Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm not supposed to own, and, by writing this piece of fiction, I am not suggesting or implying that I do in any way.
Saraneth stepped out into the heavy yet open air of Mourningwood, almost having to stop herself from sprinting towards the warmth. She was beyond thankful to be out of The Hole. She didn't mind enclosed spaces, at least not as much as Walter did. It was the hobbes she minded; the short, stubby, fowl-smelling creatures easily landed at the top of her list of least favorites. And while, admittedly, she did enjoy killing the little bollocks, she now had enough images of bashed in hobbe skulls to last her a lifetime and more.
Walter followed closely behind, just as eager to soak in the light of the surface world. "Ahh!" he said with almost tangible relief in his voice. "You can almost smell the sunlight. Isn't it wonderful? The damp, muggy, soggy sunlight."
Sarah smiled, silently sharing his comfort. She followed after him as he walked ahead, trudging through the marshy puddles that spotted the area.
"This is Mourningwood all right. I hope the people we're looking for are still alive."
Her eyebrows creased in confusion. "Why wouldn't they be?"
"Because, come nightfall, it's one of the most dangerous places in Albion." He stopped to empty the water and the other, slightly questionable contents that his boot had collected. "I don't know about dangerous, but I'm starting to get a rash. Bloody swamp." He grumbled irately.
"Who exactly are we hoping to encounter here?" She asked, curiosity getting the better of her. "They must be important, seeing as you were willing to walk through a cave, and a hobbe infested one at that, just to meet up with them."
"They call themselves the Swift Brigade. A regiment of the Royal Army, been stationed here for a few weeks. They're small in numbers, probably even more so now, but they're a group of strong, honorable men, and they'll make a vital addition to our cause."
She sighed, slightly out of breath. "Well, honorable or not, I just hope they have some ale close at hand." She said as the two continued on.
As they crossed a rotted wooden bridge, Sarah recognized a flag just ahead on their right, one of the Old Guard, planted in the ground on a mossy ridge.
"That must be the place up ahead," Walter said, also out of breath, "What I wouldn't give for a bowl of soup and a hot bath."
They approached a tall stone structure, decorated with a few more of the red flags. A soldier stood on a ledge overlooking the entrance. "Cease your movement! Be you men or be you hollow men?"
"Have you gone daft, boy? Open up the doors." Walter shouted up to him in a booming voice.
"Walter? Is that you?" The soldier replied skeptically.
"The very same. Now are you going to let us in or what?"
"Right, yes, of course," he stammered in reply before leaning over the other side of the ledge, "Open the gate! Tell Major Swift; Walter's here!"
Ben stood by idly as Walter and Swift exchanged their (rather tough and manly sounding) greetings, barely noticing the small but armed and able girl that had filtered in behind the large man.
"Walter! What the blazes are you doing here?" Major Swift said, holding his pipe proudly in hand.
"We came here looking for you. I have a proposition." Walter replied.
Ben stepped in then. "You came all this way to proposition us?" He asked with a smirk. "And I thought you were here to save us from the legions of the damned."
Walter turned towards the Captain. "Ben Finn! It's good to see you," He said sincerely before turning back to the Major, "I take it the legends about this place are true then?"
Swift turned to leave and the rest of the men followed, with the girl close behind. "I'll say. You've never seen so many hollow men in one place. We've been stationed here for weeks, trying to eradicate them. Mainly it's us getting eradicated," he told them, stopping in front of a few freshly dug and filled graves, "We lost some good men last night, including Lieutenant Simmons here. And the buggers'll be back tonight."
"Logan just loves to send you on the best assignments, doesn't he?" Walter said, straightening himself up, "That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about."
Major Swift's eyes went to the aforementioned girl, and Ben's eyes followed, acknowledging her for the first time. A hint of recognition appeared on Swift's face. He motioned towards her. "Is this…?"
"The princess," Walter interrupted, "Yes, I'll explain. But just treat her like any other pair of hands for now."
"Yes, my hands are small, but don't let their size fool you. They're just as able as their larger counterparts." The princess said, speaking for the first time since their arrival.
Ben did a quick once over, trying not to linger but finding it rather difficult. She was dressed as a mercenary, but sported the look in a very different manner. She dusted off a cleaner and blacker than most renegade jacket, worn along with a pair of women's mercenary shorts, with the usual striped tights removed, showing off an impressive pair of legs (impressive as in strong and capable, not impressive in a suggestive way, surely not). Her dark hair was pulled up in a loose bun, with a few strands misplaced here and there, as if she had just fought off an endless wave of hobbes.
This is definitely not what comes to mind when one hears the word "Princess".
Swift barked a laugh at her quick charm. "Fair enough. Captain Finn will show you to the mortar. We could use a body up there."
With that Walter and the Major went back to catching up, mostly conversing about mustaches.
Ben Finn started off towards the stairs, the Princess matching his pace. "Do you mind if I have a quick look around?" She asked. "I'd like to see if any of the men have a pint to spare."
Ben laughed, still finding it hard to believe that this was the princess. "Of course, Princess. We've a few hours before nightfall and the impending attack of the undead. Take your time. And, if I may suggest, try asking the soldiers by the fire. They're always carrying some sort of spirits with them."
She thanked him before heading off on her search for liquid comfort, stopping to call over her shoulder. "Oh, and please, call me Sarah. I'm just another pair of hands, remember?"
By the time he had gathered up enough of his scattered wits to nod, the princess was already settled by the fire on the other side of the camp.