act22side

Dracos have excellent physical resilience! A few wounds won't kill her!

She is a Draco.

Her parents died on the snowiest of festival nights for this bloodline. She and her sister traveled to one city after another, living the childhoods that ambitious politicians who aimed to restore the monarchy had in mind for them.

She was born with her flames. Even now, her veins and organs can feel that scorching pain.

Where must she run to escape from that fate?

Once, she woke up on a sickbed aboard Rhodes Island. There, she laid on the bed and read. In the books were descriptions of Victoria's exquisite peace, of Tara's gentle, melodious madrigals.

But past her window, there outside, her injured allies would walk.

Even when she shuts her eyes, she can see the city in ruins. She was saved, but so many others died there.

Do it. Captain's given the order.

Take care of them first, then we'll deal with Dublinn's lot.

Don't worry, Taran. The blade works fast.

Whoof... That was close...

Hah, Fionn! I knew it!

—Where'd you come from?

Ugh...!

...H-Help me! Help!

Up! All of you who can stand, get up!

They haven't bound more than our hands! We've got the numbers! It's just three of them and one more who's hurt! We can take them!

Right, right! Let's do it!

We ran down that Viccy patrol in the village the other day! We can more than run this lot down!

Hey, Fionn, how'd you slip free?

I... I was squatting over there to check on Reed. Nobody saw me, so I sneaked a rock and cut through the rope...

...*sigh*. Just thinking about it scares me. What if I'd been just that little bit late back?

Don't think about it, then. Unbind me, and we'll help the others. Hurry.

I'll teach that stuck-up Viccy a lesson.

We're sad? We're just being used? My arse.

I just know there's nothing more real than the scars on my body, all the blood and tears I've shed.

What gives you—any right in hell to take the piss out of us?!

Captain! There's an uproar with the hostages—

Urgh—

—Did I take him out? Sorry, I can't see very well.

Hah, pretty strong there, you are!

Anyone else still tied up? I'll nab the Viccy's knife and cut you free.

Quick. He just sent word out.

Fergal, keep an ear out, see if there's any soldiers coming from that side. Fionn, get here and help up anyone who's hurt.

Move! Anyone who's got the legs, get going!

The refugee Tarans stumble frantically, running ever deeper into the woods.

They fled their homeland, those marshy soils, yet none are truly sure how fast they must run to leave the flames of war and death behind them.

If they can just escape this dark night, will that mean they can rebuild their homeland, free and peaceful?

Oi, Fionn, you know how to write. When we get out, write me a letter to send back home. Need to let them know I'm still alive.

Right, I hear you...

I'll do you some elderflower liqueur, true to my word. Get me a good set of all the brewing stuff from the market.

Right. Noted, noted. Don't even need my account book.

And then, all at once, they elect to stop in their tracks.

Someone lightly begins to whistle.

The Tarans have many things they cannot put into words. When they cannot find the words to express themselves, they simply sing.

They sing of glasses empty of alcohol, and loved ones who aren't there.

...Selmon.

I know.

I saw them fighting. Dublinn's in it, too. They're all looking to capture Reed.

Bagpipe and Ch'en are helping her, but it's just the three of them. Will they be fine?

I can smell smoke. There must still be firewood burning that way, it's so thick.

We might just be able to sneak ourselves inside, say, Selmon?

Let's go. Grab the Viccies' sabers and stuff. See any weapons on the way? We take them.

...Where must we go to escape from the Tarans' fate?

We just took out those guards! Nothing to be afraid of!

We're not fighting a war. We don't need to do them all in. We just need to rescue Reed, and we're good!

Moran, can you see? If the fire's not bright enough, take my hand and I'll guide you!

The smoke thickens. The waves of heat inch closer.

The woods are burning. Life is fading away.

Never has a soul called their names.

Never has a soul asked them their ideals, asked if the run they make is counter to the life they dream of living.

They bound ahead for the firelight, the one and only.

...'Reed.' Are they calling to me?