Hans Draiger. 23 Sextilis, 1582 AAA. Carfani Southern Coast.

“Now, humans and woose-can’t tell the difference, honestly, all groundwalkers to me-them, I reckon they got stuck down there, small and weak, unable to fly or create fire without trickery and machines, because they’re the reincarnated souls of wyverns who failed to die as a warrior should, in battle or hunt or protecting eggs. Some of them die historic enough, they get reincarnated as wyverns. But more wyverns souls end up in humans than vice versa, which is why there’s more of them than there are of us.”

Fury, Stone Hill clan leader, interview with Triadic Priest-Scholar.

Crouching behind a wagon. Sobbing and Screaming. The smell of tents burning. Yells of “Kill the savages” and “They took our bloody silver” and “Humanity fuck yeah” and “Get that woosefucking witch”.

Fumbling to load a musket, shaking, the noise flowing together with the hundreds of souls visible in his third eye into a sensory onslaught that drowns out all rational thought. Uln beside him, muttering “they’re going to kill us, they’re going to kill us” over and over. A human, tall and lean, rounding the wagon, a bloodied shovel in his hands.

A strangled gasp of “run!” and then sprinting through mud, Uln at his side, filthy water splashing over his breeches. Whistle blasts and then half a dozen horses crashing past him, leaving him entirely soaked. A strangled squeal and he turns and stops and sees Uln down in the mud, her whole body painted brown, struggling to stand up. The man with the shovel advancing on them. Cavalry going in with singlesticks behind him, and humans and woose alike throwing down picks and shovels and long knives to turn and scatter.

Cock the musket and aim and fire.

Man keeps coming. Shut his eyes and hit with a tendril, trying to tear his soul. Man keeps coming. Grab a rock, and try and throw it, but it falls short. Man keeps coming. He kills Uln with his shovel, one, two, three hits, and Hans screams in horror and helplessness. The man keeps coming, grinning, and he tries to run, but his whole body feels like lead, and then the shovel comes down and he jerks awake.

Hans could feel Uln’s strong arms around him, and her nuzzling the back of his neck.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bad dream. It was that riot, back at the mining camp all over again, but they killed you and there was nothing I could do.”

She managed to get over him and kissed him. He could only see the silhouette of her body from light shining through the roof, but he could see her soul and feel her weight over him.

As she moved, she pushed the sleeping bag open and cold air got inside, making him shiver.

“In the real world, getting shot kills people. I’m pretty safe.”

“Yeah” Hans said, still half asleep.

He heard the noise of a wyvern landing outside, muffled by the stone walls.

“Hans.” said a scratchy, croaking voice.

He swore under his breath, and Uln rolled off him, scrambling to pull herself out of their sleeping bag.

He followed her out, fumbling for his breeches. He was only dressed in a shirt otherwise; between the sleeping bag and the warmth of Uln’s body he had little need of anything else.

“Do you lot always insist on turning up at the crack of dawn?” Hans asked.

The wyvern-Glaive, Hans realized-stuck her head in through the doorway.

“Had to be sure I got to you before you left.”

“What do you want to tell me?” Hans asked.

“Captain wanted me to tell you that she wasn’t telling the whole truth when she said that she had no intention of leading war-skeins against the Commonwealth. She has no intention of leading them herself. I’ll have that honour.”

For a brief moment, Hans was speechless. If that happened…

“You want to attack Carfane? What will that do besides start a war? Once the Commonwealth brings their full airfleet to bear, you’ll be forced off the peninsular with nothing to show for it but piles of bodies.”

“Yes. I want you to locate the killers, tell me their identities and locations, and then I’ll lead a “rogue” war-skein to kill them all and mummify their bodies”

Somewhat less insane than the original plan.

“You lot don’t fuck around” Uln said.

“I full well intend to show whatever group of groundwalkers did this what happens when they attack West Point Clan, commonwealth auxilia or no” Glaive said.

Her lips pulled up into something that resembled a grin, revealing dozens of very small, very sharp teeth.

Hans sighed. “I get payed to come out here to try and convince you not to burn anything down, and now you want me to track down these killers so you can burn them all?”

“You don’t want justice?”

Something inside him snapped.

“Of bloody course I want justice! The same sort of bastard who did this nearly murdered my wife twelve years ago, did fucking Black Creek, have been killing and raping and terrorizing Woose and Wyverns all across the peninsular.”

He sighed.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do everything in my power-which isn’t much-to track down the killers and bring them to justice. But if I know who they are, and can’t get them brought down myself… I’ll tell you exactly who did it. But only on one condition.”

“What?”

“If I can’t find out who did it, you let the bodies lie. I want the guilty killed, or executed, or forced into exile, I don’t give a damn as long as they’re gone. But I don’t want innocents killed on my account, or anyone else’s.”

Glaive nodded. “Fine. I’ll do it your way. But the commonwealth won’t be able to do anything about this. Mark my words, this is going to end in spilt blood and cracked bones. The only question is whose blood and bone”

Not 100% happy with this, but perfect is the enemy of adequate.

Hans retched over the side of the schooner for what seemed like the 50th time that day, as they pulled into Southmoor’s fishing harbour.

A couple of rowboats towed them into their berth, down on the beach. The half above was almost picturesque, dozens of low brick buildings with snow covered roofs and smoke drifting from chimneys. The schooner was, Hans suspected, a smuggler, dodging commonwealth taxes on seal oil and furs, and one of the few sailing the rough, stormy waters at the end of winter.

The captain stalked up to him. “Payment.”

He was a gruff, grizzled man who had the respect of his crew, and had taken an immediate dislike to Uln, and Hans by extension. But love of money seemed to outweigh hate of Woose, and he was perfectly willing to bring them along while he picked up furs, wait for the better part of a week, and then sail them back again.

He fumbled for the silver coins Eidre had given him to cover expenses. Thirty of the things, for a berth on the ship.

The captain smiled for what was, as far as he could tell, the first time in his life, as Hans passed him the coins.

“Can we get out of here?” Uln asked, standing next to their packs and weapons.

Hans dodged past a sailor carrying a coil of rope as he walked over to Uln.

“Yeah, let’s move. It’s only midday, we should be able to make a fair bit of the journey before nightfall.”

He put on his pack, slung the rifle over his back, and grabbed his half-pike. Uln did the same.

A pair of sailors threw down the gangplank, and he got off, as soon as possible. There were a half dozen other fishing boats and a few small cargo ships. Some of the sailors glanced warily at an airship, drifting along the horizon.

They set off immediately down the road. He would’ve found a wagon to hitch a ride on, but with snowed over roads walking was almost faster, and both of them wanted their feet back on solid ground after spending a week on a ship.

Herds of reapers stood in the fields, alongside long haired, cold resistant cattle. They were colossal, with four toed feet, shaggy brown feathers, and claws on their hands like harvesting scythes. They tracked him with beady eyes atop swanlike necks, whole herds moving their heads with uncanny coordination.

The snow was increasingly thin, and the dirt of the road boggy. Spring was coming, and with it roads that turned into rivers of mud.

The sun was setting by the time they arrived in Little Frontier, a sleepy farming town. It had gotten its name from the fact that it had been on the edge of the frontier, and was the smallest of the half dozen or so towns called that.

The coachhouse was easily found, a tall stone building, loopholed. It looked like it had been a former blockhouse.

Hans shoved open the door. No-one noticed another traveller. What they did notice was Uln.

He could almost feel people staring. Woose weren’t that rare, even away from the frontiers, but what really got their attention was that she was armed to the teeth, wearing a mix of human and Woose clothing, and walking alongside a human man.

He checked the hall, and was surprised to see Lorne sitting in corner, alongside a couple of men who he recognized as part of Eidre’s household.

“Hey, Lorne. What are you doing out here?” Hans asked.

Lorne turned around, putting down his drink.

“Half going to Southmoor to look into investing in the fisheries. Half meeting up with you two. While you were gone, we did some asking around.”

Hans sat down across from him.

“Did you find anything?”

Lorne leaned across the table.

“Yeah.”

He glanced about, checking that no one was listening in.

“We’re pretty sure who did it, but Eidre has the full details. The long and short of it, though, is that it was Brigade guys out from Trackford, alongside locals. Connor Ferrene, amongst others. He seems to have been the ringleader.”

I know them. I know murderers.