#havin a BOZJA BLAST

[dragons-ire]

#15 - Thunderous

Heavy is good. Heavy is reliable. If it doesn't work you can always hit them with it. -Boris the Bullet Dodger, Snatch.

Music

Reference/Continuation from Here.

The Garlean artillery thundered outside the dug-in encampment at haphazard intervals, day in and day out. The rains washed mud into everything. Every crevice of armor and bit of gear that wasn't well-stowed oozing with it. Whenever he was out of this contract, he knew he'd be washing it off for weeks.

At least he had the luxury of this not lasting.

He was hunched over a crate reading a fragment of report over a muddy and rough-scrawled map when a crack of gunfire of thunder pierced the air. A second later, a massive furred hand slammed down a brown bottle half full of the rajika they passed around in the trench when there was nothing else to do.

Artemi Amarya was grinning when he looked up. The Hrothgar always seemed to be grinning - though it might have been the deep scar curving up one side of his mouth. He draped a long row of packed ammunition over the map a moment later.

"Try again?" He asked, with a tone that always seemed somehow pleased.

"You know last time we tried this it took out half the trench wall back there."

"Yes, but Garleans with it. So good." The bottle got nudged in Breandan's directon. He reluctantly picked it up to take a swig.

The strong alcohol tasted like sour plums with the aftertaste of tank fuel. Maybe part of it was tank fuel. 

Who knew if plums even grew in Bozja anymore.

The bottle passed back and forth more times than seemed possible with the amount of liquid that had been there to start with. Maybe the tall Roegadyn woman Artemi had clapped on the shoulder had brought another one when she came back to chat, swap little bits of stories that Breandan listened to while they drank.

Until he had to brace one hand on the side of the crate for support as he listed forward.

"..try again?" Artemi's voice came drifting in through the haze.

Breandan looked up, and looked down. Dimly, he thought about Xiaohu and her papers, all laid out on the table in his office.

"Sure. Anyone seen my lance?"

"No need for lance."

"..I told you, Artemi, I'm not a damn gunbreaker"

"Then...why come with gunblade?"

The Hrothgar was still smiling when Breandan looked up, but there was a prickle of something in his gaze that had started when he'd glimpsed the grip of the weapon somewhere in the elezen's gear. Hadn't pressed when there wasn't a great explanation of why or how, but let it roll.

Breandan looked to his left and saw the Roegadyn was sitting so that he couldn't get up and walk away without pushing his way out, so he looked back down at the table. Nudged the bottle aside. Focused on the ammunition.

The rough tap of one claw on his temple broke his concentration.

"Not here." Artemi cautioned. Tapped his sternum. "From here. And from..."

"Okay, I get it, give me a moment." Breandan swatted the low-wandering demonstration, then folded his arms to settle.

He had very little head or sense for aether (..anymore? Had he once? Had he ever?), but if he closed his eyes, he could almost see it. Rent in him like a levinbolt, his own natural volatility smoldering in the core of him like always. His potential honed to pierce dragonhide, that could tear through machina like wet paper, burn hotter than gunpowder.

Dragon Within, they called it. The fury in him that never quite left, wound him tight with tension he couldn't quite ever shake. A thousand years of it with nowhere to go.

He took a moment to think about what it might look like fired out of a revolver barrel instead. What it might do on impact. What he did, whenever he impacted against something.

And he clumsily pulled one bullet from the holster to hold up close enough to breathe on.

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast