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| - After daybreak, Snowmist finishes packing duffels full of armaments and light armor before waking Tuftcheek from his slumber. "It will be unsafe for me to travel across the desert in this suit," he explains, "yet we must not risk exposing you to this disease. You know where Altheor's Hope is from here. We will travel a parallel course until we reach the Stubtooth Mountains. Once there, it should be cool enough. I will don my suit. You may wear yours then, if you want, just until you're offworld. In Altheor's Hope, we should meet your unusual friend Whitestripe. Your transportation should arrive sometime after the Great Watchers begin their slumber." Now, after dark, approaching from opposite directions, Snowmist and Tuftcheek arrive in the tiny mountain village of Altheor's Hope beneath a deceptively tranquil sky. As they close upon the village, Snowmist shifts the duffel from her shoulder to a grip on its shorter carrying handles, eyeing the space warily for a moment before focusing upon Tuftcheek. "How're y'feeling?" she asks by way of greeting. Now clad in the gaudy yellow biohazard suit once more, Tuftcheek chortles a bit. He drops the duffel he's carrying - one of those filled with equipment for Snowmist's mission offworld - and then he starts scouring the village with his gaze as he replies: "An uneventful trek." His ears swivel and his teeth clack as he utters a consternated growl. "No sign of your strange friend." Snowmist says nothing, simply giving the village one last survey before she bends down and retrieves her own suit, ears quivering against the reflex to flatten in distaste as she handles the material before stepping into it. As she begins to seal herself back into its sterile environment, she asks, "Why're y'helping me, Tuftcheek? Helping us?" "Why would I do otherwise?" the warrior inquires. He walks over to a toppled log that serves as a makeshift bench and settles onto it. Briefly, he glances at the sky. Then his attention goes to the trail that winds its way down the mountains toward New Alhira, awaiting the silhouette of Whitestripe Sandwalker. When none appears, Tuftcheek huffs and then swivels his snout to regard Snowmist once more. "The Imperator called. I answered. I do not forget the service both of you did for Demaria in freeing us from the deceitful clutches of Longsnout. But, even more, I do not blame you - either of you - for what has happened to this world." He pauses. "For what has happened to me. Or will happen." "If only others had such long memories," Snowmist mumbles without feeling as the last seal clicks into place, a habitual check made of the fastenings before she is crouching once again to search through her bag for the long-range communicator, tuning it to militia frequencies. Nothing but static crackles across the militia frequencies. "It may be days before the systems are back online, after all the rioting," Tuftcheek says. "When the transport arrives, perhaps the pilot can..." His voice trails off as he winces, fangs gnashing together. He shakes his head groggily and growls to himself. "Altheor's teeth." "Hells," Snowmist mutters as she lets the comm drop in disgust, reflexively attempting to run a paw over her face before it smacks firmly into the helmet's visor and she is left to growl outright in frustration at having even such a simple action be thwarted. Hearing the unnatural truncation of his sentence, however, she looks toward Tuftcheek, and almost grudgingly, concern begins to rise instead. "There should be a medkit in that other bag. Standard field supplies. Can get outta that suit, take a painkiller...get a little more comfortable..." She trails off uncertainly, awkward in the role as the one trying to offer comfort. "Just a headache," Tuftcheek growls, shaking his snout back and forth in typical stubborn male fashion. Slowly, he gets to his feet, peering around at the shadows. "Theorians dwell in this area. I do not want to risk exposing those noble creatures to such a disease as this." "Whitestripe may not've thought ahead so far," Snowmist points out after a moment's observation, whiskers twitching in halfway affectionate exasperation at his stubborn machismo before she catches herself and turns sharply away, reminded of who else she had often given such expressions to. "Y'might as well enjoy yourself while y'can. The Theorians're smart. I don' doubt they'll know t'avoid us all for a bit...an' s'not like you're deliberately wanderin' all over the place sheddin' virus." "Perhaps you are correct," Tuftcheek replies with a weak laugh. He reaches up to start unfastening the helmet of his suit. But then ... his ears perk and swivel. His eyes narrow. He peers at something beyond Snowmist, visible behind her and just above her left shoulder in the sky. Light, growing brighter. His mouth falls open, fangs glinting in the moonlight, and he suddenly shouts: "DOWN!" Snowmist's eyes narrow as she watches his actions, her own ears pricking alertly and just beginning to turn while a paw dips into her near-emptied duffel for the last item - a personal sidearm. As his warning rings out, though, she does not bother protesting or finishing her turn to see what might lie behind her - she dives to the side, rolling in the hopes that if something has targeted her, she will avoid it long enough to allow her to either bring her weapon to bear or to find more durable shelter. VWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM! As Snowmist dives to the ground, Tuftcheek flings himself the other way, rolling over the log as the light grows brighter and resolves into the marking beacons of a compact yellow space cab that roars in a low-level pass over the village of Altheor's Hope. The furious tumult of the craft's wake rips canvas tents off their stakes and rattles the frames of the buildings of the village. The vessel fires braking thrusters and then arcs around to make a final approach, swiveling slowly as its landing skids descend in time to make contact with the dusty earth in the middle of the village. Rolling to a stop upon her back, pistol raised in both gloves, searching for a target, it takes a moment for Snowmist to process just what the yellow cab must be and who must be driving it before she can utter only a single, horrified, "No..." Tuftcheek peers over the log, spies Snowmist's reaction and offers sheepishly: "Options, given the short notice and the plague, were rather limited." Snowmist swallows, refusing to lower the pistol for a good long time as if she is debating whether she truly needs the pilot at all, before she finally swallows, reluctantly lowers the weapon, and slowly pushes herself to her feet. "'m desperate," she reminds herself beneath her breath in a muttered litany. "Don't got choices...beggars can't choose, 'm really *really* desperate..." The hatch of the space cab clunks and then hisses upward. From the vessel emerges the garishly garbed Buteo Calabratrarios, in a yellow suit and hat - worn on purpose - that make Tuftcheek's bulky hazard suit look fashion runway-ready. He throws his arms out expansively and proclaims: "Buteo Calabratrarios, at your service! Please to board with great quickness!" Tuftcheek grunts, then uses the log as a fulcrum while getting himself back onto his feet. He doesn't bother brushing the grass or dirt off his saffron suit. Instead, he grabs the other duffel for Snowmist and then starts on his way toward the cab. Snowmist winces as the garishly attired person bursts into view, her expression pained as she considers her choices one last time, and then finally clumps toward the offered ride...before suddenly halting in the last few steps toward the cab's hatch. "Whitestripe," she abruptly says, turning to Tuftcheek, barely suppressed anguish in her gaze. "Sharpeye...Blacktip, an'...an' I forgot, Ripplefur...I promised Silver..." Tuftcheek isn't quite as preoccupied with promises made as he approaches the spacecab. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the black scorch marks - some smoldering - within and around the checkered design lining the hull of the space cab. "This damage is fresh," he observes. Buteo smiles winningly, clasping his hands together as he moves aside to give Snowmist room to board the vessel. "Yes," he agrees with Tuftcheek. "Buteo received quite a warm welcome while approaching Demaria to pick up his most valued customer of the hour." There is a moment of frustration before Snowmist reluctantly turns her attention to the digression, frowning as she absorbs the words exchanged in then asks with something very close to dread, "Who fired on you? What'd you see up there; what was the state o' the fleet an' the station?" "Oh, they are all very agitated, it would seem," Buteo explains without really explaining much. "None of them immediately started shooting at Buteo, but, just the same, Buteo managed to get caught between some of them as they quarreled. Most inconvenient. Luckily, Mister Longvision has agreed to provide hazard pay, so Buteo is untroubled by the expense of repairing the damage." Tuftcheek sighs, nodding. "You should go now, Mistress Shadowstalker. Things are falling apart more than I had feared." "Hells," Snowmist sighs, turning to regard Tuftcheek for a long moment, whiskers trembling with an emotion she does not dare to allow free reign. "Why's it that I can't ever seem t'relocate off this world by choice. Will there be a way I can keep in touch with you? An' Blacktip...he's with Razorfang. She said she'd make sure he was taken care of, even if it's not with her directly...follow her trail. An' Whitestripe...tell 'im that Ripplefur's his responsibility now, please?" The warrior clasps his gloved fingers together and bobs his snout at Snowmist. "I will see to your kit and I will relay your messages, through the Theorians too, if I must." He glances toward the sky, then clicks his fangs and lashes his tail about before returning his attention to the female. "I will try to find Whitestripe Sandwalker. I will try to find the Imperator. Together, perhaps we can restore some sense of order and civility to this planet. When communications are restored, we will try to contact you. Until then, may Altheor guide your path to the true cause of this plague and bring it to an end." "The cause..." Snowmist echoes bitterly, teeth flashing white in the shadows cast by her helmet for a moment before she closes her eyes and turns resolutely to enter the cab. "An' hopefully a cure on its way. Maybe I don't know 'nough 'bout what makes us Demarian t'understand why everything happened as they did, but I know 'nough 'bout what should be done an' revenge. Altheor smile 'pon you, Tuftcheek. There's not 'nough gratitude in the world t'repay you for what you are." Tuftcheek bows his snout in deference to Snowmist, but says nothing further to her. Instead, he quite purposefully distracts himself, grabbing the duffel off the ground where he set it next to the cab and then extends it toward Buteo. "See her safely to the Orphic. I will hear of it if you fail. You will not want to see me again should that transpire." Buteo gulps, takes the sack and then drops it with a clunking clatter as the weight overwhelms him and sends him staggering. "Ah, Buteo is so clumsy! Much sorrow for any unintentional damage this impact with the ground may have caused. I misconsidered the likely weight, you see." He then grunts and goes red in the face as he hefts the sack and hauls it aboard. Snowmist does not look back with farewells already made, simply halting as soon as she has reached the center of the main cabin, reaching slowly up to crack her helmet's seals and shed the biohazard suit for the last time. Tuftcheek stands in the center of the village, just as several Theorian pack members start closing in from the wilderness, curious about the strange vessel that has landed in their midst. He watches Snowmist in silence as she removes the helmet - but all else is lost from view as the hatch of the space cab whirs up and clanks shut. Soon after, now standing with a quartet of quadrapedal felinoids surrounding him and dropping onto their haunches, Tuftcheek watches as the cab fires booster jets, lifting off and sending a swirl of dust in all directions. Instinctively, the warrior lifts a hand to shield his eyes, but then the grit flung by the space cab skitters against his faceplate. The Theorians turn their backs on the maelstrom. But Tuftcheek watches as Buteo pilots the vessel away, the craft growing smaller and smaller as it gets further from view, bearing Snowmist Shadowstalker away from the ravaged Demarian homeworld. His first mission done. A success, it would seem. One promise fulfilled. As the cab is lost among so many other stars in the night sky, Tuftcheek turns at last to regard the sentient and psionic quadrapeds. More work remains. He drops to one knee and says to the creature closest to him: "I have something I must share, if you can help me spread the word." See also Last Flight out of New Alhira, Overrun, The Imperator Fallen, and Wide Awake and Waiting
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