Yes: Those who have noticed this story's reappearance would know that this is the very first piece I had devoted myself to. What brought me to revive this tale, I wonder? Inspiration? Obligation? Maybe a most bewildering affliction of boredom? I wish I could say. I do know why I had first written this piece, though; this is technically where my writing "legacy" had begun.

I intend to take this to its melancholy end, even if I have to do so from beyond the grave; unfinished works just aren't my style (anymore).

Tact

Act 1: The Crossed Paths of Traitors

Those who do deeds of any nature most likely follow the saying "actions speak louder than words". While there's not much room for disagreement, this must be said: a person's communication skills aren't always weaker than his or her "performances". There may be truth to the belief that actions define the character, but that alone cannot solidify certain opinions on oneself.

Greeting others. Giving thanks. Confessing love. These are examples which a simple bow, a curt nod, nor even a heartfelt gesture can substitute the utterances of "Good morning", "Thank you", or "I love you", respectably. Forgive me for an awkward metaphor, but whereas actions can dispel the shadows of doubt, words can erect a permanent Light Rune onto the center of their convergence.

I may be biased in defending words. My occupation, which requires me to utter, whisper, signal, and yell- and even in the crudest sense, bark, howl, and screech- orders, may have played some part in influencing my stance. I may just be undoing my own efforts with this baseless quip. I must point out, though, that everything known to man is subjective; it's just that whatever possesses the cleanest, most flowery logic is taken as fact.

Tact. In the English language, it is defined as the mastery of speech necessary to avoid offending another person. When building trust with someone- a complete stranger, an ally, or even an enemy- tact is the one aspect of a person that can control the sway of his or her audience's affinity. Taking this to its plausible extremes, it may either rally all concerned parties into one unified power or disperse them into tiny little fractions where they bicker over every last detail- a sad thing to witness, a disgustingly despicable thing to create; in a way, tact is much, much more than just part of the word "tactician".

A tactician's job, when whittled to its most basic of outlines, is to guide his or her comrades to countless victories while causing as few casualties as possible; "zero", being the score of both a novice and a master, is most definitely a double-edged sword. If anyone has any sense of tact whatsoever, they will never, ever, ever call a dedicated (key word here) tactician a strategist. Sure, there are strategists who double as tacticians and vice-versa, but if a dedicated tactician hears such a faux pas (which is an unfortunate inevitability, mind you), a bystander can almost hear the infernal sounds of insides twisting in annoyance and anger.

Why exactly, you'd ask? I don't know myself, to be perfectly honest here, but I think it relates to the humorous- if slightly degrading- names slung between advisors:

For tacticians, the uncompromising, ever-unsure ninnies we are, we're "Tacks".

For strategists, the long-winded, droll bores they are, they're "Gistless".

In any case, a tactician- as well as any occupation- knows the importance of trust between co-workers, hence the absolutely mandatory interaction with comrades; trust me, the seemingly anti-social ones? Oh, how wrong that generalization is- they had taken the job knowing full well what it had required of them!

Since this description is dangerously close to creating the assumption of idealistic "buddy-buddy" situations between co-workers, I am also obligated to add this in: though mercenaries have to entrust their lives to us tacticians, we entrust more than just our own lives in exchange; our reputations, the very factor that determines our ability to stay in the business, are at stake. One slip-up, and we can kiss our careers goodbye. It will be the equivalent of a dishonorable discharge, and all those nice little benefits from our organization will vanish faster than a dragon slain by a Divine Weapon. Therefore, while "playing nice" is recommended, the tiniest sliver of mutual trust is all that's necessary for positive feedback.

Well, I believe I should save the rest of my explanations for a later time; otherwise, the intro-to-intention ratio will be too great. As for the organization explanation, I shall save that part for next time.

The First Step

Ah, passant... I knew that warp powder was still unstable. Damn those sadist tinkerers... Beads of sweat trickled from his forehead as his breathing retained its shakiness. Despite his attempts to will his body into enduring the burden, it still resisted, sending jolts of pain with each sluggish step.

"Hey, Mark, are you sure you're alright?" a girl with long, green hair asked him as they walked beside each other over the grassy hills, sensing his discomfort in keeping two large drawstring pouches aloft.

"Never better, Lady Lyn..." he responded with a hint of grim honesty. "My legs just like to think they lack knees, is all." Indeed, his walking pattern was no different than that of a stilt-walker.

Then again, wearing a dark green cloak during a scorching day should have been a telltale sign of his masochism.

Two and a half days had passed since the fateful meeting between the lone Lorca tribeswoman and the fool who had finally figured out the proper use of warp powder- a parting gift from his organization's Craftlord division- to reach his destination. The usage of the powder had depended on its distribution; when it had properly depicted a circle, it would teleport the user to their destination of choice, but the slightest derivation (intentional or otherwise) would merely send the soul to said area while the body, still back at the starting point, collapsed from spiritual exhaustion. Needless to say, either method still put great strain on the user; he had been unfortunate enough to botch it twice and still be breathing!

He had spent the morning of his beyond-idiotic mishap frolicking in dreamland before finding himself under the care of the plains nomad. Introductions had been in order, along with a display of each other's strengths for a common goal, thanks to the catalyst of Batta the Beast (and his silent friend) raiding a nearby ger. The following morning (after the latter pair had been subdued and the powder's backlash had come for round two), she had asked to accompany him on his travel to become a full-fledged tactician. After letting her do as she pleased, he had helped her pack any essentials before departing alongside her the next day. Now, as high noon passed silently, they found themselves heading to Bulgar in order to acquire more supplies and seek a proper mission.

"Lady Lyn, let's talk about something- anything. This silence is unnerving," Mark begged as they continued their walk.

"Hm... alright. I forgot to ask this last night, so I may as well do so now. Why do you refer to me as 'Lady Lyn' and 'milady'? I noticed that you had never called me just 'Lyn' after I had given you my name, not even in the midst of battle. Why is that?"

"Good observation, milady." He shifted the weight on his back to give it a brief respite. "To tell the truth, I had been taught to show the utmost respect towards anyone and everyone, if only for a slight boost to my reputation."

"'The most important trait of the tactician' you told me about, correct?"

His eyes widened in surprise. "Why, yes! That's right. I'm actually amazed you remembered it, milady!"

The previous night, after they had completed preparations, Lyn had inquired Mark about the aspects of his occupation, to which he had agreed in exchange for learning the culture of the Lorca. Fascinated by each other's details, they had spent most of the night comparing the similarities between each other's knowledge, as well as debating some of the more... questionable items.

"And just what are you suggesting by that?" she huffed.

The fool caught himself, the deed already done. "A slip of the tongue... my deepest apologies. It's just that our conversation last night had been so lengthy that I had feared most of it would be forgotten just as swiftly." He admitted that his own mind wasn't as fine-tuned before continuing his explanation. "Over time, the title-dropping became a habit of subservience for myself. Does it irk you, milady?"

"Well..." She hesitated, unsure if her answer would offend him, before replying. "It actually does, to tell the truth."

Such an unexpected response had sent him into a brief moment of stupor. "Explain, please?"

"You may not have realized it, but the best way for us to work together is if we consider each other as equals- not as master and servant."

Her memory recalled the assault of the Taliver: how her father, the Lorca chieftain, had secured an escape route for her and their people while he delayed the bandits' advance, how the tribesmen had dismissed her offer to lead them for tradition's sake...

"By giving people more respect than necessary, you are unknowingly offending them. You are a tactician: a person who needs to assert his authority in order to maintain control of his troops... unless what you had told me that night was a lie?"

By Lady Elimine, she's sharp! "Even so, too much assertion leads to dissent. Besides, if you haven't realized, this habit is my first step towards evaluating future approaches-"

"So you distrust your companions from the start?" she interjected. "Is that what you think is proper form for a greeting-?"

"Do realize," Mark countered, "that the employed is prone to siding with the person who offers the most money!"

One too many times had he read reports of advisors who had been bribed with double, triple, quadruple their initial pay and, consumed by their own greed, sided with the enemy, only to be slain by the instigators themselves for their moment of weakness. Not only were their corpses tossed aside like fecal matter, but the organization had also disavowed them for such dishonorable conduct. Needless to say, their actions faded into obscurity, but they had been the lucky ones.

"Unlike some of my fellow co-workers, I had chosen to shower friend and foe alike with respect, even if I would get paid nothing!" he roared. "They, in their selfishness, lost sight of the true goal and treated everyone they knew like refuse, furthered only their own agendas, and did other stupid things- whoa!" His impassioned rebuttal made him forget about the actual weight on his shoulders, causing it- along with a particularly strong gust of wind- to push him into the wavering grass.

"Mark!" She tried to grab the weight before he hit the ground, but it was a moment too late- his face already made an imprint in the dirt, the load now crushing his head and cutting off his oxygen supply.

"Mmph! Mmph!" He waved his arms wildly, obviously in great discomfort. He attempted to push the pouches off, but his panicked state was scattering his concentration.

She pushed aside the weight and shifted him onto his back. "Are you alright?"

He coughed a bit, spitting out pebbles and blades of grass, before exhaling deeply in order to regain his composure. "Never better, thanks," he replied shakily as he gave a weak smile. "I think 'klutz' describes me just a bit too well, don't you think?"

She chuckled. "I guess so. Should we divide the weight?"

"I guess we should." After they redistributed the essentials evenly into the two pouches, Mark continued his rant, now more sensibly calm. "Anyway, about my... questionable companions. Do you want to know what happened to them?"

"Only if you feel I need to know," she responded as she hoisted up her share of the weight.

"A proper response." He lifted up the remaining load. "They're still alive... but only barely."

"'Barely'?"

"You know the saying 'See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil'?"

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"Well, the organization decided that my colleagues needed to learn it the hard way."

The rotted oaken chair the traitors had been forced onto, the sinewy ropes their limbs had been restrained with, the sedative their bodies had been injected with to null the shock creeping into their faces... not only had he, the Craftlord leaders' sole slave, been responsible for their maintenance, but he was also the last person the condemned had been granted as company.

Before temporarily removing their ability to feel pain, he had listened to their last requests and had done his utmost to fulfill them; some- such as the delivery of a final message to a loved one- had been heart-wrenching, while others- like the serving of a last meal or the possession of a bauble- had been so simple at first glance that only when he had read their accounts later on would he realize how significant the subjects of the requests had been to the requesting.

Once he had granted their wishes, he would leave their company and lock the door after his superiors had guided him out. Since he had not the authority to witness the method of the condemnation, he could not say what had transpired next.

"After the procedure was done, they had to be escorted out. Since simple execution left too much of a mess, it had been out of the question, and the organization's secrets still had to be safeguarded. They were rendered blind... deaf... mute..."

The thought of being disabled beyond reason had made her instinctively gasp in horror. "Oh, Mother Earth and Father Sky... That's... inhumane-"

"What's inhumane is suffering the rest of your days with only the senses of smell, taste, and touch," he added. "To witness only the veil of darkness swallowing you whole, to hear only the sound of Lightning spells locking onto your frail body, to be denied the privilege of screaming your last and only mouthing your absolute despair... Being 'Sensebound' is a torture even hell itself would refrain from using." He made a heavy sigh. "This is why I address you as such: to remind myself of my duties, lest I fall to such depths. After all, one cannot see the pit if he's looking at the skies."

Hearing the details of Mark's obligations gave Lyn an understanding of his steadfastness to his habits, if only a minuscule bit. "...I see," she slowly managed to say, the shock still too great. "Forgive me-"

"The fault is all mine," he interjected. "It was my decision to give you those morbid details, so if it's alright with you, let us never speak of this for a good long while... Lyn."

She noticed the loss of the title and knew that, for that one moment, he had dropped his servant act and had wanted her to do something- not as an order from advisor to soldier but as a request from one equal to another, from one friend to another. "Of... of course." They nodded to each other, a silent agreement to keep whatever had transpired here hidden away in the corners of their hearts.

As the sun was glaring down on the duo, the road to Bulgar had never seemed so long.

My tongue has dulled since then, but the sharpness it had held that day still scars my lips.