Otherworld Squad

“Wood ceiling. Good ceiling. Ceiling wood. Ceiling good. Good wood ceiling. Would good ceiling? Good ceiling would if good ceiling could. Wood ceiling should if wood ceiling good. Ceiling. See Ling. Who is this Ling bloke anyway? … I am going insane. What time is it? I hate this.” Words tumbled into his semi-conscious mind like cars speeding down a highway on a foggy night.

Alter lay on his bed, eyes roving across the wooden planks above him. The world shifted and spun like a turntable and his addled brain was the record. It would certainly explain the needle-like, screeching headache that pierced his skull as his senses revolved. Every inch of his body felt off, fuzzy. His fingers would respond to his desires but they felt an ocean’s indescribable distance away. Drunkenness was truly a curse on man. Yet the bitter wonderfulness of its touch was unfathomably sweet, temptation would always win in the end. As such, Alter had always been particularly wary of drink. It, in his opinion, was a battle of attrition that could never be won. Alcohol was the sandpaper that wore down the soul, and right now he was being worn like a rug.

In his current state Alter could not entirely remember the evening’s events in any great detail. The squad and him had been plied with multiple rounds of beer by the grateful members of the Silver Pack. With their mouths sufficiently loosened, the squad was more than happy to recount the story of the last few days. Under the careful, more sober eye of Alter and his lieutenants the potentially compromising details were sidestepped well enough that none of their new friends felt the need to ask any awkward questions. Talk had then turned to tactics and methodology but by that point too much had been drunk for anyone to construct a coherent explanation. What had happened afterward was a simple blur, at some point he’d returned to the room and he had all his limbs intact. Good enough.

With a low groan Alter turned his head to look across the room and waited out the unpleasant second for his brain to slosh after it. The sleeping forms of his friends lumbered into focus, Pavejack and Walross were out cold but Boats seemed to be in a similarly uncomfortable, conscious position. The Scotsman sat on the end of his bed, his form silhouetted by the gleaming moonlight that poured through the open window. Seemingly aware that he was under observation, Boats turned towards him, the corners of his mouth twisting upward in an expression of equal parts sympathy and amusement.

“Let me guess, you’ve had worse?” He spoke softly with a chuckle.

“I’ve certainly had better.” Alter muttered as he levered himself upright, head whirling like a shaken snow globe.

“I told you shouldn’t enter shot contests with drinkers that are clearly out of your league.”

“What?” Alter looked at the man dumbfounded. He had no recollection of this.

“That Huntmaster of theirs challenged you, remember? First to five, the local spirit delicacy. Some sort of pear and radish liqueur. Smelled awful.” Boats revelled in the delivery of this sudden news.

Alter’s eyes sank to the floor as he pondered this new fact in silence for a handful of seconds.

“Did I win?” He asked, looking up again as he swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit up properly

“You drank half the first shot, wretched, accused the barman of poisoning you and then stumbled off to bed without another word. No sir you lost.” Boats’ torso contorted in silent laughter.

“Did I bet anything?” Alter pressed in mounting horror.

“I think so.”

“What?” His face began to whiten at the possibilities.

“I don’t know I was too busy laughing.”

“Oh god.” Alter slumped forward with enough force to nearly throw himself off the bed.

“You were drunk, boss. So were they. They’re not going to hold you to anything.” Boats reassured him

“How brilliantly smart of me. How are you doing? You seemed to be putting them away earlier.” Alter shifted from side to side testily, it seemed that being upright was helping.

“Ha. I’m no weak southerner.” Pride filled the man’s voice.

“Spare me the Braveheart nonsense. We both know that high alcohol tolerance is a symptom not a cause.”

Boats looked ready to turn the conversation into an argument but the soft flicker of warm firelight began to illuminate the window frame and the men’s attention was diverted.

“It’s been at least an hour since the street lights burnt out, there shouldn’t be any need to re-light them. Someone taking a late night stroll?” Alter asked.

“Changing of the guard perhaps. Someone in uniform is coming along the road with a torch. At speed, fella’s charging.” Boats brow furrowed as the light began to spill into the room.

This was far too much curiosity for Alter’s queasiness to suppress. With great effort he stood and made the perilous four step journey across to the window. There was indeed a lone figure of a guardsman hurrying left to right along the main street.

“He came from the direction of the main gate. I recognise the fact that this could be completely normal but something doesn’t sit right with me.” Boats continued.

Alter agreed, there was a certain ominous feeling in the still night air. The torch light faded as the guard moved away but soon enough more torches began to appear. First other individuals, then small groups began to hurry in both directions. The two men glanced at each other concerned as the urgency of the guard grew. Soon enough Marshal Vaulter made an appearance, dressed in a long robe with a sleep-dishevelled mess of a hairstyle. He stopped to speak to a group of guards in front of the Riverfield, as they spoke more figures appeared wearing increasingly fancy outfits. Alter strained to overhear what was being said but his head was still too clouded. Fortunately, Boats was under no such wicked condition.

“It’s hard to make out exactly what they’re talking about but it sounds like there’s trouble at the gate. Something is attacking it? Something … something invisible to the naked eye.” They looked at each other.

“Shit those things weren’t dead.” Alter hissed.

“And now they’ve followed us. Ach what have we done?” Snarled Boats.

Alter turned his attention back to the assembled soldiers below, having reached some unknown critical mass they were now making a beeline toward the beleaguered gate. He couldn’t help but notice the lack of panic on display, surely this merited greater concern? Either way, he wasn’t about to let his squad’s lack of diligence get anyone hurt.

“Grab that thermal scope, Marksman. Let’s get down there.” Alter spun from the window and moved back to his chosen corner, reaching for his rifle.

“Are you able to use that thing in your state?” Boats asked as he fiddled with his backpack.

Alter swore inwardly and instead reached for his chest rig. One of the larger pouches was his Personal Aid Kit. Inside, among the bandages and gauss, was a small vial of universal correctant. He hadn’t wanted to consume it without good reason but a drunk man aiming a gun was a terrible defensive strategy. With a frustrated growl he twisted the lid and downed the brackish liquid, in an instant he felt the mental mist lift and the world slotted neatly back into place.

“What’s happening?” A third voice joined the conversation as Walross sat up in his bed, his eyes widening as he saw what the two men were doing.

“Is your head in the game?” Alter asked as he picked up his rifle.

“I’m good to move.” Walross responded emphatically as he stood up.

“Then grab your weapon and follow us. I’ll brief you on the way.”

The three strode from the room, taking just enough care not to wake up the other lodgers of the Riverfield. The main room was still dimly lit, the fireplace along one of the sidewalls clung to defiant life and a pair of candles twinkled on the bar. There was no sign of any staff, though someone would be on duty somewhere. There was however one patron of the establishment who had not quite made it back to their room, instead finding themselves lying face down on the stairs, snoring quietly in a puddle of spilled booze. The front door was mercifully unlocked and the men slipped out into the street. Alter explained the supposed situation as they moved, Walross was incredulous at first but soon agreed that it was better to be safe than sorry.

Soon enough they came upon the unfolding scene. The gate was closed, its portcullis defiant in its barring of the way. Numerous torches and braziers cast orange and yellow light across the now empty market square. Before them, a semi-circle of guards stood watching the gate, talking uneasily amongst themselves. At their centre stood Vaulter, accompanied by three figures in green robes and hoods with unknown symbology emblazoned across their backs. Their conversation was interrupted by a strange scraping screech, and the faint flicker of sparks shone briefly from the portcullis. As the men approached, Boats flicked the thermal scope back on and pointed it forward but the crowd left them unable to determine if it really was the Medusids from their previous engagement. The sound of the scope’s activation was loud enough to catch the Marshal’s ear and he turned to them.

“What has brought you here, Captain? Rest assured we are in control of the situation.” His voice was tired and annoyed but Alter sensed they weren't the cause of his irritation.

“My men and I overheard you mention an invisible foe. We have ways of assisting, if you will permit us.” Alter offered but Vaulter seemed unimpressed.

“There will be no need. This is not the first time an Unrepentant has come knocking on my door. We are quite adept at dealing with them.” He turned away and signalled to the cloaked figures.

With curiosity, Alter moved forward to join the guards as the mystery men stepped forward. The one in the centre carried a large silver bowl while the two flanking them bore short spears of the same material. Another shower of sparks flew from the portcullis and Boats quickly caught up and raised the scope. Sure enough, the lanky form of a Medusid was slashing away at the reinforced wooden barrier. But something was wrong, it looked unsteady, its blows almost sent it reeling back a step. More than hurt, it seemed barely able to stand. Alter’s mind scoured his memories, one of the three Medusids had been slightly behind the others when the grenade exploded in front of them. It must’ve been sheltered enough from the fragmentation to survive, then that meant the gravity spheres were a protective mechanism and not a side effect of expiry. Perhaps the other two had succumbed to their wounds en route.

Another flash of light, different this time, snapped him back to the present. The silver bowl was filled with ghostly jade flame that roared and flared. The figure raised it on high, allowing its light to flood the gateway. The twisted, dogged silhouette of the Unrepentant came into view as a shadowy form raging at the portcullis. With reverence, the other two raised their spears, bathing their tips in the flame. The spears ignited and with smooth motions they pulled their arms back and hurled them towards the creature. The spears flew hungrily, almost as if guided by some unseen hand and struck home. The Unrepentant let out a pained howl, its form dissipating, transforming from shadow to black smoke. There was one last desperate swipe, then it was gone.

“Foul creature. Become dust.” Vaulter spat and turned away.

There was a smattering of triumphant cheers and relieved laughter from the assembled men, but soon enough the majority had begun to move away and return to their posts or beds. The sense of the show being over was strangely overwhelming to Alter as he stared at the point the Unrepentant had vacated. New questions, mistakes, revelations, it was all a bit much. He dreaded what tomorrow might bring. But tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.