Ruairi Alonzo Steffani sat in the emerald dew-covered grass that lined the shore of his chunk of Loch Arvanis like a plush green carpet. No, it was softer than a carpet, it was grass. And it was good. The young man brushed a half-unkempt mop of frazzled hair so dulled dark red it was almost brown from where it fell over his eyes. Without hesitation or looking, Ruairi-- who was known by most of his friends as Rory-- backhanded his dagger from the hilt at the small of his back, quickly brought it up to his forehead, and sliced a half-inch of hair from it face. He watched the way his own hair fell to the grass between his legs and briefly wondered if it would feed some worm or beetle. 

Behind him, there was the sound of a whistle.

Thwip! Of the twenty men and women positioned around the measly looking structure of the Eastern Lodge, Rory had been one of the first to stand. His leather armor was bright from the shene he had applied the night before, his traditional longbow was out in a second. Rory did not look at his other fellows, the fellow Lurkers; but knew that each of them would have their eyes trained on the same spot. 

Boom... Boom Boo-Boom...

They were lucky that the artillery of the Aomian Saltlanders was angled in a way that they could hear the shots before they landed. It meant that even if they didn't have multiple dozen 'eyes in the sky,' then maybe at least they would still be able to mount a defense. 

Rory could see the target clearly. He was located on the Southern side of the Lodge, which meant the 3rd, 27th, 41st, and 55th artillery shots in a barrage would be his. If things got really bad, that was. And he hoped beyond hope that it wouldn't. 

"DRAW!" The order came from the tiny hut behind him, though sounding like it was placed impossibly high in the air. 

This first arrow, Rory knew, was more of a preventative measure for the powerful defense. The arrow shot, taking travel time into account, would take over 20 seconds to reach its mark. Many of the stationed Lurkers couldn't even dry fire a shot that distance-heavy. 

So the Lurkers had made it a mark of pride-- a game. 

Rory smiled, he intended to win. 

"VOLLEY! AWAY!" The voice roared!

Rory pushed his leg out and bent himself backwards while pulling the bowstring tight and taunt. He made his body and extension of the longbow, fully intending to use the stored torque and power of his own body to assist in the fire. There was a sound halfway between a whooshing of air and a brain-stimulating and satisfying snap. Rory watched his arrow vanish into the gray sky as it hurled towards one of the glowing missile; a pigeon facing a phoenix. 

Two beats passed. Lurkers around Rory began to thumb for their coin pouches, eager to collect on bets if they hit their mark. 

Hitting an artillery shot was like detonating a firework overhead; a small victory celebration for those who hit their mark. The first one in the line erupted in a starburst of molten slag and 500-degree ball bearings. They all cheered. 

The second was not as spectacular, and simply continued its hellish decent towards the lodge. Rory heard a curse to his right before...

Whoom! The third shot in the line quadrupled in size before exploding outwards in his own firework. Rory sucked in a gust of air and gave his first a triumphant pump; a month ago he'd figured he'd never hit one of the shots. Now, the Lodgemaster was drilling the idea of 'immersive training' to the younger Lurkers. 

More explosions in the sky, more excited Lurkers. Rory wondered if the Saltlanders knew their constant attacks were having a moralizing effect on their opponents. Or maybe that was just the cunning of the Lodgemaster to turn a horrendous situation into a positive one. 

Just four artillery shots remained in the initial line. Rory thought it was only a matter of time before their arrows knocked out every single shot before it even got close! 

"BRACE!" The voice ordered harshly. 

This was the part that wasn't as fun. Especially when you were standing in an open yard with nothing to hold onto. So Rory covered his ears. Around him, some of the Lurkers were on all fours, tucked and covered in the grass. He didn't feel the need. 

Rory knew the simplified version of what was about to happen. The older Lurkers, many of them over one hundred years of age, had made connections and friendships with supposed "nature spirits," who they now beseeched for aid. Who those spirits were, the existence of said spirits, and the mechanics of the actually incantations were of little use to Rory, regardless of how secret the senior Lurkers kept them. 

What he did feel, however, was a chill. It was familiar. It began close to his neck. The symbol of his office, a smooth and hollow glass bauble filled with the sealed waters of Loch Arvanis and hung around his neck via a plain leather cord, felt like it had been frozen. Droplets of condensation formed on the glass. Then, everywhere got colder. 

The air smelled of frozen ozone. A thick green fly had been flittering around a few of the tiny wildflowers in the grass. As Rory watched it, he got the metaphorical feeling of someone pressing a 'pause' button on the insect. The sudden drop in the air temperature caused the creature to enter instant hibernation. It crashed into the crash somewhere between its next wildflower and Rory's own hair. 

"BRACE!" The voice ordered one last time. Rory could now hear the incoming whoosh of the artillery. He wished he didn't, but he shut his eyes. 

Please, please work. He thought. They always had, but it didn't stop him from begging.

A spine-shaking series of erupting explosions engulfed his surroundings. This was the horrible part. The chaotic swirling hellscape of fiery sounds and color behind his eyelids. Rory let out an instinctive yelp that was drowned out by the sound of artillery impacting something solid. The feeling of spent ball bearings harmlessly bouncing off his back and the wrapped fingers behind his neck. The four dangerous thuds of heavy brass casing falling on top of the Lodge's roof or the surrounding lawn.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the light green-blue bubble of light returning to transparency above him. Like always, a very light snow began to fall from the four points were the artillery impacted. On those four points, the light took on the appearance of the cracked icy top of a frozen pond... before slowly vanishing along with the falling (and rapidly melting) snow. 

Rory let out a small, slow breath. He looked across Loch Arvanis at the glowing white pox-marks which were the Saltlander camp. If he squinted, he thought he could even make out the artillery cannons themselves. 

He looked around and spotted his friend, Liam. Liam was putting his bow away and stretching. It was a common thing to stretch after an attack, because often times the muscles got so horrendously cramped from being tensed up that it was the only thing that could stave off post-anxiety-attack cramps. 

"Must be so easy to just flip a switch and bet on someone dying." Rory said as he approached.

They'd had this conversation practically every day is subtly different forms. The lamentations of people put under siege.

"Ever heard of the 'sunk cost fallacy,' Rory?" Liam said as he began to collect the small ball bearings that now littered the lawn. Rory began to as well. 

"I mean really," Liam continued in an annoyed tone, "How much do these things cost?" His calloused fingers picked up a contorted slab of brass about the width of his chest. 

"Well, considering that's their smallest attack in days, I gotta wager they can't be easy to get. Those machines probably can't shoot them continuously-- you know crossbow-tech." 

They laughed between themselves at the inside joke, and continued to have idly friendly chats while they piled ball bearings into pouches and pockets. About ten minutes of this passed before they had each collected a few hundred, then they made their way to the door of the Lodge to deliver the spoils.

The siege had not been a hard one for the Lurkers; more exhaustive and annoying than anything. They had food from their gardens and the Loch, water from the same, each other as company, and all the time in the world. The Saltlanders had people and tenacity. They were like a tick that refused to detach, slowly suckling the blood from its host. And they had, two Lurkers-- Poilette Turnancy and Jackie Stillmen-- had met their end while they were taken unaware almost a month and a half ago. The death of the two Lurkers caused the situation to turn 'hot,' or hotter than the warning shots and demands for 'instant and total fealty' had already been. 

It was, as a rule, unlike anything the Lurkers were used to, and what most of them quickly discovered was that they were not soldiers, they were Lurkers. 

Rory thought back to that sober day when Lodgemaster Hecarate laid down strategy. The Lurkers discovered rapidly that, if they wanted, the only way they could possibly lose an assault against the Saltlanders would be to charge headfirst directly into their camp. Barring that mindless strategy, they had the advantage in almost every way. 

The problem was, again, they were not soldiers, they were Lurkers. Killing people... was not something they wanted to do. At all. 

The Lodgemaster had been stern in the order. There was a boundary that extended a good two miles around the Lodge and hit the shores of Arvanis. If it was crossed, they were to shoot on sight. Horus McCreeth drew first blood on their side, and Rory remembered how the man cried for hours when he returned. Many Lurkers since hadn't broken down like that, but Rory could always detect a slight change. An unavoidable hollowness in the eyes. It scared the hell out of Rory. 

Rory and Liam crossed though the threshold of the Lodge. The exterior looked like a simple hunting cabin. Through the work of reality-bending arts which hurt Rory's head to think about for too long, their was a staggering effect placed on the interior of the structure. Mainly, it was several dozen degrees larger on the inside. One time it was simplified to Rory that he actually shrank down to only a few inches in size, and that's what he was seeing-- but he didn't feel smaller and also didn't get how that would work. So, he didn't question it, and found himself much happier for doing so. 

He could see roughly fifty people walking about the interior grand hall of the Lodge. Flowering plants and devil's ivy adorned and draped the corners, walls, and ceilings in decorative naturalistic flare, the floor was a smooth polished gray, and a long blue rug adorned in flourishes and a golden universal symbol of the Lurkers, the glass bauble, stretched for nearly 100 feet to the back wall. It was a grandiose space that only those invited inside would ever know about.

Rory and Liam took a sharp left to a room with heat and clanging. The Lodge had its own forge, interior farms, kitchens, laundry, leather shop, wood shop, shooting range-- Rory heard it was a lot like how castle towns operated hundreds of years ago. The blacksmith, Garolt, gave them a nod as they dumped their ball bearings into a pile taller and wider than the both of them put together. Garolt was tapping away new arrow heads from the bearings. 

"A cycle" Rory thought as they walked away. 

Leaving the forge a familiar voice called out to Rory. He turned to see a tall man striding in elongated steps towards him. 

Rory and Liam both gave him a salute, "Senior Stevenson."

Nigel Stevenson was an elf; a changed. His dark almond skin looked healthier and younger than Rory's own; his eyes were bright, yet sharp from years of experience. Like all elves, Nigel's neck was almost a foot long, giving him a dramatically elongated appearance which was shared by his fingers, nose, and ears-- which jutted out horizontally for about a foot in either direction as well before slightly drooping at the tips like a lop rabbit. Rory heard elves' ears drooped more the older they got; and Senior Stevenson's was the only elf he'd ever seen with somewhat droopy ears. 

"Saw you take out another shot this morning Rory; good shooting from you lad." Nigel gave him a sincere smile. Rory was thankful he didn't share the infamous arrogant stoicism of most elves. "Sadly, I think it was too good. You're being given a day duty." His smile became half-apologetic, half-proud. 

Rory frowned, but did not speak. That meant he was to meet with the Saltlanders, that he may have to fire upon one. 

"Our birds told us we've got a group--" Nigel continued, "perhaps a dozen or so-- maneuvering the other side of the Loch today. What they're doing all the way over there, I'm unsure. That's going to be your job. However, there's speculation they mean to harm the Loch itself." 

Rory and Liam both stiffened, Liam shot his friend a concerned look as well. Their reservations about harming their fellow man were weighed heavily against their oath to protect the Loch.

"Nothing more than that, Senior?" Rory asked, "They mean to harm it? What does that mean?"

"Only a few ways you can hurt a Loch." Nigel responded with a well-meaning shrug. "Drain it, poison it, electrify it, boil it, freeze it... Only a few of those seem possible though. I'm more concerned about them establishing a covert camp on the opposite shore personally."

Nigel clasped Rory on the shoulder, "You've got a good heart, Rory." Nigel's eyes looked down. "I know I say this a lot, and you're probably tired of hearing it from me but... these people don't operate under our edicts. This is their business and duty. It's us," Nigel's eyes went up and looked hard into Rory's, "Or it's them." 

Rory gulped, the speech did absolutely nothing to shake his apprehension, "Yes, Senior." 

Nigel gave him another few pats on the shoulder, "West Shore, if I were you I'd set up in Belter's Grove; and I'd be snappy about it. Don't let them hurt our Loch Rory."

"Yes, Senior," He replied again, half-proud half-angry at himself for not sounding more gung ho about the whole thing. If Nigel detected it he didn't say anything or let on.

"Liam, as for you, afternoon volley coverage, and we'll have you on peninsula guard today."

"Yes, Senior," Liam replied professionally. 

When Nigel gave them a smile and nod, he walked off towards the direction of the Lodgemaster's offices. 

"Times like this I wish I would've done what his kid did and piss off down South," Liam chuckled. 

"You're telling me," Rory replied in a morbid chuckle. 

"Catch you tonight?" Liam asked, a thinly veiled concern behind the words.

"You know it." Rory took a deep breath, he'd been given a duty from a Senior. While there was no urgency in Nigel's words, Rory was expected to carry out the duty as quickly and effectively as possible. "See ya then, man." They gave each other a clasp and nod before Rory rushed out the door; cloak billowing behind him as he began to run towards the opposite side of the Loch.  

Rory turned back to give the little cabin a mournful glance; it was a dot of wood on Arvanis' shoreline by the time he was a mile away. 

"Why do they care so much?" Rory wished he knew the answer as well.