Randomness

The small band of men traced there lineage back to the the rangers and men of beorne that lived in the north in the early ages. They hunt the woods and wild places offering there finds for supplies to help them live. Inspiration will be taken from the mountain men of the late revolutionary time possibly. Covered in rough animal skins with tanned weathered features. Weapons show the patina of hard use but still well maintained. Long guns, hatchets, knives, large fighting and skinning knives.

Not so much shunned by the more civilized members of society but as the pariahs and outliers that they choose to be. Forming bands of bounty men is almost done as a last resort.

***

She wasn’t from around and that showed with the way she stared at the newly arrived crew that would be assisting. They wore the mix of ritual and uniform on duty belt and plate carriers. Pelts that hung almost knee length, custom leather work that seem to have white and gold woven into them.

She walked over keeping up the charade of being relaxed. Looking at them more closely.

“That’s very interesting leather work, is it some sort of sheep skin?”

“No. More of a pig leather.”

“Oh that’s nice is it decoration?”

“It’s...it’s out credentials”

“Excuse me?”

“They are scalps,” this from the shift supervisor “this is a militia town. In order to have respect we have to display the receipts of how we spent the unrest”

The woman’s mouth seemed to fall open as she thought about this. One could only imagine where she spent her times during the troubles. But the thought of how many it would take to make these strips that in the case of some nearly hung to the ankles from there hips. A reminder form a time when the whole world smelled like death. Hold overs. The lawless that had become the law. It had struck him as hypocritical, the same hands that had given the hair the stiff pull, listening to the screams of the men. Wolves to some, Skinners to others.

That’s the word that was in her head as she looked agin at there belts. The pommel of knives, stuck from them all.

“H-h-how did murders like you get appointed as law..”

“Always best to not concern yourself with matters you can’t control,” this from the supervisor “suffice to say that we are the law. Just The was the chips fell at the end.”

“Not all that much on being called murders.”

***

It was the lack of noise that first drew suspension. The forest, once alive with bird song and insects was now as silent as the grave. Not even the call of watcher crow warning the other animals of an intruders presence. Just the sound of leaves crunching. He stopped, holding a hand up to bring the rest of the group to halt.

He could hear something, he strained his hearing. Music. Singing. Getting louder. Suddenly all around him. It is beautiful, he can feel tears starting to run down his cheeks. The thought came into his mind, he had to find the source. To run to it tell it how beautiful it was, worship it so that it never stopped.

It was just a thought wasn’t it? How long had he been running? Where was his firelock? Did it matter? No he had to find the singer. His breath was ragged in his lungs. His legs throbbed from what he had demanded of them. Was his still running? Why did his wrists hurt so much?

He didn’t know how long it had been before he realized that his hands and ankles had been bound. Grunting he strained at the bonds. He had to get free! Had to find the voice!

smack

His face burned. He suddenly tasted blood in his mouth.

smack

He gasped. Almost like a man being pulled from the water. The scarred mans face suddenly close to his. Unblinking and filled with its usual dissatisfaction. He stared back.

“What happened” he asked the scarred man. He tried to move, his hands were still bound. The only response the Scarred Man turning and leaving. The Old Man coming over to take his spot.

“Forrest Hag,” The Old Man said as an answer. “just be happy we were able to get you stopped.”

“But I have to find it, I have to find the voice. Unite me now!”

The old man only gave a smirk and turned away. He fought the bonds, his head still overcome with the song.

They cut him free sometime after dark, he rubbed the rough spots on his wrist where the binds had cut in. The fog of his mind finally starting to clear. He could smell some sort of smoke in the air with the heavy forest sent.

“Home” he heard one of the weathered men say after a long sniff of the air. Who would have thought these wild men would have that. He thought to himself.

Suddenly the forest began to clear and there was a large clearing, well worn paths going from place to place, dug out roofs made small mounds around the clearing. Smoke rose from some of the dug outs and as the men came into the clearing groups of men and women. Started to come out to meet them. Some of the men started to jog to the groups. It stuck him thatnhe wasn’t sure how long the group had been out on their hunt. Or that they would have such a large group of families that waited for them. Even the scared man broke off meet a pale raven haired woman and dark haired boy, falling to one knee and wrapping his arms around the woman head to her stomach big with child. The Old Man came to Him placing a hand on his shoulder and guided him away from the reunions.

“You can stay with me while we find you a place.” The old man said. He lead him over to a very seasoned dugout. The way inside worn with the many passing smoke already rising from the center. The Kid followed the old man down. The dug out was open the floor actually seemed finished in some sort of fashion. The hearth glowed in the center with furniture spread out. It was a good size home the kid thought. Someone had to be missing since the hearth of the house had been lit. The old man Filled a kettle and set it over the fire.

“Toss out your bed roll where ever you see room. Mother is out skinning and tanning. Won’t be home till sundown,” the old man said lowering himself into a chair near the hearth. Lightning his pipe from an ember pulled out with tongs. Settling back with a nice long pull on it. “Rest now. Nothing will get you here. Least wise not those damned orcs.”

“Thank you,” the kid said. He was suddenly weary like he hadn’t felt before. Thoughts he had been keeping back by focusing on by keeping up and urging his body on were now rushing in to him. The way the flames danced as they devoured the houses of his village.

When his eyes opened again he was in darkness his heart pounding as he tried to remember where he was. Sitting up his breathing fast. The fire had burned to coals. The sound of rain from outside. The fresh smell of it on the air. His mind started to slow down from its race.

***

Slowly the long hunter moved through the brush of the wilderland, it was a slow and methodical movement. Each and foot placed just where he needed it. Pace set to break the rhythm that all living things listened for. It was close now. He could smell it. The scent of them stood out against the clean smell of the forest. He could see the dark form though the low brush. Weathered hands fell to his knife and ‘hawk. The shot from his long gun would definitely kill the creature, but the sound would be to much. He wasn’t sure how many more there were but he needed this one out of his way. He continued to move towards it. It was looking out away from him. In the direction of his boat, oh his safe escape down the river and away from these black blooded raiders.

His knife came silently out of its leather sheath. It’s wide blade honed to razor edge. His other hand pulled the ‘hawk out of his belt by the haft. It’s head was smaller it wasn’t meant for work as a hatchet. It was meant for the grizzly task it was about to be put to. It slowly turned its back on the direction he was hidden. That was all the hunter needed.

He lept, his ‘hawk coming down in a wicked strike that dug into its skull. It staggered and fell. He fell with it into the grass not moving. Making sure the thing was dead and listening for the sound of its breathen moving. He heard nothing. He slowly moved of it. His buckskins patched with new spots of black blood. He slowly raised up. Scanned. Back down. Walking low to his rifle and slinging it. Advancing toward his canoe. He pushing it out into the river laid down letting the current carry the boat hoping that it would lead him away from the main group. He laid still in the boat slowly cocking the hammer of his rifle trying to mute the clunk of the spring as it came back into full cock. The canoe was picking up speed. He would have to guide it soon and just hope that he was past the main orc groups. With a deep breath he rose up and leaned into his paddle adding to the speed from the current. The banks looked clear but you could never tell how many where in the bands of orcs. Paddling. Paddling. He realized that his heart was pounding and he took a deep breath to slow it down. From behind he heard an inhuman cry of rage. He sank the paddle into the water knowing they must have found their newly dead comrade. ****

It was a sight, it always was, watching the armored wave of the crusaders moving to the beeches in the walls pushing through the hell that rained down on them, never stopping them only driving them all the harder.

The Jager sat in his haunches waiting for the signal that would send them forward, granted forward was relative to him since he was only planning to get into better firing positions. To reach out and snatch the lives of the enemy with his rifled musket. The long knife like sword he carried had been wet with enemy blood before but it was far from his preferred method of combat.

***

“You need to wake up now.”

My eyes snapped open. My heart was pounding in my rib cage. Smith and Wesson already in my hand. The fire had burned down. The embers glowing dull in to the deep dark of the night. Candles set near the bed but I didn’t move to light them. Only rolling slowly out of bed. Moving low to the front window. The moon cast out onto the clear cut grass of my property. It lit them. Five of them in a line walking steady towards the house. Slowly still I move along the wall. My rifle ready near the door. The widows open to the warm night air.

***

The full moons always got a bad rap. During the time of unkindness full moons were the calmest times for us. Standing watch through he night with the white blaze of the moon stretched across the landscape. No time to move. No time to go out for the scalps of the communist bastereds that lay out there like the fools they are. Mindless. Frightened. Waiting to be culled. There time would come soon enough. It was right that they feared the pack that was coming for them. Because when this full moon was done having its fun. When the new moon came forth and only darkness was at hand. Then they new to fear the darkness. Because it silently heralded their death. The beginning found them not even really posting watches around the areas they carved out with their terror campaign. Breaking into houses and taking them as the “property of the people.” The power grids at the time were notoriously weak. It wasn’t nothing to pop a line down and plunge the area into darkness. Then we slowly work our way in. Shadows detached and walking through the world. It was so easy at the start that it was hard to talk themselves into the fact that it wasn’t murder. Coming through open doors or sliding over windows. It was what they hard earned though. The feeling of hearts stopping as sharp steel is rammed into them. Final screams muffled by gloved hands. It was remarkable how little they bled. Some nights they would wait until the lone survivor woke. Wait to hear the screams as the found themselves in a nightmare.

****

When he stepped out of the Tailor shop he ew one or two looks. The new brown tweed suit cut to his specifications. That was to help him blend into the crowds walking around. However the pair of revolvers, worn butt out in a pair of well worn and cared for holsters, where what would draw the eye. It was odd being in a land where no one seemed to wear irons. An odd custom, seemed that people were much less likely to be cordial if they didn’t think there was a chance you’d turn their head into a canoe. If they thought the wheel guns were bad then they would really hate to see the rest of his luggage he thought as he walked down the side walk. The evening was coming on traffic in the cobbled road rattling by him and the murmured conversation of street vendors selling there wears and the subjects passing on their normal day.

The feel of the new clothes was somewhat alien to him. Long used to the feel of homespun clothing, well worn wools and denims. A man of the wild in a whole new frontier of brick and iron.

He took out the worn and creased letter that had been with him the whole way. Opening it up to see the so familiar hand writing. He had long since memorized it, but looking I’ve the so very Familiar hand

I cannot risk any harm coming to you my most dear. I must travel far away. Please do not seek me out. I am sorry. He still didn’t understand why. To think that some sort of earthly danger could come between them was almost to silly to believe. They had been together on the open plains where death was constantly at his shoulder. Where he had done terrible things in order to keep them alive. Now suddenly there was something dangerous?