GUN SALAD

Marka Moukahla huffed and puffed, hobbling his way down the wide corridor with his forearm braced against the southern wall.

It had been several minutes since he’d heard the sounds of combat echoing from the leftmost passage. At the time he had already been loitering near its mouth, contemplating the possibility of going in after his friends. The only thing that stopped him was the passion behind their earlier insistence that he stay behind. 

Now he regretted that inaction. As painful and debilitating as his leg injury was, it was no excuse to leave his new companions to their fate in a threatening environment like this one. The possibility of traps left behind in old wizard fortifications was well understood among his people; a couple of headstrong Wessoners could not be expected to exhibit the same level of knowledge, nor to exercise the appropriate level of caution.

They needed him.

…Which is why it pained him to be moving so slowly. Whatever had caused those noises had gone worryingly silent over the course of his long and arrhythmic trek. In spite of himself, Marka had begun to assume the worst.

That’s when he heard it:

Singing. Someone up ahead was actually singing! Their voice was deep and even, and the song itself was unlike anything Marka had ever heard. His curiosity drove him to amble hastily ahead, and as he did he heard the words of the piece coming clearer in his ears:

To lead the *hic* weak to majesty

I relinquish all that’s dear to me

With forms profane and dwellings *hic* mean

They beg the grace of Enfield green

Marka squinted ahead into the darkness, but he was still too far distant to make out any hint of the singer’s physicality. Still, the song itself told him much. For one, the timber of the voice matched neither Morgan’s or Roulette’s, and the mention of Enfield suggested that the singer might be a historian or an academic–who else would dare to sing about their ancient enemies in such a flattering way? 

…And was that hiccuping punctuating their lyrics? Who on earth would get drunk in an underground ruin?

I wander ‘cross this wretched land *hic*

To impose Arcana’s guiding hand

A soldier born, I scour it clean

…To clear the path for Enfield green

A war chant, then? This was getting stranger by the minute. Marka dragged himself ever-closer to his destination, fighting the protestations of his bum leg every step of the way. He was shocked to see that the chamber he approached was not entirely dark; a few points of light still glimmered somewhere near the entrance. Fallen torches, perhaps? Or something more sinister?

By the time Marka crossed the threshold, the voice had diminished to little more than a whisper.

…Though, between bouts of fitful *hic* sleep…

…I find myself with cause to weep…

…Through all I’ve done… And all I’ve seen…

…I miss… The shores….. Of……….

Marka couldn’t see the life leaving the man–it was too dark for that, given their distance from the patterns of arcan that lined each wall. He could, however, make out the faintly glowing lattice of elemental damage that had been inflicted on his limbs… And hints of a large puddle of blood pooling beneath him.

A large, unmoving shape lay at his side. Marka thought it was some kind of bag or satchel at first; an equipment container that had been ravaged by traps the same way its owner had, judging by the presence of flickering, emberlike irregularities all along its surface.

…Of course, that theory went right out the window the moment he saw it start to wiggle.

Marka froze for a moment, but he quickly got over his shock and lowered himself gently to the floor. Whatever the thing was, it was clearly alive, and possibly in need of help. If I am to leave the mistakes of my past behind,

he reasoned, it will begin with kindness. 

He lowered his hands to the strange shape before him and found a textured surface of bandages beneath his fingertips. The entity inside wiggled enthusiastically at his touch–though, whether it was out of fear or excitement, Marka couldn’t tell. Lacking a tool to aid him in shearing through the web of bindings, the big man sought for a loose end and began to pull.

“Sorry…” he murmured. His method required rolling the trapped creature over again and again until the bindings came undone, and they were certain to be less than appreciative of that fact. He did his very best to make it pleasant for them, though; lifting them gently, he set the bound thing on the floor away from the blood and oriented them in the direction of the entrance. That way, at least, they were unlikely to get soaked through with gore or rolled into the path of the very traps that had felled the unfortunate drunk.

With that done, he began tugging on the loose strip of cloth he’d identified until the figure within started rolling in place. After a few seconds of this he hit upon a steady and effective rhythm and, from that point on, it simply became a matter of keeping it up until the unknown prisoner was loose.

Eventually, the bindings around her mouth became sufficiently loose for the girl to start gasping and coughing. The tone of that voice was instantly recognizable to Marka–it was Roulette! In a rush of relief he began clawing the remaining bandages from her frame, trying to do what he could to remove any and all restrictions on her breathing from the young woman’s body. He found that he needn’t have worried, though; his efforts thus far had left her almost entirely bandage-free.

“M-Marka… Marka…?” she said. Her voice sounded weak and breathless. Even in the dark, he could tell that she was shakily lifting herself up on all fours.

“Yes. I’m here.” he reassured her. “What has ha–”

A sudden thump against Marka’s chest cut him off, practically knocking the wind out of him. For a moment he thought he’d been deceived somehow; that the girl he’d just finished unwrapping was some kind of wizard’s trick designed to mimic one’s companions before going in for the kill.

He quickly realized the folly of that notion. No, he wasn’t being deceived–he wasn’t under attack.

She was just hugging him.

“Marka…! Oh, Marka…” she squeaked. It was the most heartbreakingly vulnerable sound he’d ever heard her produce. “I was… I was so scared…! Thank you! Thank you!”

Marka’s heart softened instantly. He wrapped his arms around her without a second thought, allowing the girl to sob into his shirt without judgment or complaint. He still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened here, but he knew instinctively that Roulette needed his support. Whatever had led to her unconventional imprisonment must have surely been harrowing… And even a strong soul like her wasn’t made of stone.

They remained in that posture for a minute or two, and by the end of it he was surprised to find that he felt nearly as emotional as she appeared to be. Roulette wasn’t his little girl. That much was obvious. But there, in the dark? With her eyes leaking and her shoulders trembling? It reminded him so much of Beretta; of boo-boos and bitter disappointments. Of times he’d yelled just a little too loud. The memories were so overwhelming–yet, at the same time, so profoundly healing–that he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness when she finally pulled away.

“It is no trouble,” he said softly. “You can count on me.”

“I know.” she said. And, somehow, he knew that she was smiling.

He allowed the silence between them to linger for a moment before trying his question again. “Do you feel able to tell me what happened, now?” he asked.

She shuddered. “Yeah,” she began, her voice no longer aquiver. “I was fightin’ a man–one from the Magocracy, if you can believe it. He was laid to rest here, only he didn’t die… He was just asleep. Some pig-headed priss came around and woke him up for some reason, gave him a gun that did just what you saw: wraps people up in a bunch of bandages so they can’t move anymore. It’s horrible. I could breathe in there, just barely, but he got me with a flamin’ bandage. Burns all over… I… I think they need to be treated, honestly.”

“Hmm. I think my mother told me a tale, once, of men like this,” Marka replied. “Mana-stunted children entombed, yet kept alive with stasis spells. It sounded too unbelievable to be true.”

“Well, start believin’ it, ‘cuz I met one,” she said. “Not exactly an experience I’d be keen on repeatin’. I dearly hope he was the last of them.”

“Me too,” he said, glancing in the direction of the man’s still-smoldering body. “What about Morgan? Did he fall to this magechild as well?”

Roulette gasped and leapt abruptly to her feet.

“Shit!” she exclaimed. “I knew I forgot somethin’!”