"Are we done yet?"

Rob was sick of Preston's incessant whining. His mouth opened to tell him off, but this time, Mitch beat him to it.

"Aren't you a ball of joy? Shuddap, will you? Not all of us have been lounging around all day."

Night was falling again. Mitch had arrived earlier today, but had been flitting between caring for the horses, hunting, and overall making his presence known. Through all of this, he had more or less made Jerome utterly useless.

Jerome didn't find him nearly as amusing as Rob did.

"But we need to get going. I don't want to be here any longer than we have to."

Rob blinked as he realized Preston made him eat his own words.

"Why? Scared the big, scary, Asuméns will come and get you?" Jerome grunted. Mitch snorted.

"No! The place is just... Dreary."

"Just how I like it." The battlescarred warrior turned over, placed his clawed hands over his ears, and promptly tried to sleep.

Speaking of, Lachlan and Vik were already napping, having given up on trying to do anything. Mitch had been there every turn, taking matters into his own hands. Rob figured he was trying to force himself into being leader.

He also thought it wasn't going to work.

"It doesn't matter either way," he found himself saying. "We need to figure out what we're doing, now that everyone's here."

"Restoring peace," Preston laughed. "Isn't it obvious?" The drawl in his voice revealed he wasn't too thrilled about it.

"Unfortunately, it seems we have a few people unwilling to cooperate," Mitch pointed out. Rob's eyes narrowed.

That was his line.

Maybe he didn't find Mitch as amusing as he thought he did.

"Exactly... Preston, I don't know exactly how necromancy works, but could you bring back that messenger? There's more we need to know about him."

Preston blinked at him. "You mean resurrect a primie? No! He deserved to die when he did," he snarled.

"Wait, what messenger?" Mitch's face had drained color.

Moving his palms away from his ears, Jerome tilted his angled head up to look at the assassin apprentice. "Not one you need to know about."

Ignoring the warrior, Rob sighed. "One the Crux sent. Ty. Ring any bells?"

"He's dead?" Mitch's voice shattered.

Originally, Rob had thought Mitch was just weary of a secret getting out. Maybe he was the Blood Tide, or even knew the Blood Tide.

But wouldn't Lachlan have pointed him out already if he did, if he was?

"Died from battle wounds," Jerome shrugged. He had been laying on his side across a felled log a few minutes ago; now he was entirely sprawled across it, head moved to listen to Mitch and Rob. His size was intimidating, a good head taller than either of them, and had more muscle mass than any of them could ever hope for. Not that he would ever voice it, but Rob was nervous around him.

"No... No, that's not supposed to happen... Preston, you have to bring him back."

The necromancer had picked up an oddly-shaped rock, tossing it back and forth between his hands. "Nah."

"All of us will be killed if that messenger doesn't stay around us."

"I'll find a way to live." Red eyes lazily glanced up at Mitch, sliding to Rob as a smirk spread over his lips. "It's really not my job to watch you all, though it seems to be."

"You're part of a group now," Rob reminded him bitterly. "Like it or not, we're all in this."

"Do you know who Ty is?" Mitch snapped before Preston got a chance of to reply.

"A primie. A Couy, by the looks of it."

"He's Ian Stableton's kid, adopted. My brother. And do you know what Ian, the head of the Crux, does to people who let his children die?" Rob stared at Mitch.

That certainly explained a lot.

"Just bring him back and let me sleep, Chiefton damn it," Jerome mumbled.

After hearing Preston's teeth grit for about a minute, Rob saw as he finally got to his feet and wandered over to where Mors was tied. "Whatever... I'll do it. I won't keep him alive, but I'll let you get whatever information you need."

Mitch nodded, though still looked uncomfortable. He glanced at Rob.

"You can take Enfer. Just don't be too harsh with her, and she'll respond perfectly."

"Alright..." The assassin walked up to the black mare, watching as wise, dark eyes tracked his movements. He expertly swung into the saddle, twisting the reins through calloused fingered. As high and mighty as he put himself, he was careful in edging Enfer forwards into a canter, Rob noticed.

But not without a call of, "Hi-ho, Silver!"

+

Slowly, Preston lowered himself onto the ground. Mors pranced impatiently, tossing his head and revealing dirty, stinking bones.

"Hush," he mumbled to his mount, sorting through his saddlebags. He knew he had put it somewhere.

"What are you looking for?" The dashing assassin called out, still sat on top of Enfer. With the sleek, shining mare underneath him, he looked like some kind of brave knight, daring to leave his armor at home,

Unlike Rob, Preston noted.

His fingers finally scraped a smoother leather than the saddlebags, and he pulled out the thick book. It was bound in not cow leather, but human. Most shied away from the gruesome thing, but Preston had actually grown quite attatched to it. After all, it contained secrets and wonders only necromancers could feast their eyes upon.

Delicately, he flipped through pages, finding the specific spell he was searching for. The book wasn't there in case he forgot a word. Instead, it served as an anchor to his magic.

Glancing up at the spot where they had buried the vetris, he wandered over and scuffed a hole in the dirt with the tip of his polished, black boot. After just a few moments, he ran into cloth. Stepping away, he took one glance at the incantation and let it spill from his lips.

Pain ripped through his head, but he didn't let it show. He had long since learned that people wouldn't take him seriously. Instead, he let his eyes flash with the flames of the Underworld and his mouth curl into a cruel smile.

He had also long since learned there was no such thing as "Heaven."

"Rise!"

It was the final word of every spell, and the only one said in English. His fingers twisted and warped in a circle, then flicked up. The cloth, now powerered by working lungs, burst out of the ground as the primie boy looked around with scared eyes. Preston felt the energy drain from his very being with every moment the abomination's heart pumped. All the same, it wasn't even close to what it would have taken to fully raise the - possibly - sentient being.

"M-Mitch?" Ty blinked, scrambling to his feet. "I don't have to go back, it's all--"

Something kept him from speaking the rest and he broke off in sputters. Preston knew that the Undead couldn't speak of their life after death. Some deity, some magic, some curse held them from doing so.

"Shh, Ty..." Mitch slid off Enfer, landing gracefully. "We just need to know a few things."

He pulled the boy into an embrace, fingers working through his hair and one hand on his shoulderblades, despite the gravedirt, rot and blood.

"O-Okay..."

"Who attacked you?"

"Natives..."

Preston figured as such. They constantly battled against each other, unable to just come to a compromise. It was disgusting.

"Alright. What, exactly, did the Crux say?"

"They got a warning..." Ty's voice was beginning to steady. "Written in Colton's blood."

Mitch stared down at him. "Oh, Crux... Is Ian alright?"

"As good as he can be. You know he can't lose composure... But they claimed that he will not be the first. They're after you, Mitch... You and the other primitives. Then they'll kill the others and hang their heads in spikes as a reminder that this war will never end."

Mitch let the primie boy go, cursing under his breath. "Okay... Okay. I've got it. Thank you, Ty..." He gave a small smile.

Preston screwed up his nose as Ty muttered something in response, then promptly cut his spell. Mitch stared in horror as the light left his "brother's" eyes and his corpse crumpled, and by the time he had turned to face Preston, the mancer was already waiting on Mors' back.

"Let's go."

This time, Mitch climbed up onto Enfer's back and started towards camp without any noise.

+

"Why do we even bother? It's pointless, and we're all just risking our lives," Vik snapped. "Peace will do jack shit."

"The thief's right," Preston mumbled.

A bonfire sat in the middle of their little camp, and having rolled the log Jerome was sleeping on, along with a few others, into a sitting area, it wasn't shabby. It almost would have been pleasant had they not been arguing over who was right, wrong, and batshit crazy.

"'The thief' hasn't exactly been fighting in the war. He probably just hunkered down and hid and changed his kill count with the payment of his body," Rob snarled. Jerome hadn't ever seen him so defensive. "He doesn't know the ins and outs of the war. He hasn't been on the front lines of. He hasn't killed hundreds of people then had to go back to barracks with a straight face!"

"And you have?" Vik dug his nails into his palms and wrists, making the dark skin fill white.

"I have. I've fought on the front lines. I've planned battle strategies and both killed and sent people to their deaths. I'm a cavalier, for fuck's sake. Battle is what I do, and I've seen too much of it in this damn war! I'd be perfectly content to work as a stablehand now. I'm done with bloodshed." Rob's dark eyes were narrow and glinting with anger. Lachlan, who was also on his side, reached out and twisted his fingers around his wrist, thumb brushing over the back of his hand in a calming gesture.

"What do you two think?" The primitive asked, turning to Jerome and Mitch. They were - begrudgingly - sitting side-by-side on one of the logs; well, Jerome was sitting. Mitch was standing on it, balanced on the balls of his feet. His thin shoes had been abandoned a few minutes ago.

"I just want what's best for my tribe," Jerome mumbled, glancing around. He was still on the fence. War brought his tribe together, and gave him a higher chance of being given a great title, but peace meant going back to the old ways he longed for.

On second thought, it wasn't really for his tribe.

But Asuméns were selfish by law and by nature, though he knew the others wouldn't understand the serenity and power behind it.

"I just find you all amusing," Mitch snorted. "Scwabling like birds."

Preston huffed, and opened his mouth to speak. Rob cut him off.

"Perhaps... We should go somewhere else to 'scwable.' These woods aren't the safest place to be."

Of course, Jerome knew this would be coming. He had tried to avoid it, but that was nearly impossible.

Commandment Thirteen: Leaving the Woods or inviting someone else in is treason.

Well, he supposed he had technically already broken it. The fact of the matter was, he had let these foreigners stay when he should have driven them out. But it was the government's command...

Commandment Nine: The government's rule means nothing in the confines of the Holy Ground. Tyranny is king, and death and destruction is fair.

He had no justification for what he had done. Then again...

The fourteenth Commandment: There are no rules, only guidelines. Maybe I can get out of this.

A small smile quirked his lips. He had spent his life fighting to be Chiefton, since, although blatantly killing the current one was legal, it was more of an honor to be crowned by him. He had lived by every law and Commandment Asumén culture had to offer - and he always had.

"I know the way out," he said suddenly. It was true; he was walked to the very edge of the woods, but had never left before. This was his home, where he was raised.

It was one of the few things he cared about.

"Take us, then." Rob got to his feet. Mitch hopped off the log, watching as Lachlan, Preston, and Vik hesitantly rose. Jerome nodded, picking up his axe from where it rested. He waited for Rob and Preston to mount their horses, then glanced between the remaining three. "Lachlan, you should ride with Rob. Vik, you with Preston. Mitch... You can travel in the treetops, I'm guessing?" Mitch nodded at this. Vik hesitantly walked over to Preston, quickly getting a help up from the necromancer. Rob shifted forward a bit, allowing for Lachlan to rest behind him.

"So let's go." Jerome gave a rare grin, turned, and broke into a long, swinging sprint.

It had been a long time since he had run like this. Due to the seriousness of the war, there had been no time to rush the forest. He had longed for it.

While the others struggled to navigate around roots and thornbushes, keeping their horses at a swift trot, Jerome darted ahead, knowing every rock and bulge of dirt. It didn't take long for him to lift his axe to his mouth, sharp teeth digging into the soft wood, and drop onto all fours with a run that was more animal that human. There was a reason Asuméns were often mistaken as stark raving mad, or even as werewolves. In truth, they had just learned to watch the animals and mimic them.

"Jerome!"

The sudden call startled him, and he slid to a stop, raising to two feet. He saw the others a little ways back, with the exception of Mitch. His gaze swung to face the shadows. Three of them. A patrol.

"Chiefton wants to see you, traitor!" The smallest of the three called out. Her eyes glinted from the shade.

Mitch dropped down behind Jerome at that moment, one of his hands resting on his hip. Face red and still catching his breath, he cocked an eyebrow.

"Who... Are these, Jerome? Fuck buddies?"

Jerome chose to ignore him. "I'm no traitor," he growled. "I will still fight for Asumé. I will still practice and believe."

The others were drawing close. Lachlan jumped off Enfer and rushed over, his eyes wide. Vik stayed with Preston as Mors came to a halt a few feet back.

"You fight for them, not for us. How would you even prove it?" The tallest smirks, moving into view. Thick, shiny black hair falls around his neck. The two women slip up next to him, one with matching black hair and the other with brown. Jerome recognized the two black-haired ones with deep blue eyes as the Sá twins.

His mind flickered to ways to show them as his anger mounted, not at them as it should be, but at the other five he was currently traveling with.

A thought popped into his head. It was dangerous, he knew, and risky, but...

His fingers twitched in front of his chest. To anyone else, it would have looked to a muscle spasm.

To the Asumé patrol, it was a signal, clear as day.

Attack.