Down in the south, most people were civilian. The towns and cities were hardly spread out through the land, for at most, just a one-day travel would bring you from one safe haven to the next. Nevertheless, from the quaint little backwoods communities to the bloody and contaminated wastelands of the battlefront, the constant battle between good and evil continued to rage on with victories, defeats, and many, many casualties. Although since distinguishing between what was truly good and what was truly evil had become somewhat of a difficult task for many who had been dropped into the fray, most every soldier did as every soldier was expected to: and that was following orders.
For soldiers who were decorated for outstanding service, tales of their heroics traveled far and wide, some getting a bit more exaggerated the closer to home they got. In tales such as these, some soldiers were called "brave"; "fearless"; "bold", "valiant", and "daring"! ...The part of the story that most people didn't hear of was how – on a regular basis! – these heroes had received and immediately accepted their harrowing missions from the CO's before asking – (out of earshot of anyone but their trustworthy partner from recruitment camp) – what exactly it was that they were told this time to do.
Soldiers like these tended to be interesting; and more often than not, amusing as well. If he or she was at a point where they could say "Yes!" before asking "What?", they were long past the point of harboring a desperation for recognition. Eager and unlearned recruits ran off and killed starving hyenas when they were supposed to salt pigling meat and feed the starving guards. Recruits who knew better and were desperate for acknowledgment rather listened to what the higher-ups told them so that they knew what it was they had to accomplish in order to get the attention they so desired. Recruits who could nod their heads and already be prepared for a fight with who-knew-what at who-knew-when for who-knew-what-reasons and not waste time for the details of their mission? These were the folks who made sacrifices. They were the adaptable ones, who rode the wave into combat and fought until the fight was done. They were in the front, back, sidelines and center; they were out to do something and get it done and over with; they didn't care about how much cash was on the weighing scale, just as long as there was more on their side to tip balances into their favor. These were the men and women who were either itching to help be a part to an end of the war, who were itching to just have an end to the war so that they could plain go home, or who were itching to do something – anything! – before their frantic partners found them trying to test out parkour on the cloth siding of an encampment tent. (That it wasn't a pretty sight was the consensus of all who heard tell of that particular incident...).
None knew quite so well how utterly dangerous a soldier's boredom could grow to be; none like officer Grongkak, for his own partner was somewhat of an unusual type. To put it simply, the fellow could acknowledge his situation brilliantly one minute, and then the next seem as indifferent to his environment as a cow who wandered into a floretta field while chewing on its cud. Even now it was clear by the bored expression featured on his face that nothing the Baraka had just said had properly registered itself within his brain.
With a very un-Baraka-like growl, Grongkak grabbed the High Elf by the shoulders and tried shaking the other man out of his daze.
"Hey!" he shouted, "Listen to me; I just spoke with the Commander!"
"If one hundred copper makes one silver," Varaz muttered distantly, causing his partner to put a pause on his rougher ministrations, "and one hundred silver makes one gold, than twenty percent of every hundred gold would be twenty gold, which would be two thousand silver, which would be two hundred thousand copper... so for every gold piece, a deposit of twenty percent would be..."
"Can't you hear a word I'm saying? We're getting promoted!"
"Maybe if I invested in a record book so I won't confuse myself with how much goes into savings and how much I keep on my person... though I think I put more into the bank than I actually keep, so the red bandits might actually-"
"Has all the essence gathering gone to your head!?" Grongkak snarled. "Varaz!"
The silver-haired sorcerer blinked. "Grongkak."
Pulling back, his heavy gloved hands still resting on the younger man's shoulders, the lancer asked: "Are you listening now?"
"I made a stop at the bank and paid the monthly expenses," was Varaz's reply. "We're short on Gravehide and plant fibers; we should also stop by a merchant stand and re-stock on bandages. While we're at it, how are you on healing elixirs?"
Resignedly, Grongkak sighed. Hands falling to rest at his sides, he walked up closer to the pillar the Elf was leaning against, turned his back, and mirrored the man beside him. Honestly, he was at a loss as to whether or not the Elf was doing this on purpose or not, so he did the only thing he could think of: shut up and observe.
Blue eyes trained ahead yet focused on nothing before them, arms crossed but stance relaxed, expression bored – as stated before – but considering as well. His mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown, it was only now that Grongkak could pick up on the slight twitching of his partner's fingertips, indicating that something was being mentally counted.
Despite his faults, Varaz was relatively responsible. Oh sure – he might run off for a bit and wait to use his resurrection scrolls on people who needed them, or even dance around their immobile bodies while they screamed at him to help them up before the bosses re-spawned, but usually (not always, but usually) there was a method behind his madness... or madness behind his methods; he was certainly well-known for acting like a maniac. But also, the young man took it upon himself to trade bandages and healing elixirs whenever another person was short some, would draw his companions' attention to their own health (or lack thereof) and call for a short break to cast campfire spells in quiet hallways in the dungeon areas, and no matter if he went off on his own for a bit, he would (almost) always come back for his partner – especially if said partner had just been stupid enough to get himself immobilized near or even in the middle of a re-spawn or red bandit zone... and this sorcerer was a pretty tenacious fighter, if not a bit fragile.
Nevertheless, Varaz had a certain way about him that even Grongkak had yet to fully understand. Sometimes he was the most reliable person you could ask for; the fight-initiating ranged attacker who had your back and put the baddies to sleep long enough for the tanks to take a swig of some healing potions. Other times, he... well... he initiated practice duels in places only a safe haven teleport scroll could get you out of, jumped up and danced at the top of high cliffs (where no sane man should ever be), ran around a boss room, looting other people's stuff despite the high probability of his agro-ing an undefeatable red foe, and rounded up baddies to throw a wrench in the tank's party before stepping back and nonchalantly tossing unhelpful, witty comments to the companion he had just put into a jam.
It was lucky for many that Arun and Shara had not dreamed of a true, everlasting death – because if they had, than Grongkak and Varaz (and likely many other helpless bystanders) would have been dead many times over by now, because of stupid antics and mistakes on both their parts... but mostly on Varaz's.
Still, he was a friend. An odd one, yes, but a friend no matter.
"I have an overabundance of elixirs," the Baraka finally replied. "but I'll soon be able to make more potent ones because I will be receiving the funds to buy higher-quality ingredients. I'm getting a raise in salary – as are you – because the Federation is promoting us. Do you hear me now?"
"Promotion..." Varaz muttered, his expression changing into a slightly more readable one. To Grongkak's surprise, the sorcerer now looked more inconvenienced than anything. "That's right... they discovered new essences, plants and minerals up north. I'll have to quickly promote my gathering skills before other mages bleed the fresh resources dry. What an irritant..."
Defeated, Grongkak sighed and stood up straight. The way he was now, there would be no getting through to him... and Grongkak's patience was running thin. This had to be remedied. "Come," he commanded. When the Elf felt large fingers grip him under the elbow and start towing him away, eyes widening, he could only obey and surrender his comfortable pillar to the force that pulled him forward.
"Where are we going?" he inquired as they walked.
"To the merchant, to replenish our stock like you said to," his kidnapper answered roughly – though not without a hint of amusement – as he led his friend down to the southernmost streets of Velika. "And then, after that, to Symon."
"Symon, from the Blue Wagon? For what reason?"
A mischievous gleam lit the Baraka's dark eyes when he finally answered: "...I'll tell ya later."