The Deadlands ain't named for dead land.

Fact is, these swampy marshlands be teeming with life. Life I would like nothing more than to exterminate off the face of the Frontier, but life all the same. Comes in the form of buzzing clouds of miregnats who glow with a reddish hue after they done plundered your blood like an old world mesquite. Their wings hum like the tines on a tuning fork designed to make the most discordant note you done ever did hear, especially when each one is just slightly off from the ones around it. Then there's the croaking sloughfrogs, fat, eyeless fellas who are covered in slime and warts aplenty and got the slowest, sloppiest glorp-glorp call that echos like a stone dropped into well-water some twenty feet down.

The grating chrrrk-chrrk of the slitcrickets so reminiscent of grinding teeth. The uncomfortable sensation of bogmoths fluttering about and brushing much too close to your face with their papery wings. The hollow, vibrato bellows of throatgators calling out in challenge or mating, the rustle of lizard-monkey Bogclimbers moving through the drooping trees overhead and their errie, human-like laughter, the tik-tik-tik calls of bald rodent Mudchucks as they gnaw through roots and wood alike. These are but a few of the sounds of the Deadlands, and I hate it all, a disharmonious musical number sounding out in the background to the beat of my boots shucking through mud and silt as we move deep into the Deadlands with no signs of human civilization to be found.

The day started off fine enough as we set out from Stillwater after a hearty breakfast at dawn. Just as Don Manfredi hinted, didn't no one care to inspect our things, not in Stillwater and not at the military checkpoint we come across after a six-hour trek. We got Edward Elton to thank for that, and I can't help but smile to see him lead us right past the lines of wagons and travellers going through all sorts of rigorous checks. The checkpoint is just that, a checkpoint, a ring of palisades around a couple tents and barricades at the end of the muddy road that brung us here.

One my wagon would've have no trouble traversing, so I'm feeling sort of sour until I see what awaits us in the Deadlands proper. See, Stillwater is the end of the Mourning Run, the river that leads down to Ashbend, but there's still some distance between the compound and the swamp proper, a strip of marshy land called the Quarantine Zone, one that's heavily patrolled by the four nations to keep the Soulless contained within and random travellers out. We got all our papers in order though, papers the French soldiers stationed at the checkpoint barely glance at before waving us through. It's a surreal experience, going in from one side of the wooden fortification and coming out the other, because even though it's still all muddy forest on either side, it feels like we've entered the swamp proper.

Ain't no packed dirt roads here, only mud trails and pools of water aplenty. To the east, it looks like there's a waterway that's just deep enough for a flatboat that ain't too heavy, with sailors poling their way through the murky, stagnant waters before unloading their goods to waiting wagons who'll bring them down south. We don't take no flatboat though, because them waterways be well mapped and guarded, so there ain't no point using them if we looking for Abby to hunt. Instead, we head out on foot going east and north, because that's the way we gotta go to find Cinderfern, Sunflare Thistle, and Scorchvines.

And the way is slow going indeed, which leads me to think that the high price of Phoenix Ashes might not be entirely unjustified. While there are paths you could take, they're barely even trails, just a well-trodden track through all the mud and water that changes depending on how much rainfall they've had in recent days. Every now and then, we come across a bit of a corduroy roadway, a lane of logs laid out perpendicular to our direction and sunk into the mud. Not exactly firm footing, but it's good enough for taking our many, many breaks, as trudging through mud and muck be far more laborious than trekking through the forests or navigating the desert sands.

I mean sure, the Badlands ain't great for stable footing, but at least there, you can sorta guess at where you don't want to step. Cracked, concave ground is a definite no go, while flat, unbroken areas are dangerous too, and you want to stay away from any sheer drop-offs as best you can in case part of that dry, dusty cliff face goes a tumbling right off. The shifting sands of the desert dunes don't make for great footing either, but at worst, you end up sliding your way down a dune and lose a bit of skin for it. Here in the Deadlands? Every step is a gamble, because even if you follow in someone else's footsteps to avoid all the sinkholes and elevation changes, that ain't no guarantee that you won't sink or slip.

Then there's the oppressive atmosphere of the Deadlands, of which the many unpleasant sounds are only part and parcel of the effect. Doesn't help that all the mud and trees makes those sounds travel funny, to the point where you can't tell if a croak or chirp is coming from ten feet or ten miles away. Add in the ever-present fog and the lingering stink of earthy decay, and you got yourself a landscape that closes in around you and reminds you of your fragile mortality with every step you take.

And the dampness. Gods, the dampness. Don't matter that I got me a pair of swamp boots, knee-high treated leather sealed with beeswax to keep the water out. With a strap up top mind you, one to keep leeches, snakes, and other unpleasant critters from slipping their way in, but that don't do squat for water. A little splash is all it takes to soak my pants and bring that wetness right down to my socks, and soon I'm splishing and sploshing with every stomp while grumbling the whole while. Every time we stop, I pull my boots off one at a time and use Shape Water to squeeze as much moisture as I can out of my boot and socks, followed by Prestidigitation to clean and dry it off as best I can. Which lasts for all of second until I put my foot back down into the mud, and leaves me all the more miserable for knowing what I'm missing out on.

I do the same for Chrissy as best I can, but after two hours of trekking through the swamp, Aaron claps me on the shoulder and says, "Best to get used to it, Howie." Raising his boot up out of the mud, the graying, scholarly soldier wiggles his foot about as the water drains out the bottom. Or rather pours out, as he got drainage holes cut right into the heel, which seems silly until he explains, "No boot stays watertight for long, so might as well embrace the damp and keep a powder on hand for rot and fungus."

"You been here nine years," I reply with a shake of my head, mostly because I can't believe it, "And you ain't requisitioned a set of Mire-Walker boots?"

"Water-Walking is fine enough for the Scout or traveller on the go," Aaron says, clapping my shoulder with a grin that makes him look ten years younger. "For a soldier though? You would want your boots to stay where you plant them in a proper dust up, lest you be sent sliding off every time the breeze blows your way."

Makes sense, and I nod along to hear it. Still do my best to keep Chrissy's feet dry and comfortable, as I suspect she's not having as much fun as she thought she'd have when she decided to come out on this trip. While I'd be happy to do the same for Elodie, she's opted to raw dog the Deadlands and is going at it barefoot like always. While I considered doing the same, seeing her lift her foot and reach down with a pinch of salt to encourage the leech latched onto her ankle to let go is enough to dissuade me of the notion. I also rethink my policy of giving the kiccaws kisses when I see her feed said leech to Frowny perched atop her shoulder, which he gobbles right up without missing a beat.

It amazes me to see Elodie keep her bright and cheery demeanour despite all that, one she maintains even as she looks this way and that in an almost relaxed manner despite the constant vigil.

Astrid is faring far worse, as I don't think she's stopped grumbling since we set out this morning. She's also been using the same Cantrips to dry her feet as best as she can, but much to her dismay, she finds a leech stuck to her ankle same as Elodie and handles it much worse by letting loose with a muted, high pitched squeak of alarm as she hops about in search of help. Sweet girl that she is, Elodie is quick to come to the rescue and remove the leech with a deft touch before consigning it to death by way of Frowny's belly.

"This place is the worst," Astrid declares, once she's done shaking her foot free of the leech's touch and dabbing on some staunching powder. "Just the absolute worst."

"It is not so bad, yes?" Elodie says, pivoting about her polearm to help steady Astrid as she applies her medication. "There is so very much that is new and exciting to see, smell, and hear. Like those pretty flowers," she says, pointing at a rather lovely collection of blue belled plants sitting at the base of a rotting stump just off to the side, "And cute monseiur gator sunning himself beside them."

"A gator?!" Credit where it's due, Astrid doesn't so much shriek as she lets loose with another squeak, hopping away from the direction Elodie was pointing and almost braining herself atop the sharp, curved point of the other girlie's billhook.

Seeing as much, Elodie quickly swaps the weapon over to her other side while keeping hold of Astrid so she don't take a spill. "Do not worry," she says, all sweet and cheery without a hint of reproach or exasperation. "Monseiur gator is very small, slow, and sleepy. It is still very cold, no? So he does not move about much, but he ate a meal recently and came up for some sun."

Despite knowing exactly where to look, it takes me a good second to spot the throatgator nestled in amongst the flowers, as the arm-length lizard got a dark brown cast to his leathery scales that helps him blend into the mud and muck around him. He don't see us as a threat either, as he's hunkered down and happy to rest his head while we trundle about a few feet away. Don't even keep his lizard eye on us, as they're both closed and contented, which leads me to think they're either uncontested predators here in the Deadlands or there's some hinky magics afoot.

So I focus at little on my Detect Magic and get to sniffing things out. Which ain't exactly how it works, but is close enough, as Spells tend to look the same with the glows and whatnot, but they each got a distinct scent or taste, like something at the back of your throat which you can't quite place. To make matters worse, there's a lingering pall over the Deadlands that doesn't quite glow under Detect Magic, but most certainly got a taste to it. Like how water has a different taste depending on which well you draw from, even if the wells all go down into the same source. Sometimes it's coppery, other times it's got a tinge of sweet, and still more got that mineral taste that I associate with the most refreshing water around.

In contrast? The water here in the Deadlands got a slick, almost filmy sort of texture to it, except there ain't nothing there. The taste is earthy, and the magic? The magic tastes of death and decay in a way I ain't ever experienced before, but still recognize all the same.

It ain't enough for the water to be stagnant around these parts either. The Aetheric flows are stagnant too, idle and listless like they just woke up after a long night of drinking. Except its Aether and can't get drunk, but that sluggish staleness makes it hard to peer through the murky or almost brackish flows to see what's going on. Edward glows like he's all lit up on stage, while Aaron and Luther glow about as much as any Ranger Captain I've met. Which is to say more than a bit, enough to notice but not so much to stand out amidst the crowd unless I'm paying attention. That's on a normal day at least, but today, Aaron's not glowing in the least, and after double checking the rest of our group, I realize we're all glowing a little less than we normally would.

Except Elodie, who's bright as ever, but that means the Aetheric flows are being smoothed and suppressed around us, not that they need much encouraging given the Deadlands clime. "You got Settle in Shadows up?" I ask, directing the question at Aaron who's still standing alongside me.

"That I do, Howie, that I do." Grinning from ear to ear, he asks, "While you might well be soft-footed enough to sneak through all this muck, and Luther was born to it, I myself am a London boy. Paved roads and cobbled streets, that's where I make my home, so I must make do with Magical assistance when moving out and about the sticks."

"Luther told me to drop Settle in Shadows from my list," I reply, giving the other man a pout because a Spell list ain't nothing to joke around with. "Said the Soulless don't rely on their senses to spot you."

"And he was quite right to do it," Aaron replies, waving away my pique. "However, there are caveats to that sort of advice, as things are rarely so cut and dry. Not all Soulless are bereft of their senses, as a fresh Ghoul is no different from you or I should either of us forsake our humanity and eternal souls. Over time, their senses can even sharpen until they can catch a scent on the wind like a bloodhound or hear the footfalls of boots in mud from over a hundred meters away. While there are not many Ghouls, as we do try to hunt them down whenever they're sighted, caution is a virtue that all Knights Protectorate and good soldiers should adhere to."

Hence Settle in Shadows, and I'd imagine Aaron ain't the only one sporting it. I don't know the extent of Edward's Spell List, but I do know that it's extensive and comprehensive, while Luther is first and foremost an Abjurer who would likely be all too familiar with the Spell. So might be he figured our bases were covered and I could use the space for something else, even though I'd probably feel better having it since I still got an empty slot reserved for the Big Spell I'm trying to learn.

Or you know. Dropping Conjure Weapon for it, because I already got two axes to fight with, as well as a hatchet and steel cable. Add in Spiritual Weapon, and I can't see a time when I'll ever really need to Conjure up a weapon for myself.

That's the difference in mindset between the Rangers and almost everyone else though. Each Ranger likes to be a jack of all trades, and a master of three, while most soldiers tend to pick one track and stick to it. Spell list woes aside, I can also understand why Luther wouldn't want me on stealth duty though. Settle in Shadows requires Concentration, which means that not only would I have to stay focused on the march, I'd also have no room for another Concentration Spell. Suppose he figured I'd be better off with something like Shield or Entangling Roots while leaving stealth to the pros. That's what you call setting me up for success, letting me cater to my strengths in combat as opposed to expecting any utility out of me.

Which explains why they don't got me running point, and ain't relying on my scouting abilities, a fact I only pick up on after several hours of trudging through the swamps. My Detect Abby pings something round about the same time Edward holds up his fist for silence and stillness, meaning he's been keeping watch the whole time too. The three of them have themselves a quiet exchange using hand signals and pointed looks, then Aaron gestures for me to follow after him while the others stay behind.

"Time to shine, Howie," he whispers, moving aside so I can lead the way. "There are Aberrations ahead, so bring me to them so we can get as good a count as we can."

"Seventeen bodies about eight-hundred meters ahead," I say, without moving a step, and before he can interject, I specify, "Four standing stock still above water, and thirteen more sunk in about five feet under all around them. Might be more hidden behind some dirt, but I don't think so."

"…Remarkable," he exclaims, giving me an appraising look. "You can sense that from here? Truly your father's son then." Moving a few steps back towards the rest of the group, he passes along the message much to Edward and Luther's delight, as they echo Aaron's sentiments and look pleased as peach to do it. It's all old hat to me, but even though they've heard stories about my skills, seeing is believing, so it all comes as something of a surprise.

"How about it then?" Luther asks with a wink. "Think you can handle seventeen shamblers, laddie? Ye already 'ave 'alf the battle won, knowing how many there are and where they be. They do this see, bait the trap with a handful standing in plain sight while the bulk of them hide underwater."

Not sure if Luther's being rhetorical with his question, I shrug and say, "Why don't we find out?" He wasn't being serious, as evidenced by his surprise, but I push on and say, "Seein' how you three are here to pull my biscuits out of the fire, I don't see why I shouldn't test my limits just a bit."

"There's that American swagger," Edward says, beaming from ear to ear as he gazes fondly upon me. "I told you both, did I not? He takes to this like a fish to water." Wagging his finger, he adds, "I hate to be a harsh taskmaster, but I must insist on a handful of ground rules before you set out. No Third Order Spells, unless they are purely defensive in nature, as it would hardly be sporting. In the same vein, no potions, Artifacts, or other forms of external aids outside of weapon and armour, as this is a test after all, one to see the breadth and depth of your abilities as opposed to your wallet. Lastly, no Aetherarms, Silenced or otherwise. Here at the outskirts, that sort of noise and fuss could entice waves upon waves of Aberrations to move towards us, and perhaps even move out of the swamp in search of prey."

Which isn't so much a problem for us as it would be for the rest of the Frontier. Even though the Quarantine Zone is heavily patrolled, it's all too easy for a small group of shamblers to slip on past in the dead of night and end up outside of the Deadlands proper come morning. If said shamblers then stumble across a small village, then that might well become the new breeding ground for their host Mimic who'd happily make the jump over to start fresh in a new body. Not like the old one goes to waste, as it simply reverts to being puppeted by a shard of Spirit as opposed to the lion's share. Still just as strong, only nowhere near as smart unless directly ordered about.

Meanwhile, the Mimic itself will be safe beyond the patrols and free to propagate and grow in strength, stealing away the minds and bodies of defenseless men, women, and children who'll work hard to blend in and spread their spiritual contagion far and wide. Even if discovered, it'd be difficult for any military force to eliminate every last Zombie, Ghoul, and still-human host that could be hiding a shard of the Mimic, shards which will slowly cannibalize the host Spirit or just grow in strength over time before becoming a fully fledge Mimic once more and making another go of it.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

That's why the Soulless are so feared. The worst a Feral or Gobbo can do is attack and kill you. The Soulless though? They can take over your friends, you neighbours, you family even and you might be none the wiser, not until it sinks its psychic tendrils into your Soul and starts puppeteering you around too.

"What about the Nanfoodle?" I ask. "Elemental Bolts are subsonic and don't make no noise."

"Hardly an economical choice, now is it?" Aaron asks. "What with those overpacked 44-80 rounds. You are here to make money after all, and you'll be bleeding dollars hand over fist using a Nanfoodle to clear out packs of shamblers."

Spoken like a man after my own heart, so stealth is the name of the game. In service to this, Chrissy, Astrid, Gunnar, and Harald all hang back with Luther while I head north with Edward, Aaron, and Cowie in search of a fight. Elodie too, as she's been holding Edward's hand for the last little bit, if only because he looked lonely. Rather than send her back, I figure it can't hurt to show her what she's up against so she don't panic later on down the line, so I give her a smile and tell her to stay close to Cowie no matter what.

With that settled, I focus on what's to come and cast Conjure Armour. The multi-segmented steel-looking breastplate sits comfortably atop my frame while hidden beneath my duster, and my armoured knee and shin guards are almost immediately dirtied by the mud and muck. As for my boots, the Spell fails to add any steel toes to the waders, mostly because I forgot to account for the fact that I'm not wearing my normal boots and the Spell fizzled out when it got there and found something different from what it was expecting.

My mistake, and an elementary one at that, as I should've practice the Spell a few times wearing the gear I'd be fighting in. Fact is, I should practice the Spell a whole lot more, because I can do better than just a breastplate and knee protection. Theoretically, I should be able to do a full body armour, not necessarily a full-plate like Edward, but something close to it in terms of coverage, if not thickness and durability. As for Spiritual Weapon, I decide against Readying the Spell until I see what I'm up against. If it's just Zombies? Then no point wasting the 9 Aether. If there's a Ghoul, Wight, or even an Abomination? Then it'll be well worth the cost, because Ghouls can be stronger and faster than your average person, while Wights are tough as bricks and clever as can be. As for Abominations? Going toe to toe with one is only a little easier than going toe to toe with an Ogre, so I'd sooner break Edward's rule and toss out a Fireball than go whack one of them fat, waterlogged walking corpses with an axe.

Or go back for my Nanfoodle maybe, and the Ranger Repeater while I'm at it. Left them both with my pack, which I'm starting to regret as I proceed forward through the perpetual gloom of these swampy marshlands. All I got is said axe, as well as a back up just like it, a lovely piece of craftsmanship that is both elegant and serviceable. They got a curved haft and two leather wrapped handholds so I can wield it with one hand or two, and the wedge-shaped head isn't too large or heavy, but looks plenty sharp and got heft enough to crack a few skulls. Also got my hatchet, which I touch for good luck while inwardly debating if I should cast Mental Fortress just in case. You never know if a Mimic is present until it rears its ugly head and slings a Spell at you, and seeing how they can jump from body to body, there's a chance it'll notice something's amiss once I start hacking and slashing away at its puppets.

In the end, I figure better safe than sorry, as it's almost nightfall and time to rest anyways. Worst case scenario, a quick ten-minute Catnap with Chrissy will get me back to tops, so I throw on Mental Fortress and feel better for it. Edward clocks my Spellslinging, but don't give nothing away, while Elodie watches with intent fascination the way she watches all things magic. And me when I'm singing, now that I think about it, but might just be she fascinated by a whole lot of things, so I give her a smile and wonder why she came along when she'd probably have more fun with Chrissy and Astrid. She don't strike me as the battle hungry type, or even one for conflict, as even when removing leeches she's real careful not to hurt them until she feeds them to Frowny.

Who's also come along for the ride and looking mighty upset for it, while Stella, Terrance stayed behind with Chrissy. I get the feeling Cowie wanted to stay with Chrissy too, but without express instructions to stay and protect her, he came along with me out of habit more than anything else. In the future, I might have him stick close to Chrissy to keep her safe, but I want him to see what we're up against too. Hear tell that animals hate Soulless almost as much as humans do, to the point where they'll sometimes pick a fight unprompted just to drive them out and away.

Then again, the Soulless have been known to steal animal bodies too. They just prefer not to, because they gain so much more from humans. Zombies are dumb as a bag of bricks without a Mimic to guide them, but animal zombies would be so much worse given the vast disparity in intelligence. Nor does the base quality of the creature do much to help like it does with the Ferals. A Zombie's strength doesn't come from the muscle or tendons of the host. It comes from the Spell holding them together, one which clads them in a shell of Ecto to move them about like some sort of exoskeleton.

All of which I've heard time and time again, but this here will be my first foray against the real thing. As such, I'm feeling a touch nervous as I Conjure up my Wildshaped Hand, and almost jump in place when Edward sidles up beside me and lifts my arm to study it. "How curious," he says, gently prodding my fingers with the back of a talon and watching them move so naturally as I wiggle them about. "You most certainly are full of surprises Howard. First, the extended range and clarity of your Detection Spells, then you cast a complex Third Order Spell as naturally as breathing, and now you showcase an Ability quite unlike anything I've ever seen before." Giving me a smile that says I don't have to say anything while also conveying how much he's enjoying this puzzle, he adds, "I suspected as much with regards to the Third Order Spell, especially when you said nothing in response to my first restriction, but I never imagined you've come so far in your studies. Even I only just came into my Third Order Spells at your age, so well done."

Right. He didn't know for a fact that I can cast Third Order Spells when he dropped that restriction on me. Easy to forget to play things close to the vest when I'm among friends, and Edward has always been a curious one. He likes knowing how strong people are and whether or not they can kill him, or at the very least put up a good fight. No idea why besides professional curiosity, as his job do be to hunt down the strongest enemies of the British Protectorate after all.

I simply shrug, smile, and wink, which he reads as me having more secrets to reveal, and he's tickled pink to see it. There ain't much else to say as we both slow our pace at the same moment and motion for the others to do the same, because we're closing in on our quarry now. Don't even need to funnel the Aetheric Waves to sense them now, or at least not for the four standing above ground. And I mean literally standing, as they ain't doing nothing else, so still and silent I might well have mistook them for scenery without my Spell.

Shamblers. Draugr. The Walking Dead. Corpse Puppets. Zombies got a whole lot of different names to denote what they are, so it wasn't like I was caught off guard. The thing is, in my head, I was thinking that human corpses would look more… human. The Zombies in the clearing are certainly humanoid in appearance, but you'd never mistake them for a living, breathing human. There's too much wrongness to them to even know where to start. Their pallid flesh I suppose, which ain't a shade of pink, but rather is all sorts of mottled grey and pale, unhealthy white, with skin the texture of wet parchment that's been left out in the rain. In some places, that skin is stretched too tight over protruding bones, and in others it's sloughed off in its entirety. Their eyes, where present, are all milky white and oversized, like hardboiled eggs poking out from behind their eyelids while seeing nothing of anything in front of them.

Missing lips, broken teeth, janky postures, balding heads, and so much more, they don't look like human corpses no more. They look like the aftermath of the worst crash you done ever did see, with them bodies all strung up so you can get a closer look at the damage. There's a distinct glow of Aether all about them, nothing strong enough to make me wary, but more than you'd find on your average Orc or Bug. Some carry weapons of rusted iron or rotten wood, while others got their hands curled up like claws with nails blackened by whatever foul magics keep them moving. They don't moan, they don't shuffle, they don't even sway, they just stand there like the dead corpses they are, all stiff and still until they are called upon to act.

I've faced down all manner of Abby without blinking an eye, and gunned down more outlaws and criminals than I care to count. Never felt any remorse about it, or felt the need to hesitate once I've made up my mind, but seeing these Abby here? They most certainly need killing, but for the first time ever, I'm thinking that I don't need to be the one to do it. Not with a fucking axe in hand at least, no sir-ree. I'll happily waste them all with the Nanfoodle and call it money well spent, because these miscreations are a mockery of life, one I will not stand for so long as I still draw breath.

You know… so long as I get to stand well out of reach.

"There's that fire," Edward whispers, paying no mind to the Zombies as his gaze is fixed upon me. "Your father was a driven man, but lacking in passion. You, Howard? You lack for nothing, and I simply cannot wait to see what heights you will reach." Shooing me off like a nuisance blocking the door, he adds, "Off you go now. Good hunting, best of luck, and try not to get bit. You won't turn into one of them like those horrible movies suggest, but wounds they inflict do tend to grow infected as they are still rotting corpses after all."

On that cheery note, I set off to meet them in combat, I notice Elodie and Cowie step forward to follow along, but Edward stretches an arm out to bar their path and whispers something to keep her in check while Cowie follows my signal. Though neither one looks none too happy about it, Elodie settles back on her haunches with her billhook resting over her shoulder and gives Cowie a hug, more for his sake rather than hers. He don't much care for what he sees, as he's all wide-eyed and worried, but I give him a smile and a wave while making my way over with my new axe in hand.

One that feels much too short now that I'm face to face with a bunch of Zombies. Four that I can see, and thirteen hiding in the murky waters all around them, so I ain't about to walk right into an ambush. Instead, I circle around in search of my best avenue of approach, then figure there isn't one and take a stand on a big stretch of muddy ground before throwing out a Bolt instead. The still Zombies might as well be sitting ducks as I hammer a bar of Kinetic Force deep into the closest one's head, but all it do is sway just a bit before turning its bulging white eyes towards me. The Bolt cracked its head open and left a crater the size of a quarter, but other than a small spurt of yellow-brownish fluids that come dribbling out, the Cantrip had no real effect.

Did get its attention though, and then comes the moan. A low and inhuman sound emitting from what used to be a human throat, the Zombie's call alerts its buddies to my presence and they come a shambling towards me. They don't move all that quickly, but they're not slow enough to disregard either, moving at a steady, sedate pace before taking a tumble into the still waters that are much deeper than they look. All four of them go right into the drink, and I gotta focus my Detect Abby Spell to track their progress. Them tricksy Zombies might be dead and dumb, but they ain't entirely brainless. Made like they were moving right for me, but soon as they was underwater and out of sight, they got to moving to my left and right in an effort to pin me in.

So of course I ain't about to stand still and let them surround me. Instead, I cut to my right moving further away from Edward and the rest if only to force myself not to rely on a helping hand. While I'm doing this, I fix the weighted head to the end of the cable wrapped around my forearm, because I'd like to show that I can use it without braining the people beside me. Then again, there aren't any people around me, nor is Luther here to watch the proceedings, so I guess it's a moo point anyways. Does put me in a bit of a pickle, as I'm a righty with the cable and the axe too. I should fix that, learn how to hack and slash like a proper Vanguard with my left, but I didn't think I'd have to. No matter though, as it's only 17 Zombies, a bunch of shuffling corpses that are only a little more agile than target dummies.

Assuming they ever surface of course, as they refuse to come up and keep trying to get around me while sticking underwater, but I ain't about to let them. So we find ourselves at an impasse for a few minutes, as I stroll around the swamp in search of a good place to fight them above water while wishing I'd've thought to lay some traps before hand. Just some simple barbed wire strung up at chest height would've done wonders to slow or even stop them in their tracks, or couple trip holes to break ankles and really slow them down. Live and learn however, and I dig a few as I make the battleground best suited for me. The wet mud responds well to the Mould Earth Cantrip, but it also lacks the stability needed to keep from collapsing in on itself every time I dig a hole deep enough for my purposes, so I give up on that idea right quick and move on to plan B.

Or C now, I suppose, but who's keeping track?

Raising a hand to wave and reassure my audience that all is still well, I retreat even further away until I hit a section of swamp that don't got water deep enough for them zombies to hide in. It's a whole embankment that stretches a good twenty metres to either side of me, meaning that even if the Zombies move around, I'll have plenty of time to see them coming. Not that I need to, as I got Detect Abby to track them with, and I watch as they split off four Zombies to either side of me while the remaining nine come at me head on. Moving up to the edge of the bank, I set my flail to swinging in preparation to bash some heads while them Zombies are still wading through the waters, except don't none of them poke out, not even when they close enough to shore that they should be. I should see their heads popping out right about now, maybe even up to their waists depending on how steep the embankment is, but there's no way it could be steep enough to still cover the Zombies from head to toe. Not when they're less than five feet away, because if the drop was really all that sharp, the rest of the mud underneath my feet would've slid into the water long ago.

The pieces come together even as I retreat away from the water and watch the Zombies push their dripping, fetid corpses up off of the ground after belly crawling all the way up to shore. If I didn't have Detect Abby going to know they was getting real close, I wouldn't have known they were within arm's length until they reached up to grab me standing at the water's edge. Growling beneath my breath in discontent over almost getting tricked by a bunch of unthinking corpses, I Intone, "Serpite – Ligate – Flagellum!" and send my flail lashing out to pulp the closest Zombie's skull. Who also happened to be the same one I done hit with a Bolt, as I spot the crater in the side of its head mere moments before the mace-head pulverizes everything about the neck and sends rotten flesh and broken teeth scattering across the Deadlands.

Which is gross and awesome at the same time, but when I wind up and try for the second Zombie sans Cantrip, I whiff the shot and clip it in the shoulder instead. The mace head bounces off of solid bone and I set it to spinning again, only to realize I probably would've wiped out anyone standing within five feet on either side of me if I did. So might be Luther had it right about the flail, but that don't matter here and now when I'm the only one in the mix. Once I'm able to cast again, I use the Living Whip Cantrip to take out the Zombie with a broken shoulder while aiming to score a third as well with the follow through, but my attack comes up short.

So does the ground behind me, so I can't keep retreating without turning about. Rather than stand and fight on the edge, I hop on over to another bit of mostly solid ground next to a big, thick tree all covered in slime and moss. Blocks me from using the flail, so I gather it up and realize I got no place to put the gore encrusted mace head. I really should put more thought into these sorts of things before bringing them out for a test under battlefield conditions, but I got Edward and Aaron here to help me out, so no big deal. Unscrewing the mace head is a simple enough affair, one my Mage Hands can handle once I get it started, leaving me free to ready my axe while my opponents stumble and shuffle ever closer towards me.

In close formation mind you, rather than a staggered line like I was hoping since there's no way they all move at the same speed. Means they're capable of working in tandem with one another, which isn't exactly pack tactics, but shows they're not as mindless as most people think. A lesson reinforced when my attempt to bring one down with a single blow to the head is foiled by a raised arm as it lurches over towards me. Don't seem like much, but the Zombie defended against my all too obvious and telegraphed attack, and it did it well enough to keep my axe head from cleaving clean through its skull. The blade still bites deep into its face however, splitting the wet, mushy features that look so human-esque without looking like a recognizable person at all. In life, this Zombie was a woman, but I doubt her own mother or children would recognize her now, not even before my axe cut into her forehead and sent her mushy skin spilling down either side of her face.

I seen a lot of things in my line of work, but this here is enough to turn even my stomach. So much so that I give up on retrieving my axe and retreat while grabbing my back up instead. At the same time, I throw caution to the wind and cast Spiritual Weapon to buy me some time. I'm so frazzled, that instead of the big old lumber axe I usually Conjure up, I go with the same axe that's already in hand, which means the Spell gotta take a few practice swings to figure it out. Still takes out a Zombie with each one however, including the one my axe is embedded in, but I can see how sluggish and stilted the movements are, so much so that another Zombie manages to clip it as it retracts from its latest attack. Sends it bobbing off a fair ways back, and the integrity of the overall construct takes a dive. Not ideal, not in the least, though it don't affect the Spiritual Weapon's effectiveness in the least. It'll still hit as hard as ever, but one or two more good hits and the Spell will unravel long before the duration is up.

So now I gotta direct the Spiritual Weapon to avoid getting hit and play second string to my attacks, as I clobber a zombie across the side of the head and laugh at myself for agreeing with what Luther said. 'In the right hands,' he said, 'the axe is a weapon of finesse and precision'. Well these be the wrong hands, so I should've grabbed me a heavier fucking axe. A longer one too, as the Zombie I clubbed but failed to kill grabs hold of the haft and wrenches the weapon right from my hands.

These things are stronger than they look, stronger than any living man ought to be. The Spiritual Weapon finishes it off, but my backup weapon falls to the ground before I think to grab it, and the others are already upon me. There are still three left in front of me, but one is all it takes to smack the Spiritual Weapon and explode it in a burst of white sparkles. Leaves me with only my steel cable and hatchet, neither of which I feel will be all that effective, but who says I gotta keep killing the Zombies in one blow? In a moment of lucidity brought about by sheer panic, I Intone the chant to Living Whip and send the metal cable out to snake around the legs of all three remaining Zombies and pull them in together. Two go a tumbling, while I skip back and release the other end of the cable for fear of getting dragged in towards them.

Not a second too soon either, as the only standing Zombie tugs back with its leg and sends the cable whipping towards it. Leaves me free and clear, but I'm dropping weapons like balls at a drunk clown's first festival, and I ain't about to go toe to toe with only a hatchet. Envisioning what I want in my mind's eye, I Intone a chant that's twin to the one I used to call up my Magic Armour. "Arma – Ex – Nihilo — Adesto!"

Or "Weapon from nothing, appear!"

The solid wooden haft of the lumber axe feels right at home in my hands, a tool I done used to chop countless logs over the years. The movement comes all too naturally as I take the Conjured Weapon up in both hands and raise it over head before bringing it down on the crown of the only standing Zombie. The wet crack echoes out through the swamp, and I ride the recoil to smoothly transition into a diagonal cut aimed at a second Zombie's head as it clambers back to its feet. Crack, thwap, and a splash all in one as the rotted brain matters sprays out from the gap in its skull, killing the Zombie in a single hit. It's not about destroying the brain, as that's just rotting meat which don't do shit for the Zombie. It's about causing traumatic head injuries, because the Spirit is anchored to the Mind in some way, even one that's rotted away to nothingness. I don't know the science behind it, only how to use it to my advantage as I give the last Zombie a sharp kick to the dome of the head, a glancing shot that don't break no bones, but do shake it up good enough to send it sprawling back to the mud.

And buying me time enough to pull my lumber axe out of one skull and bury it into another.

Ordinarily, I can chop wood for a good hour or two before having to take a break. Here and now though? I'm feeling right proper chuffed as Luther would say, or maybe he wouldn't and the lack of oxygen is getting to my brain. I ain't done much besides skip around and swing my weapon a few times, but I been putting my all into every attack and feeling real drained for it. So much so that I just stand there and catch my breath while watching the remaining eight Zombies converge upon me from both sides. They're a little late to the party, but not so late as to be wholly ineffective, because while I could probably still get away if I tried, it'd involve more running than I care to do in a swamp like this.

On flat, firm ground? No contest, as all it'd take is a hop and skip and I'd be well out of reach, while a reasonable walking speed would keep me that way. Here in the swamp though, I don't move fast at all as I gotta pole the water in front of me to make sure there ain't no sinkholes. Even on muddy ground, I gotta test my steps to make sure I don't go a slipping and sliding, or worse, deep into the muck where I get stuck fast.

So I square up and debate whether I want to tackle the Zombies to my left or right first, but the decision is out of my hands. "I come help, Howie," Elodie declares, but only after she's already in the thick of things and I got no time to say otherwise. Still try, though my words are cut short almost as quickly as she cuts down the four Zombies to my left. One slash is all it takes, as her billhook scythes through two necks and a forearm before the glowing green flames around the blade billow out to pick up the two spares. A Cantrip that, Green-Flame Blade to be exact, one I know and have used before, but always thought was kinda garbage because the flames didn't do all that much.

Turns out I've just been doing it wrong, though I got no idea how to do it right. Elodie does, as she bounds and skips her way through the marshy swamp like its forest earth beneath her feet, speeding right through the mud and water before barrelling into the second group of Zombies and ripping them apart just as easily as the first. Decapitation ain't enough to kill them, but seeing how the Spirit be connected to the mind, it is enough to render the Zombies mostly harmless as their bodies fall flat and heads loll about in the muck while gnashing their teeth. Given each fallen head a sturdy poke with her polearm, Elodie runs back to do the same with the initial Zombies before skipping over to my side with a smile, while Aaron, Edward, and even Cowie watch on with barely disguised merriment.

All while I stare and blink at Elodie, who stops short of giving me a hug to glance around like she's afraid she might've missed something. Seeing her adorable expression, I can't help but smile as I scan our surroundings to make sure we're all clear before giving her a pat on the cheek. "Great job Elodie," I say, and she positively melts to hear it, oh so excited to have contributed and not at all bothered by what she done.

You know, I'm starting to think I might not be cut out for the Deadlands, but Elodie here most certainly is. Hell, she's breezing through it without having to use her strongest card, or even any cards really, as all she done was swing her polearm twice with two Cantrips and lopped off or burned eight heads just like that. Easy to say, but not so easy to do, not in practice, and I get a newfound respect for her abilities. Ones I been rating higher since I started paying attention, but still managed to underestimate all the same. If Elodie cared to go through Basic and managed to get in the right headspace, then I'm thinking she'd overtake me in no time flat.

Just goes to show how fast my lead is shrinking, one that might not even exist anymore now that Tina and the other recruits have been on the job for three months now, while I been faffing about shooting Outlaws who don't even know I'm there. Glad I came all this way though. Can't improve if you don't know what's lacking, so now that I know the problem, it's time to get working on it.

Got a lot of work ahead of me, and not a lot of hours to do it in, but what else is new?

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