Chapter 8: Insulation
Without having to flee to the outer ring to repair their ship, the journey to Camelot would be a short one - a little more than three standard days. It seemed like a lifetime ago since Mordred had travelled it last, but in reality, it had just been a few days.
While upon heading to Coruscant they had been in a subdued mood, now it felt almost like a festival - or it would if there weren't less than 10 people on board. He had known, of course, that the people of Camelot were warriors, but little could have prepared him to the joy and commitment they showed to the idea of fighting for their people.
Camelot's knights had always been renowned throughout the Republic as elite human warriors. Mordred couldn't help but wonder why, among all planets in the region, the Trade Federation had chosen Camelot to occupy. Then again, if they defeated Camelot Knights and their Lords on their own home, no one else would dare to defy them.
There, the Council had said, lay the true peril. Over mighty, the trade federation could create far too many problems for the Republic; spreading even more the corruption that many chancellors had fought to keep under control. Mordred had once asked Nimueh if it wouldn't just be easier to keep them from having a seat in the Senate, it seemed like a Banking Clan was no formal political body to be represented, but his master had explained to him that this was the only thing keeping them in check — without formal representation, it'd be much harder to track who they'd be approaching and what they'd be doing to advance their own politics.
While Mordred, Morgana and Merlin kept their meditation regime, Arthur and his two knights continuously worked on their armour. They were quality pieces, from the purest Cortosi metal, mined from their colony moon of Gedref. They were, too, priceless for they were impervious to almost any indirect attack: no blasters would fracture their protection, not even the Force could damage them. Lightsabers left nothing more than scratches even though they were often able to cut off whole members when coming in contact with the skin.
To attack a Camelot Knight one had to face him in equal risk, at an arm's length and armed with bare steel. Their armour made them a hard enemy to defeat, but, Mordred knew, not an impossible one. Time and persistence would turn the material brittle and it would eventually turn to dust under continuous lightsaber assault.
Of course, the fact that the Federation had bothered with getting their hands on in droids specifically designed to withstand an assault from the kind of warriors that were the blood and soul of Albion Sector was exactly what had tipped the Council off. It amazed Mordred how little Arthur seemed perturbed by hearing the news, how confident he was that it'd make almost no difference. It would be, however, an important weapon in Senator Pendragon's hands as he ran for Chancellor — and, as little as Master Nimueh liked it, he was likely to win.
To avoid spoiling their precious armour, the knights carried shields of laser too,that reflected back shots and swords alike. Mordred had seen those often before, as they were the difference between life and death in war torn worlds, but nothing that he had seen before could be truly compared to the shields carried in Camelot. They had raised defence to an art form, and instead of simple lights of purple and blue, their laser shields displayed in multiple colours the elegant symbols of their houses, their heraldry filled with images of animals and flowers, representing qualities that each house was renowned for, as if more than protection, it was also a painting — a declaration of who they were to those who didn't know them.
More than that, only the outward part of their armour was made of Cortosi. Under it they wore mails of simple iron, rings forged together manually my master smiths. As a last precaution, jackets of leather and rough spun tunics protected their skin from harm — either from the enemy or from the weight they carried.
And yet, Mordred had seen they caring to each piece with the same sort of dedication a jedi should have with their sabers. They had left Camelot with nothing other that what they wore, but the visit to the capital had supplied them with tools and extra items they needed. Percival, whose arms were almost as wide as Mordred's leg, was left in charge of beating the metal back into submission from the small indentations and bumps they had received from their last battle. The rhythmic sounds of the hammer hitting the metal became the soundtrack to their meditations, the evenly spaced hits reflecting the space between inhaling and exhaling.
How ironic that the sounds of war could help bring around the peace of mind. But wasn't true peace the goal behind every war? Peace, Justice, fairness: those were the reasons for people to fight, they fought either because it had been broken or to return to it. Now, the rhythmic beating, scraping, polishing of metal lulled them into harmony, before they clashed into fighting and returned to where they were now, an unending cycle, like all things in life.
After the attack from the Sith, Arthur had declared it paramount that they all trained together — Jedi and Camelot Knights, metal against light, as they challenged and learnt from each other. It was harder than Mordred had expected, for the Knights were truly talented and clearly took their training seriously. While the forms they used were not similar to those used by the Jedi — whose strength was in the sharp blade that needed but a touch to maim; while their blades needed speed and strong movements to be able to pierce or cut through sinew and bone — it was undeniable the talent it took; the careful footwork and the continuous movement that, at points, vaguely resembled Ataru.
It meant, too, that through fighting, they all got to know each other much better; without any need for words. It was almost a dance, as they moved forwards and backwards, slashing and stabbing, sweating and keeping their mind cool even when competing. Now, Mordred could say, with ease, that Lancelot and Percival felt guilty about facing Morgana, and would always start by trying to make it easy for her — a mistake Mordred himself had done, once — but, unlike that time, she wouldn't stop and request a fair fight from them — she would use their softness against them, beating them more soundly and easily than the rest of them could. Arthur, on the other hand, had no such compunction and in his duels with Morgana, one could see the spirit of Juyo — passion poured from their movements, without ever dominating them. It was beautiful and, had it been real, it would also be deadly. Merlin's eyes had shone upon watching it, and Mordred couldn't say he was impervious to it, for the siblings were like day and night: absolutely different and yet, clearly the same.
From watching them with Nimueh, he could truly see how talented they were — none could truly match her, even when she forgone her usual double-bladed saber in favour of a short one, but they were as close as they could get without a Jedi's reflexes. Lancelot was quick and graceful, always honourable and worried with the reflections of his actions. He was careful, conscious, and would have made a perfect Jedi. Percival, on the other hand, trusted far too much in his superior strength, and needed to train his footwork to guarantee his wins. Arthur, deferring and respectful, cared more about listening to Nimueh's comments and tips than he did about winning at all.
From fighting them with himself, Mordred had learnt that Lancelot was compassionate and patient, that Percival was caring and soft, and Arthur was more approachable and human than one would have expected from a king. He also came to understand things he had never even considered before: that it was not love of violence, as he had once thought, that made them warriors, but rather a love of peace, of order, to the last consequences.
Their devotion to each other and to their people was a joy to behold. Normally, Mordred would have considered a planet who still relied on an absolutist monarchy to be uncivilised, but upon seeing Arthur talking to his two knights, he truly believed in it. Arthur was, although a King, one of the most democratic leaders he had ever seen. He heard all of them, he valued each insight and each opinion. He worried equally about soldiers, peasants and children. All of them were Camelot, he said, and all of them were to be valued. There was, to the young king, no price that could surpass that of a life.
Under Uther, they had become bound by a code that ruled their actions. Under Arthur, they had become more than fighters: they had become protectors. That, alone, was the reason they seemed to rejoice in return to an invaded planet: now they would be able to do what they must, to do what they had vowed to do. Now they would protect the people they served. And Mordred, for one, felt honoured to fight at their side.
As he was considered the most diplomatic and political among their group, it fell to Lance to invite Master Nimueh, Lady Morgana, Mordred and Merlin to join them for their minor feast on the eve of their arrival to Camelot. From what he could tell, Arthur was unsure if they would come, but very much would like the opportunity to share with their allies the full extent of life in their planet and the rites they went through before battle — if to differentiate himself from a simple soldier, to make his sister more familiar with the culture that was meant to be hers or if merely for politics, Lance couldn't say. Perhaps all were equally valid reasons from Arthur's point of view; and it wasn't Lance's place to question his motives.
He knocked softly on the door of the largest cabin of the ship, which Arthur had insisted to cede to Master Nimueh. He knew, from the hour it was, that they were probably finishing their final daily meditation. Lance tried to remain perfectly still as he waited for someone to come to the door. He was merely a bit surprised that it was Lady Morgana the one to open it — just Morgana, as she insisted to be called. She offered him a small smile.
"Sir Lancelot," she said, giving him space to enter. "To what do we own the pleasure?"
He walked inside, making eye contact with each of them in turn and bowing, before turning towards Nimueh — who, by the Jedi rules, outranked all of them — and speaking.
"King Arthur wishes to invite you to join him in our pre-battle feast," he lowered turned his head slightly, encompassing all present. "It is but a modest fare, but he would be glad if you could come."
"Pre-battle feast?" Morgana echoed, seeming confused, but Master Nimueh seemed to know exactly what it meant as she answered.
"We are honoured by the invitation, Sir Knight. Please inform the King that we will join you shortly."
Lance bowed again and left, returning to the main living area, where Ranulf and Percival were putting the finishing touches on their evening meal. It would have been considered poor by their planetary standards; only one type of meat, two days old bread, cheese, a potato stewed with carrots and only one sort of fruit. Still, they would have gone without even that, hadn't Senator Uther insisted that tradition should be observed regardless of the circumstances. It had been all the could bring from Coruscant, and they had no wine, no mead and not even ale to drink; but it mattered very little. The familiarity of it was enough to quell the anxieties in their hearts as they approached the inevitable battle for Camelot.
"They should be here soon," he announced, and Arthur nodded from where he was carving the meat.
It was more than simple necessity that made him share these menial tasks with him; Arthur was a King, but not a man that believed that his birth granted him the privilege of being waited on; protocol was something he accepted and understood, not loved. Given the chance, he always chose to travel in small groups, and to share everything with his men. Leon, whose good handle on politics and clear talent in battled had led him to be named Camelot's First Knight, was vexed by Arthur's simple habits to this day; he had, afterall, grown to manhood under Uther's regime and Uther had been very conscious of his standing — and so had Arthur, when they had first met, five or six years before. The transformation had been a slow one, but one Lance was proud to witness.
They had just enough time to put everything on the table and the Jedi party arrived. Arthur nodded to Nimueh, and she smiled at him with a grace that was very different from the ferocious expression she usually wore. He stood at one head of the table, and gestured her to take the other — each of them leaders of their own groups, working together in equal footing, even if the Jedi were meant to serve. Lancelot stood at his right, with Percival in front of him. Ranulf was next to Percival. They waited as the Jedi gathered around — Mordred at Nimueh's right hand and Morgana on the left, Merlin beside him. The king waited until the master had seated to take his own seat, and the rest of them waited him to be comfortable to sit too.
"We are glad that you've elected to join us" said Arthur, with a gesture towards the food. "Please, have as much as you want."
Nimueh smiled at him.
"The pleasure is all ours," she nodded towards their meal. "It's been a long time since I've attended one of those."
Lancelot was again reminded that Nimueh had fought in Camelot before, she was far more familiar with their costumes than the rest of them. It seemed incredible that she and Uther were not more than ten years apart in age; she still looked young and fresh as if she had barely hit thirty.
"It is not to our usual standard," Arthur said, his tone apologetic. "But it is the most we could gather"
"It seems like a banquet!" Merlin chirped, and Arthur smiled at the boy.
"It is meant to be — now, please, eat."
There was a moment of silence while they served themselves, trading bows and plates, putting food on their plates. No one spoke as they started to eat, and soon Lancelot was sure that, although rushed and last minute, Senator Uther had sent them the highest quality food. His plate was already half-empty by the time someone spoke.
"I feel I probably should know — I'm sure it was in some studying material I skipped, may Master Gaius never hear of it, — but what is the pre-battle feast exactly?" Lady Morgana asked, curiosity clear in her face. Seeing as Arthur had his mouth full, he took it to himself answering her question.
"It is a moment we gather together and celebrate life — as opposed to the death that may soon follow. It's a time to honour the bonds that we share, and remind ourselves what we fight for."
"With food?!" she asked, smirking.
"Yes, milady," he smiled back, amused. "With food."
"Because nothing reminds us more of what is important than food," she nodded, irony marking her face. Lancelot was unsure of how to reply to this, but his king took this into his own hands.
"Food is a necessity for most beings — certainly for all humans," he reminded her, his tone calm and regal. "And while no one can be a true warrior — or guardian — without surpassing the needs of the body, in Camelot, we believe that there is no point in denying them. Mind over body is a good tenant — an essential one — but best left to the moments of true need; as in the battle field itself. We are all trained to withstand pain, hunger, lust, exhaustion and everything else to the limits of human endurance; but we depend on this very same body; and it should be reverenced as well. A body is more ready to win all those challenges if those needs are seen to, to the fullest, before the probation starts."
"So you believe into giving on to urges," Mordred said, his tone mild, but still clearly disapproving. As his King was now drinking, Lance merely shrugged to the man.
"Uncontrolled, all of those things can lead to vices — but if severely denied, they become burdens as well," he offered, as politically as he could. It wouldn't do for the Jedi to feel their ways criticised.
"It is a good method," Nimueh declared, surprising them all. "I strongly believe that Camelot has it right in this matter — that nothing good comes from denying too fiercely that which is part of our nature — neither good nor bad, simply a fact."
"Do you?" asked Morgana, clearly surprised, and Nimueh smiled.
"I have tried it myself," her smile was cutting. "And found it worked very well for me. Whatever you have heard, I would advise you not to dismiss it until you have tried it."
Mordred and Morgana still had their eyes glued to their master as Arthur started to speak again.
"So on the eve of a battle, the Knights of Camelot — and, indeed, all our warriors, even those who are not called knights — feast and sate their hunger. They drink their share, and they take lovers to their rooms. They sleep until they naturally wake up, and when battle comes, they are far more than simply ready to do their duty: they have refilled their energies to the fullest and they are motivated above everything. They have, once again, experienced all the delights that are to be had in human life, and they give it the fullest value."
Lancelot could see a look of questioning in the eyes of the padawans, if it meant that they saw sense in it or if they doubted it's effectiveness, he couldn't say.
"Have you done this?" Mordred asked his master, looking back at her.
"Many times," she confirmed, and Morgana was the next one to speak.
"Taken lovers, too?"
Nimueh smiled at her, kindly but firmly.
"Yes. I have told that Mordred often enough, even if he hardly ever listens and I'll tell you now: the dangers the code and council warn against, are that of passion, of ties so deep and so filled with the need to possess that they may lead you to the dark side. It is not love, itself, that is an issue; it isn't sex — sexual relations are a need of some species — humans, notably — , and it is a call as natural as the one to relief yourself in the toilet, eat or sleep; attending to is isn't different than allowing yourself to attend to any of those things: it can be held down and controlled up to a point, but it isn't the natural way of our bodies, and renouncing it poses as many risks — physical, mental and spiritual — as surrendering mindlessly to it does. Don't allow yourself to be blinded by the prejudices of others — having sexual relations isn't necessarily the same thing as falling in love, or drowning in lust, or putting an infatuation ahead of your duty. If you are moderated in it, you incur in no special risks. It is but an physical activity like any other. More than that, sex, along with all other things prescribed by Camelot's warriors, can lead you to a state of peace that may even surpass that which is attained by the longest and most severe meditations — and far more pleasurable."
Lancelot couldn't see Morgana's face from where he was, but Mordred's face was on fire. He tried to look the other way, to change the thread of the conversation, but he found his king's eyes drilling into the padawan, something between curiosity and desire in his eyes. Long had he known that Arthur preferred the company of men to the lures of women, but never before he had seen it so clearly shown.
"I can't imagine that all may be amenable to it…" Morgana said, and they all knew she was thinking about her own master in it. Nimueh's laugh rang through the room, though.
"Oh, but you don't know him half as well as you think you do, my dear," she seemed quite amused. "I was not the only one to engage in their ways, and Gaius was far less apt to keep his liaisons away from his heart. Indeed, he might have left the Order altogether, had Ali-cyn not insisted that their time had come to an end. It broke his heart, poor Gaius, but it was for the best. They are still in touch, that much I know, even if she is stationed in Telosian."
Weird as this sound, Lancelot did not doubt her words. Neither, it was clear, did the padawans. Remembering for the first time in a while that they were not alone in the room, he turned to look at Merlin, wondering how much he even knew of such things, and found the boy eyeing everything carefully, considering everything that was being said.
"We've had food, and there was no drink," Morgana said, a smirk in her face, turning toward her brother. "Now you intend to find lovers as well?" she eyed Lancelot, playfully. "Well, not Sir Lancelot, I know, for his heart belongs to a mysterious lady left in Camelot, so he will have to pass," then she eyes back her brother. "But things don't seem to be looking up your way, with only the two of us here and neither being an option."
The King turned a bright shade of red, which was, for some reason, the same as Mordred's. He cleared his throat and tried to speak.
"Well — no. I was not — forgive me, I didn't — I didn't mean today."
But even being taken far away from birth and being raised apart, Morgana seemed to have the same quick grasp of people that her brother had, and she looked between her friend and Arthur for a second before her smile widened, as predatory as Master Nimueh's could be.
"Oh — I see. Not as much of a problem as I expected then."
Mordred choked on his drink, and Arthur seemed, if possible, to turn even more red, before giving a tiny shrug.
"I'm not discarding the possibility," he said, trying to keep his composure, and glancing quickly at Mordred. "But I — I understand that those are peculiar costumes and that there are occasions in which we cannot full fill them how we normally would."
It was not exactly flirting, but it was a clear opening, one that Lancelot had no idea if Mordred would take. The two men exchanged a glance, and he couldn't help but clear his throat and interrupt the moment — it felt far too intimate to be shared like this.
"Ranulf, how many hours do you think we have before we arrive?"
"Yes, Ranulf," Arthur said, his voice still betraying his thoughts. "How much time do we have to, hm, get ready?"
"From my calculations, we should reach the blockade in fifteen hours," he started, and all talk turned towards their plan to bypassing the Trade Federation again and landing safely, much to Lancelot's relief.
A man would have to be blind, though, to not notice the looks that kept on being traded, but, he figured, this was none of his business, and did his best to ignore it.
Nimueh woke up feeling more energised than she had felt in years. The mission was still challenging and more than she had ever expected to encounter, but this seemed refreshing rather than daunting. She found that most of the ship was still asleep, but Ranulf was already back at the bridge, calculating their approach to Camelot and Merlin was standing next to him, clearly asking about something on the panel.
"Those are forwards stabilisers," she heard the pilot explain, seeming glad rather than annoyed at the company.
"So those must be the ones to control the pitch," deduced the boy, with a grin, and Ranulf responded in kind.
"You catch on pretty quick," he answered, elbowing the boy's belly. Merlin laughed, and it was a sound she had hardly ever heard it before, and she felt it was a pity. "You may even become a pilot some day."
"I hope not," she heard him whisper, before he saw her. "Good morrow, Master Nimueh."
He gave her a respectful bow, and she messed up with his hair.
"Why not a pilot? It seems clear to me that you have far more talent than most in that area."
"Yes," he agreed, with no false modesty. "But I still hope the Council will allow me to become a Jedi."
"Don't worry about it, child" Nimueh smiled at him. "I'll make sure you are trained, even if it is the last thing I do."
It was nothing but a way of speaking, but it tugged at her heart all the same — it might as well be the last thing she did before leaving the Order. She shook her head slightly, moving away from those thoughts.
"Still — there are Jedi pilots too. We call them Aces — you may become one of them some day."
This seemed to pacify him enough, and she allowed herself to sit down next o Ranulf, looking at the console.
"How much longer?"
"Not long, Master. Any moment now we should see it."
Yet, the end of the trip would be only the beginning of their journey - there was more to it than simply reaching Camelot unschated. And yet, she never before had felt more ready to whatever she was about to face.
Camelot was as different from Tatooine as a planet could be; Merlin could see even from the space. While in his old home, sands dominated the landscape, making it yellow even from far outside, here it was green that dominated the sphere.
"There is one battleship on my scope," Ranulf announced, and now all of them stood on the bridge, waiting for the moment to leave the ship.
"It's a droid control ship," Mordred said, analysing the screen. "If we manage to take it down, this whole war will be over."
"This ship isn't equipped for this," Ranulf lamented. "But our battle cruisers on land should be able to handle it — and worse, they have probably spotted us."
"So we don't have much time," Nimueh reminded them. "Do your best, pilot."
Camelot was mostly made of forest and meadows. There were some villages here and there, farming lands, a fertile valley filled with flowers, and water — lakes, rivers, seas, so much that it seemed impossible to Merlin's eyes. Ranulf was clearly talented in piloting, and landed them in the midst of the cover of trees, in a meadow so small that the ship took most of it.
"Thank you, Ranulf" Arthur said, his voice brimming with gratitude. If you ever tire of serving my father in the Capital…"
"You'll be the first to know, sire," Ranulf promised. "Now, hurry — I will distract them to the best of my abilities."
It seemed like a suicide mission for Merlin, but he knew better than to argue. It was not his place — he was supposed to do what he was told, and so he did, walking into the woods with the rest of them.
"There is a farm — loyal, I'm sure — one hour to the south of here," Arthur explained, leading them through a trail that was almost invisible. "We'll gather horses there — Trade Federation is too blind by it's technological prejudice to have cared about them. Lancelot — head towards the white mountains, and bring Leon and Guinevere to meet us — whatever other knights and archers you find there must get ready to fight; leave only the barest defences — the land itself should fight for us — but don't hold back in waiting for them; they may follow at their own pace — while I have urgent need to meet those two. Percival — I want to you head to the citadel and find Elyan, he will be essential to our plans."
"We won't leave you unprotected," Percival declared, before eyeing the rest of them. "No offence."
"I will protect him, Sir Percival," Nimueh said, her voice firm. "Worry not, for I am more than prepared to defend your king."
Arthur assented to it, with grace. It was incredible how he would become regal so suddenly, when he was such a childish person when he spoke to Merlin alone.
"We will meet again tomorrow at twilight," the king announced. "In the Castle of Ancient Kings — from there, we will spring our attack."
All orders had been given, so they walked silently through the forest, that would, Merlin was sure, forever be fascinating to him. If they hadn't been in such a hurry, he would have stopped to feel each tree, each leaf. It all seemed to brim with life, far more than he had expected.
"What is the Castle of Ancient Kings?" Mordred asked, but his words were directed to Nimueh.
"It's an old, abandoned fortress, three hours west from the Citadel. It used to to be a royal palace — the seat of government — until King Bruta, built the castle we've been to last time. For a while, it was used as a royal retreat, but in the last two hundred or so years, it has been left to rot. The forest encroaches close to it, which will work to our advantage. It is, also, quite spacious — a whole army could be hosted there and you wouldn't be able to see it from the outside."
It seemed quite formidable to Merlin, and he felt eager to see it as he had never seen anything even similar to a castle, even if he was unsure what he was supposed to do in the midst of a war — well, observe, he supposed, and learn. That was what Nimueh had told him to do.
Most of their walk was done in silence, and the farmhouse sprung unannounced, it's back close to the line of trees, while in front of it, hundreds of meters of fertile field were left unattended. It held an eerie silence, which made Merlin's skin crawl — as if something horrible had happened in it.
Still, he was shocked by what he saw when he walked inside, behind Mordred. Bodies were spread through the house, their eyes open but unseeing, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for salvation that never came. It made him sick in the stomach. He had seen death before, however, never like this.
"Droidekas," Mordred said, his voice subdued, as he studied the marks in the wooden table. "They never stood a chance."
Merlin was somewhat relieved to see he wasn't the only one feeling queasy. Leaning against one of the counters, Morgana seemed just about to faint, her eyes huge but blind to the scene in front of her.
"They were just farmers," said Arthur, his voice heavy with guilt. "Just ordinary people — and they sent Droidekas to deal with them."
He was clearly angry, and trembled a bit as he lowered himself and closed the eyes of an old man.
"They will be avenged."
"Beware, Young King," Nimueh advised, her face concerned. "Revenge is never the best goal to be pursued."
Arthur looked at her, his disagreement clear in his face.
"I'm not a Jedi to deny my people their justice," he spit, before he looked again at the bodies piled up on the kitchen. Standing up, he took a deep breath before speaking again. "Nor my father to loose myself in it. Thank you for the reminder, Master."
Nimueh lowered her head, accepting what he said. Lancelot, Percival and Mordred started closing the eyes of the rest of the dead, and one by one, they were left to rest.
"I wish we could properly care for the bodies," Arthur murmured, with a sad shake of head. "But this would give us away. Come on, we must go."
Together, they reached the stables and, as predicted, the Trade Federation forces hadn't bothered with them. Merlin had never seen a horse before, and was shocked at how big and powerful they looked — most of them were taller than he was. The animals were clearly agitated, perhaps, sensing the horrors that had happened inside, but under the touch of the knights and Master Nimueh, they calmed quickly.
"Take horses to carry them back," Arthur told his warriors, his voice firm. "We can share."
He looked up to Nimueh for confirmation, and she gave him a firm nod. There were seven of them on the stables, and first Lance, then Percival left with two each. Three remained for the five of them.
"Can you ride?" Arthur asked them, and Merlin was quick to shake his head. Mordred, at least, did the same, while the two women nodded firmly.
"I'll take Mordred with me," Morgana said, giving him a sad smile.
"I'll take Merlin," Arthur countered, and he felt a thrill of excitement in the thought.
"Very well," Nimueh agreed, quickly taking her seat. "Now, we just need to go."
The arrangements were done swiftly, and soon they were back in the middle of the threes, heading towards the ruins from where they hoped to plan their attack.
A/N: Decided to post earlier than usual because of the holiday. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. :)