Like most mornings, the first shelling of the day awoke Lurch the Soundmage like some hell-invented alarm clock.
 
 
FUMP! FUMP! Geh-FUMP! FU-FUMP!
 
 
The reverberations of the artillery shook the entire bed, drawing him in closer to Jam, who gave nothing more than an annoyed grunt in response to the cacophony and touch.
 
 
She was not much of a morning cuddler, Lurch had found out on numerous occasions. But for this small moment, he had himself wrapped around her, his cheek nudged against her shoulder. He could feel the stubble of his beard poke into her skin. She'd move soon, but first Lurch took a moment to appreciate the warmth, to look at the smattering of freckles she'd received after multiple sunburns, the scent of their dirtied sheets, and the ever-present smoke in the air.
 
 
Then Jam let out another groan and gave an irritated roll of her shoulder, causing Lurch's head to slump back into his pillow.
 
 
"Ready to get shot by an arrow?" A sharp pinch to the pressure point of his left leg's inner thigh caused Lurch's entire body to untangle around Jam. Just like that she was out of bed. Without too much modesty the naked assassin gathered up her beige shirt and canvas-colored trousers. It took her just 15 seconds to dress herself and begin lacing her boots.
 
 
Lurch was not as swift or energetic. His own groan responded to Jam. It was mission day. The wiry mage rolled himself out of bed and turned to the mirror. He inspected his own nude form. He needed to shave, Two-Toes would get on him for that. He looked at Jam's reflection in the mirror, and was disappointed in the fact that she was no longer looking at him-- not that Lurch considered his body to be particularly noteworthy or admirable. He had a slight slouch and was thin enough to clearly make out the bumps of his ribcage. His slender fingers traced down the left side of his body, like they did each morning, to briefly thumb over a scarred gash that ran the length from the small of his back to his navel. It was tight and it itched, which his finger did a middling job at soothing. His brown eyes looked sunken and had dark rings about them. His light chestnut hair was a catastrophic half-curly greasy stringy mop-- it was indicative that he did not get much sleep.
 
Apparently his moment of self-reflection was running a bit too long for Jam's time table. She threw a pair of decidedly red underpants at him.
 
"Cover that skinny ass up, loverboy. You gotta try to look ready for the Sergeant," Jam giggled and delivered a pat to the aforementioned body part. It wasn't a giggle for him, Lurch knew, it was a giggle about the prospect of the day. "We get action today." Still Lurch smiled. Jam's raven-colored hair was bound upwards with her bangs clipped to either side of her temples. Lurch tried unsuccessfully to meet her golden-hued eyes one last time, but Jam was business-minded during mission day. She was already walking to the flap of the compartment of the tent where she proceeded to peek an eye out.
 
"So..." making conversation with Jam got tough when she got like this, "The Sergeant briefed you separately. Playing a big role today?"
 
"HQ defense and critical target elimination." Her teeth flashed as she gave Lurch a dangerous grin. The expression, to some, would look rather crazed; but Lurch liked that, for whatever reason. Jam finalized her look my strapping on her two dagger sheathes, one that rested at her pelvis and the other on the small of her back, her ankle dagger, a final dagger on a thigh strap, and a bandolier of throwing knives along the left side of her hip. Finally Jam took up her favored weapon, a long-nosed pistol with a spinning barrel. Within seconds she popped the barrel out and loaded it with six bullets. She gave it a satisfying smack that sent the barrel spinning and locked back into position. Giving it a twirl that made Lurch nervously recede backwards, Jam popped the pistol into a concealed holster underneath her shirt.
 
"And what will you be blowing up today, wizard?" She drew the word out for a long time, half-teasing.
 
Lurch recoiled at the question and the casual way it was asked. What would get blown up today? In the Glint Valley, such a question was grounds for exile from the community. 'Never forget yourself,' the words of an old teacher echoed in his mind, 'The Churn exists, so folks will use it. In the past, a great many people died because individuals sought to control the Churn. They label it, try to map it out into formulas and codes. Not us.'
 
Lurch began to shrug on the black-and-white robes that marked his position. Two gleaming symbols were pinned to either of the garment's lapels. The first was the three concentric rings inwardly placed together, like ripples in a pond. That was the symbol of Aom, god of unity. The other was a kite-shield with an embossed arrow pointing towards his neck. The arrow bounded off the left and right sides of the shield.
 
Aomanism was not Lurch's original faith, nor would he consider it his current faith. His teachings wouldn't allow him to, despite the lies he'd told to achieve his current position. Nor would he consider the source of his powers to be Aomian in origin, despite what the state mages told him. Yet, he was a solider for the Unifier. Within unity, there was a demand for total obedience.
 
 
He realized he still had not answered Jam's off-putting question.
 
"Hopefully nothing will get blown up," Lurch replied with a sigh. Like Jam he kept his favored weapon tucked close to his breast within his garments. He felt it now, for the weapon gave off heat. Within a holster of leather belts and buckles was the catalyst for his powers, a Grimoire. The pages were creamy vellum of the highest quality, the cover was a mathematically precise grey-and-green arrangement of magic-dyed leathers. Whenever Lurch even thought of using his abilities, the book buzzed with a low latent resonance like a generator, including now. It scared most people, and Lurch believed that was for the best.
 
"Besides," Lurch continued, "I prefer not to stir up the churn like that. I'm not Shill." He didn't mean for the last sentence to have a harsher tone, but it did; making Jam give him a subtle 'really?' look. "I'm actually in HQ this time..." He had meant for it to be a surprise, because he knew it would mean he and Jam got to work close to each other, but she did not look all that impressed. "Cloaking our movements and providing us cover if we get spotted mostly. Y'know, make sure the Sergeant can esca--"
 
Jam silenced Lurch with a quick kiss as the artillery blasted off another round.
 
When Jam pulled away she wore an expression as if she'd just won a small skirmish, "C'mon, you also got those darts right? The kind that seek people out? Those are priceless," she giggled again in her dangerous way, "their faces when they round a corner, think they're in the clear, and they chase after them! Not even I can do that. Hey, Mort!" She waved at another member of the unit from Lurch's compartment.
 
Lurch winced and blushed, thankful Jam was turned away from him. The darts spell was one Lurch had learned after being taken into the Saltlanders, and not by his choice. Jam had the makings of a prized Saltlander. Razor quick and twice as sharp, she was the only assassin in Two-Toes unit. She'd been invaluable in navigating the terrain of the Ink Shore. After all, she was a native to the area. But when it came to life and her enemies, she was entirely selfish and one-sided. Sometimes Lurch wondered what would happen if the whole Saltlander charade broke apart. What would she do when left to her own bidding? Where would he fit into that? Would he fit in at all? Would he want that?
 
Well, then again, he thought he may have liked the way Jam seemed to ignore him. He was sure that, back at home, they would have probably put in him 5 Gaps mandatory talk-therapy counseling in response to thoughts like that.
 
 
He realized there were more than a few awkward seconds between her comment. He needed to get better about that. "If they're smart," he began just as Jam was about to simply walk out of the tent, causing her to halt, "they will go into hiding the moment they detect us."
 
Jam had kept the flap open too long, and now the cold air from the outdoors was creeping into the snug compartment. She turned back to Lurch and gave him another toothy grin, drawing her sharp fingernails underneath Lurch's still-scruffy chin.
 
"Except I'll see them first thanks to you, my battlemage," Her index finger caused the chin hairs to make a muted scratching sound. It caused goosebumps to tickle across most of his upper body, and a jolt of renewed arousal in other places. Lurch hadn't seen her grab it, but with her other hand she placed his rust-specked razor into his, "Now shave. Don't wanna keep Sergeant waiting."
 
She left, leaving Lurch alone with his dulled razor.

Like nearly every morning on the Ink Shore, the dawn was cold and wet. The late summer season continually brought in light drizzles from the seas to the north of their position. The arctic-fed cold breezes, even at this point of the year, frustratingly seemed to seek out any gaps or holes that could be found in a coat before the sun could do its daily duty of warming the countryside. Lurch drew his robes closer around his body. If Jam was to be believed, the actual winter would be even more spectacularly frigid and snow-covered.
 
Lurch sincerely hoped they would be done by that point, or that he'd be dead by then.
 
 
Lurch also knew that, bearing the sun finding gaps in the clouds, the day would grow warm and even sticky. It was hard to ever dress appropriately around the Ink Shore when your uniform didn't include layers.
 
 
Shouldering his way into the mess tent, needing to push past men and women of other companies, Lurch joined the monotonously moving line and grabbed an unpolished metal tray. It was a scoop of relatively unseasoned gray millet and buckwheat porridge, a common staple among camps. He was also given two strips of dried salted pike jerky.
 
 
The mage was always slightly off put in the way that he and the other soldiers could eat, chat, and even laugh while the explosions of artillery sounded off around the camp. Maybe it was now normal; but the look in each soldier's eyes was the same-- and it was that look in particular that stirred up Lurch. He saw it whenever he looked in a mirror too. In previous campaigns before Arvanis, each FUMP of the artillery signaled another causality they were inflicting upon a fellow man. Lurch had even cheered along at times when they knew they'd hit something big. This morning, the thought disgusted him and made him feel like someone he wasn't. He didn't know who exactly he was anymore; other than just 'Lurch.'
 
The other members of his specific unit were seated together at one of the long tables. They made an odd bunch, a trait shared with most Saltlander unit. Jam was there and was the first person Lurch noticed and focused on. Oft she was the first person he focused on, and Lurch could identify the high banded ponytail she put her dark hair into following their early morning chat. Lurch tried quite hard not to stare at her for an off-putting amount of time, but it took her looking up and in his general direction for him to finally turn away.
 
Sitting across from her was Offer, the scout. She was a half-elven girl they'd picked up about two months ago, small and freckled with a bob of brassy blonde hair. Next to Offer was Shill, the other mage of the unit, who was easily conversing with the others while she swept her red hair behind her ear. Whereas Lurch specialized in utility magic, Shill had trained in elemental magic in the Glint Valley. That made them peers, technically, but neither of them would use the term for each other. Each time she looked at Lurch she wore a half-bemused expression, like she questioned why he was there, that made Lurch feel like a child and picked at something in his soul.
 
Tightly packed together were the three Horshi ridge fighters of the unit. There used to be four but Arch, a good-natured man who'd just turned 28, was sniped on a nighttime patrol duty two Gaps back. The three remaining, Take, Mortar, and Skip, were now almost inseparable. Lurch knew the Horshi had intensive culture of comradery between soldiers, and that didn't change in the Saltlanders. The three men were of different heights and sizes; but each had the well-trained physique, short cropped curly black hair, and almond-toned sun-tanned skin of the eponymous ridge fighters.
 
Crawl, the Proxy, was there as well. He was sat close to the Ridge Fighters, but not emulsified into their huddle. In fact, out of anyone at the table, Crawl was the only one to spot Lurch. He gave him a good-natured wink and shuffled a bit to allow room for him to sit. Lurch was thankful, he liked the Proxy. Crawl had a tranquility and calmness to him that was unknown to other members of the unit. That serenity put Lurch at ease; but Crawl's personality and demeanor also made it hard not to be endeared to him. His wavy black hair was freshly oiled and tied back, making it drape down his spine. He was likely, though Lurch couldn't be sure, on his second or third bowl of porridge of the day.
 
Lurch had once heard from Skip that Crawl was not a "ridge fighter" in the traditional sense; and that he even had magic abilities. Lurch found that hard to believe, considering he'd never seen such abilities. This led him to believe Skip meant magic abilities in the corporeal sense; because Lurch certainly felt more confident when he was around. The rowdy ridge fighters also showed Crawl the utmost respect, and followed his every order to a tee. Two-Toes was the Sergeant of their unit, but Crawl was the unspoken leader. Something seemed different in him today. There was a fleck of sadness behind his darkened eyes.
 
Close to Crawl, and the final members of the table, were the sisters Clutch and Vice. Clutch, the older sister, had a seven-foot-long slender-bladed sword strapped across her back. Lurch heard she had trained at the Shrine of 70000 Swords, but both she and her sister were captured in defense of a smaller 'pagan' monastery. Clutch was the unit's only trained sword fighter, as the Ridge Fighters fought using their own unique fighting style of hooks, ropes, and spears. This, matched with her height and precise manner of moving and speaking, made her an imposing and intimidating figure. Vice was the opposite. She was talkative for a scout and would regularly challenge the ridge fighters to archery competitions using her crossbow.
 
 
When Vice joined the unit Lurch had realized the large disparity of their ages. Vice was 18, most of the fighters (himself included) were in their mid-to-late 20's, Clutch was probably in her 30's (or so Lurch thought-- he was scared to ask), Crawl was 43, and Sergeant Two-Toes was 'over a century' old-- but he was a gnome so it almost didn't count. Two-Toes had stopped counting.
 
As was normally the case, Lurch found himself as the last one to the table. Two-Toes once said in a half-euphemism that Lurch needed to 'fix his time-management skills.' This, however, was a common trait among many Saltlanders. The recent events of their ongoing siege did little to help the problem either. Attrition, death, and general inaction was making many soldiers jaded. The inner-spirit of victory that many of them had carried with them following the battles of the summer were now replaced by an overarching sense of boredom and dread.
 
For Lurch it was all of the latter and very little of the former. Something within him felt twisted and knotted today. It was a feeling he got whenever his cadre unit was tasked with a dangerous mission. Lurch wouldn't consider himself a coward, though some of the ridge fighters may have a say in that, instead he considered himself an extreme pragmatist. He could die today, and his gut feeling wasn't a good one. 'Caught to The Churn,' his somehow older, wiser, lecturing inner voice told him.
 
Maybe it was shared. He noticed as he arrived that very few of his cadre-mates were eating; or the ones who had only half-completed the porridge. That didn't mean that the mood was low though.
 
 
Shill and Vice were enthusiastically chatting about a meteor shower predicted for the night. Jam was nodding along to something Offer told her while she sharpened her daggers one-by-one. Clutch and Crawl were doing their best to hide the microsecond glances they gave each other no less than 30-odd times within a minute. "Damn Lurch one of these days you're gonna chewed out for making the cooks pause lunch prep," Mortar chuckled deeply after Lurch began to eat.
 
"Ey if you'aint gonna eat your fish could I have it?" Take jumped in through a mouth of chewing food.
 
"Right, sorry, lots of prep this morning," Lurch half-lied in reply to Mortar. Shaving, washing up, and reading through the list of arcana transcribed into his Grimoire had taken far longer-- well no, they took just as long as he expected. He'd read through his book five separate times.
 
Take was already trying to slide one of the fish strips off his tray. Lurch had no desire to eat it but he still stabbed his fork into the dried flesh to halt the theft and demonstrate his control over the 4 inch strip.
 
"Prep right..." Take trailed off as if they weren't silently battling over the morsel. Then his eyes darted over to Mortar and Skip. Almost at once Lurch saw Mortar bite the inside of his cheek, and the corners of Skip's mouth twitched.
 
"Maybe a bit of toast too...?" Skip continued on, his tone jumping from low-to-high register as he leaned in, his face pointing and aiming directly towards Lurch.
 
"Oh right right... This lucky bastard gets all that bread, you gotta have toast," Mortar piped, Lurch rolled his eyes as he guessed where it was going, "I think he had a bit of 'Jam' with his toast today fellas," Mortar picked up with raised eyebrows. Even Crawl, who'd remained silent, gave a small smile at this. Clutch rolled her eyes. He knew it was coming, but this caused Lurch's face to flush at once.
 
Take, the most exuberant of the ridge fighters, stood up and made a big show of sweeping around the table and clasping a thick palm into Lurch's bony shoulderblades. "And who would have thought!" Take wore an expression and tone like that of a proud drunk uncle, "Our little Lurch has a type!"
 
Skip finished the quip for Take, "--Crazies!"
 
The ridge fighters, along with Vice who had been listening in, all began erupting into laughter. Clutch shot her younger sister a look but then sighed and tried to finish her porridge, water, and a small mug of coffee.
 
 
'No one wants to bring up the fact Crawl made some of his special stash for her,' Lurch thought through the chiding.
 
 
He shot a look towards Jam, trying his hardest to make his expression not one of guilt, fear, doubt, or embarrassment and only half accomplishing it. But thankfully she was just smiling and continuing to prepare her daggers. That almost scared the shit out of him more.
 
"Ohoho... oh... honestly, hey, I get it man," Take said through gasps of laugher. "Should have gotten me some last night too considering what we're gettin' up to today y'know." He looked around to make sure his friends were still captive and listening, and maybe give some of the women a more meaning-filled look (which was chiefly ignored), "But you wouldn't catch me dead with her, no sir, I prefer keeping all my body parts attached, thank you!"
 
This drew out further laughter and an even deeper flush of Lurch's cheeks, especially considering Jam was, after all, right there.
 
 
"She is not crazy," Lurch puffed, "Don't tell me I hear some jealously, Take?"
 
"About as jealous as a spider is when his best mate gets a bride," Take instantly responded. Further down the table Vice blinked a few times before cackling with laughter about 5 seconds too late.
 
A high pitched voice from further down the table piped up, "Ooo is it time already to razz Lurch?" Offer was still half-chewing while she leaned in, her eyes darted from Jam to Lurch and back again before in a sing-songy way she said, "Luuuuuuurch, you'll never guess who I saw leaving your part of the teeeent this morning."
 
"Oh we all saw it, Off, trust us." Mortar said with a puffed out cheek. Jam still wasn't looking at any of them, in fact she didn't really seem to care at all-- in stark juxtaposition to Lurch's own modesty.
 
"Hey, I mean, maybe she wanted us all to see, eh? How'd you like that, Lurch?" Skip had also gotten up to stand on the other side of Lurch. His eyebrows were raised so high it caused three lines to scrunch across his forehead. He nudged his elbow into Lurch's ribs, but instead ended up thumping his Grimoire which made it pulse beneath his robes. Skip felt it, Skip actually recoiled his arm away like he'd touched a hot pan. That made Lurch briefly happy, a small victory achieved by Skip's own ignorance of his abilities. Lurch could practically see the gears turning for another poor joke at his expense.
 
"Say, I know I've asked it before but..." Lurch let out a loud groan, this one was so old, "Do you use the, uh, book during or... I mean it shakes so much and..." Mortar and Take, pretending like it wasn't the tenth-dozenth time they'd heard the joke-- or maybe they weren't pretending--, exploded into laughter that momentarily drowned out the artillery shots and caused others to turn and give their cadre annoyed looks.
 
"No. We also both like our limbs attached, I'm afraid." Lurch responded in a dry fashion, however it was enough to still draw out a laugh from Offer and Vice, which made him feel a bit more decent.
 
"Out of all the people here, our bloody little raven picks you. It's almost cute, kinda wholesome in that weird freaky kinda way." Skip's tone was more sincere this time. It wasn't enough to make up for the harsh teasing, but Lurch appreciated it underneath the layers of embarrassed annoyance. Skip smiled before muttering under his breath, "Why she'd pick the biggest stick in the Saltlanders, who knows?"
 
"It is cute! And it is wholesome!" Offer chirped with a genuine smile and a sunny tone, "Good for both of you, ignore them. Skip is jealous," she ended with a wink.
 
"Ahhh hell, you know we don't mean nothin' by it." Take wrapped a heavy arm around Lurch's shoulders, it seemed to drape over him like a coat four sizes too big. "It's cause we love ya and, well," the ridge fighters irritating habit of making a quip out of everything was something he'd grown used to, so Lurch was ready for yet another joke, "we really don't wanna find ya one morning naked with a slit throat." Though Mortar let out a sharp exhale from his nostrils, Lurch could tell that Take wasn't necessarily lying.
 
 
"No one wants to see that." Mortar agreed.
 
Crawl, finally, spoke in his calm steady tone, "This will stay in the camp." The snickering ridge fighters quelled their jeering at once.
 
Crawl's eyes bore into Lurch's soul, reminding him of his father and a stern lecture he'd receive in his youth, "Feelings and war can become easily twisted." was that a hint of pain he saw behind the older man's darkened eyes? "Today, Lurch, I want you with a clear head. Okay?"
 
Lurch nodded, the blush on his cheeks renewed, "Yes, sir."
 
"That also means you, Jam. Just because these cliffswingers are too scared to tease you doesn't mean it doesn't apply to the other side."
 
Jam finally looked up and, with a pleasant smile responded, "Never intended to go beyond his bed-chamber, Proxy." She said in a tone that was half-lie half-truth. Lurch, and he suspected a few others, could practically feel the chill go across the table. It made a knot twist up in Lurch's stomach. Crawl just gave a nod.
 
"Servani," Crawl invoked the Horshi name for the ridge fighters, causing all three to snap to attention, "Too much talk. You're nervous; but so is Lurch. Eat. Focus. Arch will look upon you this day."
 
It was the ridge fighters turns to blush and the three returned to their seats and began to eat, mumbling affirmatives under their breaths. Clutch, wrapping her fingers around her coffee cup, let out a sigh of relief.
 
"And you, Sihrmeri," Crawl used the Horshi word for a mage-- which literally translated as 'Magic Man.' It was a term Crawl used just for Shill and himself. Crawl had told Lurch their culture didn't have anything like him, so he'd coined the title "You need to eat as well," He smiled and shut his eyes, "I'm afraid you might just keel over if we have to start running."
 
Unlike the other fighter's jests and quips, Crawl's always felt good-natured. Lurch felt a hint of his appetite return.
 
Five uninterrupted minutes passed as each of them ate what could be their last meal. The silence caused Lurch to realize that everyone at the table, besides Jam perhaps, was scared. As soon as the laughter went away, the tension was almost as thick as the porridge. 'We all remembered that we could die sometime in the next hour or so.'
 
It was only then Lurch realized Crawl hadn't even touched his food, nor did he have the typical cup of coffee he'd drink before a mission. Had he even eaten anything at all? That was odd. Something was weighing on the man, but it wasn't Lurch's place to pry. Maybe one question would be okay though.
 
 
"Where is the Sergeant, sir?" Lurch inquired.
 
 
"Wrangling warhorses, talk-minute meetings," Crawl cleared his throat a bit, "acquiring kit."
 
 
Kit. Lurch's eyebrow tried very hard not to raise like an old enchantment professor. Reading subtilty in speech was something he'd gotten very good at in his former life. When two mages battled, either intellectually or with Grimoires and arcana, detecting the inflections, second-meanings, and veiled speech behind half-said words was an essential skill. Something with the kit made the large man uncomfortable, and that made Lurch's own mind swim. Nothing got to Crawl.
 
 
The question spun around in his mind as they got up. It was time to go...