"What do you see?"

"Looks like two of ours. The sun's practically turnin' their scalps to beacons. What a glow!"

"What?"

"They're out in the wide open, just walking. Or I should say, chugging along."

"Ranks?"

"Rookies at least. Hard to tell from the scope."

"What about marks?"

"Does it matter? Calm it with the questions already. Besides, heads are slumped down, so no telling."

"You know what the general said. Manpower's gotta stay on base unless they're scouting. That sounds like some strays."

"I could go ahead and cap 'em, but you forget who you're talking to."

"That doesn't excuse orders."

"Nothing excuses weening out troops for no good reason ... Let's see where they're headed."

* * *

As the noon struck, Dimm and Boren continued their search for enlightenment. The heat intensified the dryness crusting this climate; any observation of the outer reaches of the Sedion Desert was blurred by searing fluctuations in the air.

As if there were anything to witness, anyway.

Out within the open canyon, only small amounts of sand traps in the dunes had any stay for miles. Or, more so, any sort of shelter from the intense beams – scattered stretches apart.

The two had covered some distance between them and their abandoned duties, but each had no trouble seeing it creep over their backs. Nothing easily ignored for either of them. However, only one was willing to let it show.

Their precious seconds gave way to constant observation of the land among them. Both harbored guilt in their heart; whether it be ill-placed or not.

It was real.

It was prominent even in the prime Scholar defector. Even so, both tirelessly covered the other's back in these trying times. At least this is true of the Anubian soldier.

Both hobbled forward, moistened heavily without a prayer. Boren turned to Dimm.

"Into the great yonder, right?" sarcastically quipped Boren with a parched throat. "Gotta love this adventure!"

"Don't you have some more scanning to do?" replied Dimm in a similar fashion.

"Well, excuse me for trying to stay alive, man! If I didn't know any better, I'd think this was a suicide attempt."

"I dunno, is it?! Must be one of those 'life mysteries' of mine. That'd really suck for you!" Dimm's warning accompanied a snigger. Boren rolled his eyes. Anything to save his breath.

"Whatever it is, keep sharp-"

Dimm shot his pointer finger right. Both now gazed hungrily upon a steep incline of slate-faced rocks following up a small dune. Without much hesitation, they moved quickly to take up position behind. Boren peaked out to the closing, distant city of Crygor.

Its structures and skyscrapers were daunting in stature – doubled by their ever-growing proximity. The activity just near the massive circular wall was beyond busy; multiple refugee transport trucks parked themselves at the Northside checkpoint where poor migrants must be admitted before entering the city itself

Highly exploitable, as they had known before.

This utopia's never saw the world outside in varying grays. Crygor's tolerance of Anubians runs the gambit of "thrown in prison for the rest of your life" or "shoot that tat-headed freak on-sight!"

"Well?" asked Dimm, close behind and hugging the rock formation with his back. "What do you see?"

"Seems like the rush is in full effect. Transports and personnel everywhere."

"Hold on a minute ... Personnel outside the gate?" Dimm's voice hitched. "That's new!"

"Bet they got spooked by deadly 'Anubian Insurgents,'" mimicking quotation marks. Both shared a brief reprieve in laughter.

Much too long since they unwound like this.

Boren retracted, forced his attention to more pressing issues.

Dimm slid his way to the opposite end and peaked out for a different angle. His fresh perspective produced a strange cave formation sitting just below one of many thin crusts of speared rock, surrounded by inclines of sand pockets on either side. A tattered, red cloth acted as a flag on a wooden pole just outside the opening. Its very foundation splayed and worn by violent winds, pelting dust specks out of nature's semi-automatic.

Thrilled, Dimm wasted no time in waving down Boren.

"Boren, you've gotta see this!" he announced. Without a word, Boren came around, shared in the discovery. He was quick in expressing relief, as seen, firstly, by his deflating diaphragm.

"Finally, a ... Cannibal checkpoint ... (Oh, great.)"

"A what?"

"Oh, that's right!" Realization hit hard. "You've never had to deal with the Cannibals, have you?" Boren faced back to Dimm as if looking for confirmation. But all he found were baffled eyes and a sort of curious twitch embedded in the Scholar's expression – an unseasoned greenhorn cluelessness.

"Say again—a what?!"

"Okay, so Cannibals are littered throughout the wastelands here in small packs. It's rare, though that a group will give us shit. Still. A rare few worth watching." He sunk back into a previous tour, still trying to forget.

"So. They're the less deadly version of every other scumbag out here?" Boren shook his head.

"Not even close man! Their diet's what separates them from any other wannabe gang."

"Oh, I'm terrifie-"

"And that diet consists of nothing but human meat ..."

An immediate silence tailed. "And Anubian."

Dimm fell quiet, taking a shy breath, reinforced his expectations.

"I'm still not afraid of some thugs ..."

"You should be." Boren shrugged with an immediate, escaping chuckle. "I taste like shit, so you're the next best dish!"

Boren was competent at extracting Dimm and all his woes for a good time. However, much like right now, the unstable Scholar wasn't in on the joke.

"C'mon, time to move on," Boren dismissed, dismounted their cover.

His stance contorted to a hunch as he ran.

The harder you tuck and wove, the harder a target even the biggest of warrior became. Dimm followed suit, hugged close behind Boren's advance as both conquered the distance in a low sprint. Each kept their bronzed metal blade scabbards close to their grasp when they arrived under the shaded layer of spearhead rock.

The relief was instantaneous, a cooling gust smacking against their persons.

They halted their advance just upon the flag, began sweeping the immediate area closely.

"All clear," signaled Dimm, relaxing too soon. He looked at Boren for confirmation.

"Out here. We need to sweep inside, too—look alive."

The anxious soldier paced about all the same, never ceasing his movement no matter how slow he had to manage his speed. Now following Boren's trek with uncertainty, Dimm leaned himself against a crude support beam in protest.

"Hold it, we're not hunting! Just kicking back for a second, right?"

"Just a quick sweep so we don't get blind-sighted man. Besides, Cannibals aren't too hard in small numbers – trust me. These checkpoints are usually cramped as hell."

"Well, alright then." Dimm dismounted the jagged rock. "Take point – I've got your back." He formed up to Boren's six as they approached the narrowing cave funnel. They moved as one, and both seemed confident that whatever faced them in those muggy tunnels would fall victim to their years on the battlefield.

Dimm trained as a sharpshooter.

He once was a renowned marksman among their ranks, but even that reward came under scrutiny. Some believed the Scholars to be dirty fighters, or even cheaters in the line of duty. However rare they were in their social ranks, they were that amount tenfold under the Brotherhood banner.

Boren kept proficient as an all-around in the arts of combat. Though he lacked any renown in practice, Private Yarsi could outdo Oxmen in a sword duel. Their bond filled the creases in stonework as smelted Brokchalcium. Unbreakable and flawless.

The front line before the horde.

Suddenly, a gun shot rang through the narrow opening and bellowed a clacking discharge like through a brass wind instrument. The bullet whizzed by, escaped into the rustic, aluminum-padded beam behind them.

Shredded through a chicken wire layer.

Either this was deliberate, or the shooter was aiming with a lazy eye. Whatever the case, the two immediately darted opposite from one another and sizzled their swords free from their scabbards.

Bloodwicker, the horde had titled them. They draw as easily as they cut. Their momentum carries them thickly through the air to lob limbs – as easy as wicker threads.

Soon, what approached them turned out to be a very large man, clad in ramshackle steel war attire, carrying a bayonet-mounted semi-auto rifle of black – spotted in lime bile. Smoke lingered gracefully from the barrel until it was pardoned with a heavy wisp of air from this hulking challenger's lungs. Much like his outer self in all of its chromatic adorn, the process rattled and tinged slightly.

Was he, himself, a mechanical apparatus?

With a complexion of ashy brown, greasy strings of black hair meshed into a high ponytail, the figure pulled the bandana masking his face down to reveal a damaged, rotten-toothed snarl.

He, the metal man, lifted his single-optic visor of brick red to admire the Anubians without digital influence. His gaze was one of vicious intent and ruthless potential. Empty of any expression. Nearly grey in appearance.

"Pardon, but I think you've got the wrong homestead, friends," greeted the figure with mushy twang, fighting infection. "You best state your business here real quick." He parted the gun to his side and dropped the fun and games with an attentive glare.

At this moment, many Cannibal grunts sprang from the blanket of sand behind – fully cloaked in ragged garb, armed with similarly crafted weaponry. The only kind of uniform they all shared. "Better yet ..." the Cannibal continued, one capable of being their leader by assumption as he raised his weapon along with his comrades, "let's have a stroll!"

"Listen, we're-" Boren was dissuaded by a stray gunshot.

"Peacekeepers?!

"Anubian protocol dictates that all negotiations must be met by a party of four. Unarmed."

Dimm and Boren turned to one another in disarray. How could one of these Cannibals know so much of the Anubian Code? Impossible, especially for a people who can read as well as a brick wall.

Dimm peered over their steel-laden host, curiously examining him from every possible angle.

"Who ... are you?"

"Call me Vera! Or as they've grown to calling me: the 'Harvestseed.'"

"The what?"

"No more words!" shouted Vera, motioned to his men to form a converging blockade from behind. "You two will have plenty of time to chat on the journey back to The Pot." His troops visibly reveled in the thought. Their mindless stares that much more barren and primal by peach-tinted, double-eyed optics of their own.

The Cannibals huddled near the two, rubbing their noses, molesting their odor like dogs. Forcing their rifle barrels forward, the now captive rogues were forced to stumble through the cave.

Vera chuckled as he caught onto Boren's attention.

Or what his men were whiffing.

"Don't you worry. You'll be the first dinner!"

* * *

Another Anubian body plummeted to the ground as the sun finished its descent behind the mountains. Gyone dismounted Gale's bloodstained blades from the corpse's back when he took inventory of his new travel company, Eve.

He groaned. "You're not proving to be a good luck charm miss."

"I'm so very sorry mister!" begged Eve as she bowed. She performed this plea as courteous as possible. However, you could tell the shock hadn't fully worn off, as foretold by the spastic and jumpy way she went about it.

"Yikes, would you calm down?

"If I wasn't gonna see this through, you would've been on your own a long time ago." Her courteous demeanor shifted dramatically, revealing an annoyed glare and little to no attempted politeness.

"Oh, you'd leave a small girl out alone to die? Real charmer you are."

"It's nothing personal." Finally, her matted act was showing some holes. Gyone stepped closer to challenge. "I can be a gentleman if I want to be. Consider yourself lucky!"

"Right, right." She waved aside in a sleepy tone of voice, stretching her arms over her head, yawning. "You should carry me the rest of the way, being the strong gentlemen that you are."

Gyone looked at the lazy hitchhiker like the thought itself would be a betrayal. He backed off.

"Well ... I don't know if—gah!" His stalling proved unsuccessful as Eve's weight then crashed on his back, settled on and over his shoulders while she clung around his neck tightly, "do you mind?!" Though apt to rebel so well, he caught her legs.

"We're almost th- ... There anyway." Eve's voice nulled with a sleepy slur as she pointed to a carved archway, dug into an eroded palisade. Inside its core was the gate into Halsberth which greeted any visitors with an iron curtain. And they were just yards away.

Gyone felt a slight sting. Eve's hands had slumped down and made contact with the accursed amulet.

She had failed her battle to stay awake.

With only a shrug and a stern sigh, Gyone gripped tightly and continued to their destination.

A promise is a promise, after all.

Then again, the hunter was no stranger to lies. Maybe he felt an incomplete job would leave a sour mark on his reputation; or the pieces of what was left would lay bare for all to see.

Gyone finally stood before the gate, at its mercy. It was surrounded by a narrow pathway lining steep cliff faces. Her outsides were guarded by two men in gold-plated, black-underlined regalia. Another stood watch inside a watchtower hut built against the left pillar of the arch.

They stood clandestine, ready to grant their vindication with heavy repeaters.

As the Silent Death approached the holy city, one of the guards halted his advance.

"Go no further," demanded the goldish-red haired guard, palm forward with overzealous sting. "What deed brings you to this, the righteous city of Halsberth?" The other guard seemed noticeably annoyed; he scrunched his hand across his eyebrows.

"Yeah hi, we're looking for somewhere to stay the night. Maybe some dinner," said Gyone with a cheeky shrug, trying to keep balance. At 'dinner', the pup's head sprang out of the bag still held against Eve's lump shoulder with salivating jowls. All the while Gyone shrugged off a growing, stinging pain.

"As you can see, I kind of have a full party."

"Why, that's unfortunate for you. But we don't just let anybody into our city! You must prove your worth to me before I even begin to consider your residence!"

Again with th—you dipshit! a silent mouth cried from the watchtower.

"Well—hng—If you really need a goddamn justification, fine!" Gyone erupted, strained stare beaming into this man's very being. "Just a few miles away, you'll see a carriage set ablaze, surrounded by multiple Anubian bodies. A party hellbent on turning this little girl here into a goddamn jigsaw puzzle of giblets! I saved her—stuck my neck out, no questions asked."

"What—an Anubian party? By yourself?! Ha! Off with you and your tall tales! You have no place within our walls!"

Furious, Gyone dismounted Eve's body off his shoulders, her bag sliding with her descent as he turned away with the trot of a wild Mustang.

"Fine!" he surrendered. "But be a good choir boy and make sure she and the dog are taken care of for the night!

"Toss 'em and it'll be your ass, pal!"

With only startled confusion, the guard looked down to Eve's peaceful slumber; then to Gyone's storming off; stuttering as his sight darted back and forth for a moment.

Only minutes later, Gyone found himself traversing the surrounding mountainous exterior of the city. He had scoured atop after a fair while of climbing, and was now gazing upon the less-than-subtle architectures hidden from the outside world.

Her foundation scaled with eminence at different elevations upwards. Three spire-like cliffs in the heart of the city the edifice of their ascent. They were separated by a gap in the center, close enough, centered to act as a singular beacon. It was in that moment where Gyone shrugged off any chance he'd survive the fall if he were to scale the banner chain rails stemming from their peaks.

In the growing moonlight, the uniform buildings illuminated a sort of washed-out white when shone on; this sheen only complimented the red tribal lacework designs painted on their upper levels. Their implications escaped Gyone completely, much like any of the ideas littering streets down below in throwaway pamphlets and homestead that wove their allegiance.

Good thing the nightlife was dead.