Remains

The rain had taken away the bite of the fires, rending what was left of the blazing inferno to embers that kindled under the shelter of collapsed roofs. It had washed away most of the remaining blood and debris, funneling back down into the ocean and staining the water a muddy grey. Even through the pelting rain, the strong stench of smouldering wood and charcoal perforated the air. The blighted militia had moved on, heading forward through the deep wood to reach the Haven, burning whatever towns they found along the way. Most of the bodies had been carried away for disposal, whoever could be saved was shipped off to Pine Pass to be hopefully cured. All that was left of this shore-side town was smoke and ash. 

It had taken Cicada far longer than he would’ve liked to arrive here. He’d only gotten news of the attack a day or so ago, preoccupied with off-world problems to notice something far more nefarious than a petty thief was brewing under the Verdant Kingdom. It caused him a frustration that his choir mates didn’t understand, having less than favourable opinions of their homelands. Cicada had become a guard to protect his people, the people of Aerius; his pledge to Harrow was meant to aid in his endeavour, not hinder it. He was a warden, an investigator, he should’ve figured this out before it happened, been there to defend these people instead of them dying like pigs in the street. Instead he was wrangling a snack for a gluttonous house. 

Dejected, Cicada surveyed the damage, a careful eye mapping out the movement of the forces by the deep marks trodden into the earth. At least trying to use his detective training for something. He tried to make any sense of it, but there didn’t seem much in terms of formal tactics or intention, just destruction for destruction's sake. It was more like a violent mob than trained soldiers.

At the very least, if these were the Blighted’s finest this whole coup would be put down the moment the Verdant Guard could pick up arms. 

His eyes landed on a broken spear in the sand, painted in a black fluid from blade head to its end. Curious, he leaned in closer, determining it to be of a much older design, possibly of Emerald Ocean origin, but quickly copied and mass produced. Cicada extended a finger to brush off some of the substance from the blade edge. 

Another hand slapped it away before it could make contact. 

“Don’t touch that, you could get sick.” 

At some point Harrow had arrived, moving in to lean over Cicada with a wide, black umbrella now shielding them from the rain. He had told the Lockette not to bother following him, but Harrow was nothing if not a nag when it came to his well being. The offending hand floated back up to shake a scolding finger at the Dextroluma. 

“I may be a miracle worker but even I can’t undo necrosis.” Harrow took this opportunity to kick the poisoned spear away, dislodging it from the sodden soil easily and flinging it off into the ruins of the house. 

Cicada rolled his eyes and stood up, coming face to face (really face to bust with how annoyingly tall Harrow was) with the white-haired wanderer. “I’m wearing gloves.” He waved the said gloved hands in front of him, showing off the dark leather that had served him well over the years. 

Harrow’s expression remained stern. “Yes. Nice gloves. Gloves that would have to be thrown into Providence’s stomach if they became contaminated.” His face twisted in disgust at the thought, looking around at the destruction around him like it was an unclean kitchen at a restaurant and not the site of countless deaths. “You have no idea how potent and difficult to get out that stuff is. A whole suit, completely ruined! You think you won’t have to worry about the parts on the black fabric but then you brush up against someone in a train station and all of a sudden there’s an outbreak. Everything is shut down for a week and ruins your plans.” 

Cicada raised a brow at Harrow’s rant, even though he mostly seemed to be talking to himself than advising the knight on the dangers of the elder mushroom. He did have a point however. The blighted militia's power did not come from its might or tactical ability, but the fact they were all walking bioweapons. 

Pure eyes scanned over the landscape again, one last time. 

He dearly hoped they could find a way to stop them.