jipknife. This could all stop with a jab right between the shoulderblades. Rarely killed a man. But dead was overrated. Sometimes still was enough. Barrow stabbing Pindhi would be just another turn of the wheel. But he had said he wouldn't take Zalan's life. It was important to keep your word.

Got up to a crouch instead, looking for the next gap to exploit. The world could very well kill each other. But hopefully they could do so without him.
 
Heart thump, thumped between the cage of his ribs. Breath dragged through his lungs ragged.

Could hear the fire hissing. Singing. Felt it in his bones. Crackling and smoldering around the embers in his marrow. Up the lines of the Fire Keeper's ink. His eyes could see them. How their veins shimmered with heat. Their sacred fire. Pulled in through their lungs. Spread through the rivers of the their blood. Pumped. Pumped. In their hearts.

Whipped his hand back. Breath poured out of him. Smoke tickled his nose.

Fire tickled his finger tips. Pinprick through his callouses. Like a hook come through his skin. Yanked it forward. That line of heat. Snagged a coal. Smoldering white hot and glowing hotter than the flame it fed. Zipped it. All ball turned balistic with the overhand throw.

Right into one fucker's gob. Wide open as he tried to bark commands to the three and four at his side. Bastard didn't have time to gulp. Zalan's fingers pointed right at him, slinger at the end of their shot. Crushed the hand shut. Crushed the coal just as fast.

Fire and pressure. Exploded through the fucker's veins. Every bit of oxygen held in his blood went up. He screamed as his bones glowed white hot. Skin stretching, blood slaking, but still, he cooked from the inside out. Fire from his tongue. Out his eyes. He fell a burning, steaming wreck to the ground.

His compatriots stared wide eyed. The terror setting off in their veins. A pair tried to put him out. One said fuck it and made for the door. Lihark just smirked. Knowing too well that that one was meant for him.

Zalan grinned crazy eyed. Sprint, lept, and smashed out the wooden slats that covered the window.

"Get after him!" the captain of the Harpies called out.

Authority was enough to snap them back to reality. Out the door. Lihark set his eyes on Millie. A grin of his own.
 
So Zalan was a firefucker after all. Guess the feel of his hand made sense in hindsight. So did the Skinks. But he always was good at hindsight. Once all the mistakes had already been made. No way back now. Just another fuckup ahead.

The cooked fucker smelled...edible. Was he supposed to feel guilty at the thought? It was only right to eat those fucking with your food. Sides, he was dead already – no harm left to be done.

Room emptied of underlings until only the four of them were left. And Lihark had the grin of a man who'd die here.

Mille'd shrunk further into the corner, not behind Trevor, but away from them both. Jip was making noise edge of sight.

„Follow your men outside, please...“ But talking had been a mistake before. Why would it be better this time around? „Don't die here.“

„Not over some asshole and a bit of spilled grub.“ He'd worked his way to standing without realizing. But what did mercy really get you here? It only put Jip and Millie in more danger. Another mouth to speak ill of their farm and those it harbored. Another finger to point to this whole mess. Men like Lihark had long memories...

He'd sheathed the Jipknife. One way or another, wouldn't need it for this next part. Maybe for fish, but not for Lihark.
 
A nasty grin split across Lihark's scarred and wrinkled features. Eyes that measured the mettle of many a man, and had got it right enough times to still be standing, daggered through Trevor. Wasted no time on pleasantry.

Sword drawn.

"Get in my way then," he promised. Stepped toward Trevor. All the intent to kill swirling about him. Sword lashed out at the potato boy.
 
The arm swung out, mean and bladed. They never listened. Never fucking listened. Why was he even trying? Should've just Jipknifed the bastard right in the eye. But sword was a poor tool when it came to peeling potatoes and their boys.

Trevor stepped into the swing as the blade passed overhead, caught onto a beam. Sometimes it was lucky to be a short fella. Yank, then two, and the blade came loose with renewed momentum. Another step to the left and over the grubpuddle saw Lihark come offbalance. Slip slip slipping on the puddle, head happy for the flipped over stool breaking its fall. Neck wasn't as grateful.

Same stool that got flipped over when they nailed him to the wall earlier. No one had ever set it upright. Same food he'd never get to eat. No one had ever cleaned it up. Too busy being assholes.

He was turning around to see if anyone else got done in in the ruckus when the blow came. Millie skilleted him right into the temple. And she was a big woman, she really shoulda struck him harder. But all he got was bzzzzzz and blur. She looked between him and the door, terrified. And it wasn't like he ever expected to be thanked. But guess this meant he wasn't getting paid either. The old lady shrunk back to the wall when he looked at her. Well fuck, he was taking the Jipknife. Hardly fair pay...but it was something.

He slowly dragged his ass outside. At least there was no longer Lihark's long memory they needed to worry about.

Hopefully Pindhi fared better.
 
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