Hoplite stared intently at the Fiendwallers as they worked, his patience straining as the men slowly assembled the wagon. It was difficult for him to just sit by and watch as the builders slowly toiled to put the vehicle together, a part of him wanted to bark orders to work faster, or to simply move in and start putting the pieces together himself. However, he held back, for Hoplite knew that the wagon would need to be assembled correctly. If that took extra time, it would be worth it. After all, if this wagon were to suffer damage from faulty construction, the results could be fatal for the entire party.

Nothing in the Fiendwood was edible; plants, animals, all of it was contaminated by the Death Spiral. Any water that could be found in the Fiendwood was safe to drink at least, provided it was filtered and boiled properly. That was what Twindil thought anyway, but Hoplite wasn’t sure. The paladin was fairly certain in her theory, but had still firmly urged the party to ration the water they would bring with them. They wouldn’t try filtering and boiling unless there was no other option, and if it came to that, Twindil had said she would volunteer herself to test any purified water first.

As the wheels were finally being set in place, Hoplite found himself wondering if his own body would be able to filter out the curse. If it wasn’t really a virus… would his body actually be able to resist it? His throat was installed with a filter that, when activated, would purify any liquid he drank… but would it be enough? Hoplite frowned as his thoughts drifted to the death-day celebration and how he had completely humiliated himself before the hundreds of party-goers.

He should have activated that filter when the party had started, maybe then, he wouldn’t have become intoxicated. The filter did make breathing difficult when it slid into place, and with how Hoplite had been affected by the magical narcotic in the air, it had been no surprise that he never used it. When that strange peace had settled over him, the last thing on his mind had been activating the uncomftorable throat filter.

Prancing around with elves… Hoplite grit his teeth in irritation, when was he going to let these embarrassing memories go? There was no going back on what had happened, it was best to move on. With that thought, he turned his attentions away from the wagon to instead focus on his surroundings.

The center of the forward camp bustled with activity, with several Fiendwallers, Defenders, and Tongues going about various tasks, from patrolling the perimeter and clearing rubble, to bringing food and water from the untainted side of the wall. Like Hoplite himself, Twindil, Alistair, Kid’ka, and the rest of the party all stood around the wagon, watching it be assembled by a dozen Fiendwallers that toiled and cursed as they worked.

Lance seemed nervous, switching off from staring at the hill of rubble to the horizon far to the east. Was she reconsidering accompanying them on the mission? It was incredibly dangerous, and Hoplite did expect at least a few casualties among this team, either from being overwhelmed by fiends, or exposure to the curse. If she went back now… well, Hoplite supposed that he couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t force her to go, it was as she told him days ago…

She wasn’t his soldier.

And while that was true, he still hoped that she would stick with him. Lance has proven more than capable of taking care of herself in the field, she’d not be a burden. These others though… Hoplite was unsure. It was true that they were proficient in fighting off fiends, Hoplite had learned that when they had all fought side-by-side during that ambush in the Faewood, where fiends had poured out from the trees like a flood.

Yet, that had been the only time he’d ever seen them operate in combat. There were too many unknowns with these mutants, unlike with Lance and Michael. Just how would Twindil and her friends react to a comrade dying, starvation, and other stresses?

Hoplite supposed that he would find out during this operation.

The Fiendwallers building the wagon strained, trying to heave up the bed of the vehicle to more easily slide a wheel into place. Hoplite immediately stomped forward, lifting the bed up with a single hand as the men goggled at him.

“Finish the installation.” Hoplite ordered.

“Uh, y-yes milord.” One of the men said after a short pause.

With Hoplite hefting up the wagon, the Fiendwallers very quickly were able to slide the wheels in place, making sure they were firm and secure before stepping back.

“A-alright milord, it do be done. If you c-can lower it we can help load your extra provisions.” The man stuttered, his hands shaking slightly as he stared into Hoplite's featureless helmet.

The Fiendwaller’s tone wasn’t horrified… it was awed. Hoplite needed to keep in mind that he had become famous for clearing out the fiends that had threatened to flood over the breach. That hadn’t just been Hoplite though, the Tongues had been at his back… Hoplite could not take all the credit for eliminating the threat. Maybe the man was awed because he knew that Hoplite had killed a Pillar-Born? Had word spread that quickly already? Hoplite then set the wagon down, slowly so as to not damage any of its parts, stepping back to admire the Fiendwaller’s handiwork.

It was a large wagon, as Hoplite had requested, about as wide as a T-57 Rhino and as long as Hoplite was tall. The bed held more than enough room to carry the party and the extra provisions they would need for the journey. It would be incredibly heavy and difficult to move, even with a full team of horses, but not so for a Hoplite.

Elum may doubt that Hoplite could pull the wagon across the bridge in merely a week, but Hoplite would prove him wrong. He blinked in surprise again as a new desire began plaguing his mind. For some reason… he wanted to prove Elum wrong. It had irritated him that the red-skinned mutant had disbelieved him and Hoplite, for whatever reason… saw it as a sort of challenge. He knew that it was immature and unprofessional to feel this way, but Hoplite could not seem to help it.

Every day that he spent out of the cold, dreamless sleep of cryo brought him closer and closer to re-embracing his human nature. Old emotions that Hoplite thought long-dead were beginning to flare back to life and immature impulses threatened to crack his steely discipline. Hoplite needed to stay diligent to ensure that wouldn’t happen, the Eighth Arm could not have a Hoplite embracing their humanity like this, he was a tool to be used, a weapon against all that would bring harm to humanity.

Nothing more.

With that thought firmly set in his mind, Hoplite moved to the front of the wagon, hefting his bags of munitions with him as the Fiendwaller’s moved to put a canvas cover over the bed. The rations and weapons that they would bring had to be protected from the elements, as did the party themselves . Hoplite himself would be fine of course, the Phalanx armor -and even his own skin- had been installed with flexible Kelvinite piping, his body temperature couldn’t drop to fatal levels, nor could he suffer from the effects of intense heat.

Not that he would be exposed to intense heat, he suspected that the Fiendwood was a colder climate. When he had first laid eyes upon Ahkoolis from the Sparrow, Hoplite had seen an infected purple blotch on the lower-end of the planet. With his current intel, Hoplite could surmise that it was the Fiendwood that he had seen, situated above a polar ice cap.

The party seemed to have taken this into account as well, for much of what they loaded onto the cart were warm furs and thick wool cloaks. Indeed, they seemed to understand just how frigid things would become the deeper they went into the Fiendwood. All except for Elum, who’s packs seemed to contain naught else but rations. Perhaps Elum’s body temperature was higher than average, like Hoplite himself?

If so, Hoplite would have less need to remove the Phalanx armor. Elum could fulfill the role of biological heater in Hoplite’s place. Of course, utilizing body heat would be for emergencies only… but who knew just how cold it would get in the Fiendwood?

Once everything was loaded onto the cart, Hoplite strode around to the front, seeing the wooden crossbar that he’d be gripping for the length of the journey. Lance climbed into the wagon bed, approaching him from behind and looking pensive.

“Are you ready?” Hoplite asked her, slinging off the multitude of packs tied to his body before securing them to the coach.

Lance sighed and shook her head “I don’t think I could ever be ready for this, but I’m set now.” She said with finality “I have to do it.”

“...Affirmitive.” Hoplite said after a short pause. What could he say to calm her nerves? “Casualties will be kept at a minumum.” He told her in as reassuring a tone as he was able.

Lance winced at his words, and Hoplite frowned. What had he said that elicited that reaction?

“Naw we ain’t gonna have no casualties.” Michael said, climbing onto the bed behind her “We’re the best, ain’t nobody dyin’ while we’re around.”

Hoplite disagreed. With the looming dangers of the Fiendwood, it would be impossible to keep everybody alive. Why did he lie to her that way? What was the purpose?

“I hope so…” Lance said with a sigh “I don’t want to become a fiend…”

“That ain’t gonna happen, trust me. The best, remember?” Michael asked her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Again, the odds of coming out of the Fiendwood without infection was unlikely. Maybe not everyone would become afflicted, but from Hoplite’s estimates-

Then suddenly, he understood. This was not something to be based in logic, it was about reassurance. There was value in keeping spirits high on a risky mission such as this, despite the truth of the dangers. Telling Lance that some of them would die or become infected was just the plain truth, but doing so would serve no other purpose than to demoralize her. Michael’s approach was… it was superior to Hoplite’s, at least in regards to normal people.

Hoplites and Paladins always dealed with pure logic. To expect casualties when going up against the odds, they did not… what was the term that was most often used for this? Ah yes, sugar coat. Super-soldiers did not sugar coat the risks of their missions to anyone, not to standard Eighth Arm infantry, and certainly not to each other. Hoplite was simply not used to such a thing, if death was likely, then it should be best to be honest about it… Right?

Perhaps not in this instance. From now on, he’d keep his realistic expectations to himself. The number of casualties may rise if the party came to despair. Once Hoplite was finished unloading his packs, he gripped the crossbar, waiting for everyone to load extra rations into the wagon before finally settling in themselves.

When all eight party members settled into the wagon, Hoplite turned his head “All supplies loaded? Enough rations to make the trip?”

“We have too much I’d say.” Alistair said, adjusting himself between two large sacks “It’s cramped back here.”

“Live with it.” Hoplite replied “Better safe than sorry.”

Alistair blew out his lips and simply nodded in response, right before slapping Theopalu’s hand away from one of the ration sacks.

“You ate an entire turkey just an hour ago, we have to make this last, no more extra’s for you!” Alistair shouted, his face turning a hue of crimson.

Theopalu gave a small frown before returning to his seat, shaking his head as he went. Kid’ka, who was seated next to the elder elf, gave a pat on Theopalu’s shoulder.

“Sorry, he’s right. I can’t sneak you anything anymore.” Kid’ka told Theopalu with a frown “Maybe there’s some bugs on the wagon you can munch on? Maybe a spider or termite?”

At the mention of potential insects to devour, Theopalu immedliately began searching, lifting up bags and peering between the seams of the planks for any unfortunate morsels. Hoplite took a deep breath as he stared out at the horizon, scanning this way and that for any approaching hordes of fiends that could be heading for the camp. There were groups of stragglers here and there of course, all pouring across the Greatbridge to reach the Faewood…

Hoplite blinked as he realized that he had no idea where the Greatbridge was actually located. How would he find it? It would have to be located along the shore for certain, but how long would it take them to reach it? If only there was a-

Hoplite berated himself for forgetting Theopalu. The elder elf had apparently lived in the Fiendwood long ago, before it was cursed. Hoplite would need Theopalu to provide directions, it was the whole reason Twindil and her friends had hired him in the first place.

“Theopalu, front of the wagon.” Hoplite ordered “Point me toward the Greatbridge.”

“Hmm…” Theopalu hummed “Uh… I’ll stay back here. I don’t like you.”

Theopalu didn’t like him? Hoplite wasn’t sure why, but that wasn’t a factor to the mission. Theopalu needed to fulfill his role as a guide, and if he didn’t do that, he would need to leave. Had Theopalu lied to Twindil about knowing the way through the Fiendwood? If that were the case, he had no purpose besides eating up needed rations.

“I don’t care.” Hoplite said in his monotone “Point me toward the Greatbridge, or get out of the wagon.”

Theopalu scratched his cheek before narrowing his old eyes toward the horizon “I think if you follow the sun, you’ll reach it.”

“You think!?” Alistair shouted “You said you knew this place like the back of your hand!”

“That was two-thousand years ago boy…” Theopalu yawned “I just remember that it was in that general direction. When we reach the shore, you won’t be able to miss it anyway.”

Hoplite glared at Theopalu as he finished speaking, another emotion welling within him as the elder elf settled back into his seat. Hoplite’s face continued to grow hotter the longer he stared at Theopalu, the veins on his face bulging as he imagined the best way to crush the old elf’s skull.

Hoplite blinked again, turning his attention back to his forward facing camera and away from Theopalu. Why did that provoke such a reaction from Hoplite? What had Theopalu done that made Hoplite’s thoughts turn to murder? It wasn’t natural, he’d been talked down to all his life by First Arm nobility and had not felt a thing… all Theopalu had done was say that he didn’t like Hoplite.

For some inexplicable reason… Hoplite didn’t like him either. It was strange… immature… even unnatural. The firm dislike for Theopalu had invaded Hoplite’s mind much as the peace had during the death-day celebration. For some reason, his blood felt hot, and not just the heat of frustration or anger, but physically hot.

His skin blistered from the heat, his body regenerating the damage and leaving a tiny pit in his stomach. The Kelvinite lining his flesh fed on the excess heat, cold soon replacing it as the bionic fulfilled its purpose. Emotion alone would not have provoked such a physical reacion… so the question was, what had caused it?

There was something strange about Theopalu… His eating habits, the way fiends ignored him, not to mention how he had just now gotten Hoplite’s blood to boil… literally. He’d need to interrogate the elder elf later when the opportunity presented itself.

For now though, it was time to set off. Hoplite heaved the cart easily, in a slow walk at first, before breaking into a full on sprint. The Fiendwallers, Tongues, and Defenders all gave whooping cheers for Hoplite, telling him to slay Kazon and to destroy the Rotting Ilum. More intel he’d need to ask about once the days running was completed.

The eight in the wagon all seemed to tense up as Hoplite pulled, Michael letting out a whooping “Yeah!” As the wagon took off.

He hoped that they would be able to find more survivors from the Sparrow…

Hoplite needed to find them, before he became a person again.