In Huck's Hands

Flay The Heretic Part 3

Lo'Ref's ears rang as the tank rumbled westward, the young soldier's excited chatter was barely audible over the grinding of gears and treads. Boss had angrily regained consciousness, his mood more putrid than ever as he nursed a throbbing headache. Kellog remained silent, his one good eye fixed on the horizon as if it were calling to him.

The unforgiving Buritian sun beat down on the metal beast as it crawled across the desert, kicking up clouds of ochre dust in its wake. Lo'Ref's borrowed uniform clung to his tawny skin, damp with sweat and dried blood. He found himself longing for the familiar discomfort of his old rags.

"We're approaching the western base," Kellog announced curtly, his voice tinged with relief and apprehension in equal measure as the controls whined with their use.

Boss grunted, adjusting his position fully upright, changing from his slouched stature. "About fuckin' time. These Rebel bastards better have some decent grub!"

As they crested a final shimmering dune, the western Vascan base sprawled before them. A stagnant mess of tents, prefabbed structures, and hastily erected fortifications spread across the desert floor like a vulgar patchwork bedcover. The new crimson banner of King Huckleberry Vasca fluttered alongside various tribal standards, a visual reminder of the uneasy alliance forged in blood and necessity.

Lo'Ref was surprised, only a short few days of being monarch and the Demon king had already aligned warring factions that had seen at least 2 centuries of civil war. He tried to shake the feeling of awe due to truly knowing the sheer power the creature wielded, if the others had seen what he had; they would have all turned and run from this country instead of fighting together under it.

The tank ground to a halt at the perimeter. A group of soldiers approached, their expressions a mix of curiosity and hostility as they were clearly rebels and not the normal Vascan forces that had been run out years ago. Lo'Ref noted the diversity in their appearances--some bore the dark skin and intricate facial tattoos of the muddy southern tribes, while others had the pale complexions and icy eyes of the northern Steppelands.

"State your business," barked a burly man with a thick accent Lo'Ref couldn't quite place, his face was like that of a statue but his eyes were wild with animation as they flicked across the embattled tank and its crew.

Boss heaved himself out of the tank, anchoring heavily on the orangey packed sand. "We're here on King Vasca's orders, you inbred sand rat. Now get out of our way before I use your skull as a piss pot...The battle went to shit, your intel is SHIT!"

The welcoming committee tensed, hands inching towards weapons as Boss flung spittle their way. Lo'Ref felt the acquainted tingle of impending violence prickling along his backbone, he would defend Boss and the others with his life; no matter the fear Lo'Ref felt.

"Easy now," a new voice cut through the strain. A tall, lean woman with close-cropped silver hair and the bearing of authority strode towards them. "I'm Captain Naia. You must be the reinforcements we were told to expect."

Boss nodded anxiously, showing clear signs of his discomfort at seeing this woman in charge. "That's right. We've got wounded that need tending to...Where is General Stain?"

Captain Naia's keen eyes swept over their battered group, lingering for a moment on Lo'Ref in his shambled uniform that marked him as a northern tribesman. He fought the urge to shrink back under her scrutiny as she undoubtedly saw through every inch of the silly disguise he was now just using as clothes at this point.

"Very well. Get your men to the medical tent. We'll debrief once you're patched up." She turned to the hostile welcome party. "Show them where to park that eyesore--and help with the wounded."