The Belly of the Beast
Nowhere to go, nowhere to dodge. Time seems to slow as the weapon descends towards you, the sharp serrated teeth stretching impossibly towards you, before, at last the Goth twist the shovel and impact. Lights out. And then, back again.
You, in your plane, the Goth airship before you. The fight, once more. Your magic betraying you, once more. You try to do better, but you know how this ends up. You alone, before the Goth, then the shovel, and lights out. For a bit you wondered, if you could change things. Extend out, instead of diving, gain altitude, gain speed, gain life to last until the other show up. But then Riya wouldn't make it. So you don't, and you dive in once more, no matter how many times this damn nightmare makes you relive the last hours of your life.
It's impossible to tell how much time has past when you finally wake up. Blearily, you open your eyes, finding yourself in a hammock, Riya dozing at the end of it, waiting for you to awaken. You try to make yourself heard, but your voice is too weak to make itself heard over the droning of the engines. Sitting up to get her attention proves an even worse idea. The merest movement of the hammock sends a wave of nausea to overwhelm you, and before you can stop it, you heave over the edge of the hammock and hurl. Vomit splatters the floor, stained with the red and black of blood, and the faint glimmerings of iron shavings. Even so, though your dignity might have suffered a mortal wound, the smell and splatter is enough to alert Riya.
When you look back up, you look directly in her face. You notice the scar, ugly and jagged, across one cheek. The scarf you gave her, gone. The color of the skin, all wrong. The shape of her face, the color of her eyes, the cap the clothes. The fugue of the nightmare finally releases it's grip on you, and you awaken to an entirely new one. Riya's airship did not have engines. The person standing in front of you is not her. There was no rescue, no escape, no way to escape the nightmare but to die in battle.
"It's good to see you awake at last" the Goth says, casually wiping some splatter of her cloak. "The Good doctor's serums do wonders, if you have the strength to face your death and fight on." She pauzes, the laughs for a moment "And well, if you don't, then all the better. The Craven's fate is slavery and servitude, till death discharge them of their duties. " Some mantra clearly, recited by rote, but with the conviction of a true believer.
You swallow away the last of the bile. The taste of blood and oil remains, as it will for a long time. "I don't believe we have met" you croak out. "What might your name be, fraulein"
You do not get to finish your sentence before the Goth lashes , her pistol hitting you straight on the temple. The waves of nausea rise again, but the feeling of cool metal, gun metal, resting against your forehead centers you. With great effort, you push down the vomit, and look at the Goth with your tearing eyes.
"Anyone else, I'd have shot for such an insult." the Goth says. "We are warriors, remember that. There's no place for women on Sigvird's sword. Ballast like that gets left behind at camp."
She holsters the gun again, her eyes kinder now. "But you must know that, don't you." She gestured at the vomit . "The craven fools at whatever convent you escaped from would never dare to cast magic such as that. They fear steel, they fear it's promise of blood and power, the unrelenting march of machinery. They betrayed their nation, ran away to hide in the forest rather than stand and die with the Emperor. They are too fearfull to taste real power, and so they hide, and raise their children away from the world. Knowing that they can not hope to stand up to it, they demonize true power, the androstic ideal of Sigvird himself, for if they had to face they know they would submit".
"But, as I said" the Goth repeats " you are no coward. You are not afraid to grasp the power of Iron, you can see through the lies the convent wove in front of your eyes. With guidance, such as I can provide, you could become a mighty powerful force indeed. An ally any squadron would beg to have." A recruiting pitch then. Unexpected, but then again, before today you'd never heard of the Goths. And from what you'd heard and seen, she needed all support you can get. Try as she might pretend otherwise, honored warriors don't ride escorts on decaying cargo shuttles.
"And if I refuse", you croak out.
"As I said before, the craven and weak are ballast that gets left behind at port, and Sigvird's sword will need all the lift it can get to cross the mountains". She looks at you again, a glint of joy in her eyes
"But if you were to attempt escape, I would be honored to cut you down. A death in battle is a noble end for a daring foe, is it not?"
Edit : Jumping on the age-old SV tradition of bribing the QM with snippets.
