Cursed Omens

What an eclectic crew I find myself amongst. Though the 3rd Drop Corps’ efficiency in combat speaks well for their value to the Imperial Republic, I cannot say I relish the thought of Draconia’s storied martial tradition falling into the hands of those who are essentially civilians given the training of a handful of months. Perhaps the killing body requires but a short period of training, but the killing mind must be honed for much longer if it is to act with consummate duty and dignity.
 
There were five principle members of the 3rd Drop Corps I met:
 
Ko, their specialist; her scales are black like Amiri’s, but with less of his bluish luster, be it through natural differences or from the scarring which adorns her body. I wondered at first why she was so silent—when she pulled her gaiter down and revealed her throat to be all scars, I learned why.
 
Kudan, a green dragonborn, is the mechanic and heavy weapons expert. When he laughed, he reminded me of Master Izem, in that odd way only the Great Spirits can orchestrate. More often, though, there was a short-tempered nature about him with many walls preventing my access. He is the operator of an Iron Dragon, a bulky mechanical suit with remarkable killing abilities; I wonder what it means for exhaustively-trained warriors such as myself when machines now can be made which grants the killing potential of ten soldiers to a hot-headed amatuer such as Kudan. For again—a mind cannot be so easily bought and constructed in such a way.
 
Suzahara is their pilot, a blue dragonborn like myself and my family, and Sarabet, a red dragonborn, is the second-in-command to their captain, Azon.
 
Azon, now, is the type of soldier who gives me confidence that such a style of military may be viable. Disciplined and level-headed, it was evident he commanded the respect of those under his authority, and he even tempered what may have otherwise blossomed into a contempt for me. Perhaps it is some glow of Fraxiros himself I see in Azon’s red scales.
 
Though I was concerned for Kyliko at first, being a simple aide to my sister, he assured me that, though unranked, he is more than capable of managing himself. He certainly carries himself as such—I just want to be certain. It would be a reprehensible loss of mine were some harm to befall him accompanying me on a mission of mine; we all know the risks of our way of life, but I still feel a deep sense of responsibility for this draconian who has so faithfully served my sister.
 
I meditated on such matters, and on my reception with the crew, when I first reported to my quarters. Their welcomes had been measured at best, and prickling resentment at worst. Kudan in particular seemed to bristle at the sight of me, a sentiment I, to be perfectly honest, share about him. In a few short moments, he demonstrated an utter lack of control which could kill him or another in an instant, and it amazed me, for that reason, that he was authorized to operate the deadliest weapon aboard the ship. No good can come of such great power wielded with such little responsibility.
 
I couldn’t meditate the whole time, though; the Questions of Embodied Light of the Arts of the Sun dictate that a Blade must dedicate themself to understanding their companions to the utmost, their capabilities and their motivations and their temperament all shaping the notes they weave into the Great Harmony. Thus, I took it upon myself to be present at the mess hall that evening.
 
The camaraderie between these people cannot be denied. I entered a room full of light and noise, one vastly different from what I have experienced; Blades typically travel alone, and when we do accompany others, we tend to take our meals separately. The detachment I travelled with for my first mission was but a small one, and not given to such boisterousness. Even travelling with Nobler and Nema and Orlando and Baltos, conversions has been tempered by our small numbers and the gravity of our circumstances. Here, loud conversation flowed freely.
 
It was inevitable that I was called upon to share a story from my canon of experience, a moment I had anticipated from my meditations. It would be a vital moment in demonstrating my prowess and charisma to these bawdy soldiers; I selected, for that reason, the story of our confrontation with traitors from the Navy atop the karsts, a tale of my unique aptitudes, my capabilities, and my ability to settle more than one score—I hope the message was engaging as it was clear. The Moon Arts’ musings On Emptiness, which have defined the policy of the Draconian Imperial Republic since their publication, posit this:
 
“It is best to be both loved and feared, as mortals are frozen by both awe for the dragon’s form and terror at its might—but it is better to be feared than to be loved if one cannot attain both, as one who loves a dragon covets what makes one, and one who fears a dragon cowers or perishes.”
 
I may hope for both. But I will settle for one. “Our scales for protection, our claws for the rest,” as I believe the military puts it.
 
In return for my story, Kudan was coerced by his companions into telling me about The Battle of Broken Wing, in which an error on his part landed him in the sea, entombed in his great Iron Dragon. So much for elite training. Embarrassed by his retelling, he stormed off. Just as undisciplined as I had guessed, and confirmed by his companions. “Kudan’s a lug,” was all Sarabet had to say about his behavior, telling me not to mind him. It was reassuring to hear her say this, that the crew didn’t share his contempt for me in its entirety, but I cannot help but be cautious—only one creature need feel discontent with another for death to result when they grip a gun in their hands.
 
The sharing of any more stories was cut short by a klaxon, and an announcement from Azon: an official dispatch from the Embarrian League summoned us to the outskirts of Lilting to deal with a group of criminals, horse theives and brigands terrorizing the halfling locals from the sound of the report. Now, typically I would find such work beneath my capabilities, but I cannot tell if my travelling companions had any such pride. Had it been my decision, I would have ignored the call and continued on my—to be frank—vastly more urgent mission. Unfortunately, the call was not mine to make; duty binds me to my country’s service, and the political miasma of the damned League binds my country to the needs of the League’s constituents—however cursedly petty, apparently.
 
Draconia would not even be a part of the elf-controlled League, were it our choice. When the demand was first made for us to join, many fought claw and fang to resist—ultimately, though, their supply chain was stronger, and their alliances with the dwarves and the Imperium would have meant Draconia would be surrounded on all sides in the event of a conflict, something we simply couldn’t withstand in the event of a protracted, all-out struggle. And so, now the greatest warriors beneath the eyes of the Great Spirits must answer to punish te robbery of halfling ponies.
 
Had we been a shipful of Blades, we would have simply received the news and landed. With the military, though, and its reliance on specialty gear, we lost time to the 3rd Drop Corps strapping on their suits and rifles and bandoliers, time Kudan filled by attempting to mock me, mock the Blades, and mock Cloudpiercer and Riptide. I told him simply that the throng of battle would reveal the superior force, and the floor fell away beneath us over the forest below.
 
My pride itched after that exchange, and I was eager to get to ground and wade into the fray. I made a quiet pursuit of the drop troops, who had been able to fly in before I could rappel down, and found myself, before long, face to face with what appeared to be no more than a child, gripping a pistol behind a tree stump as screams and gunfire tore through the branches around him. Was he of the party we were to pursue? He offered little, frozen as he was by fear, and I had Kyliko restrain him as I charged into battle, Cloudpiercer gleaming in the moonlight.
 
Our enemy was pitiable, and we washed over them like a river over pebbles. Kudan, as expected, was both considerably devastating in combat and considerably reckless, nearly knocking me off my feet as he barreled towards the enemy. As they fell before us, though, a greater and greater sense of unease came over me. The 3rd Drop Corps was chomping at the bit to cut every last one of them down, but I demanded we spare the last one before blade or bludgeon fell upon her. Not long after, trembling with fear, she revealed to us what I had been dreading I might hear: these people were not brigands. These people were Nagima, wanderers of the long road. Not vagrants, but pilgrims. And at the demands of some errant order, we had slaughtered them for passing through town! The first act of my named kesh’tam was to cut down one who was helpless, stained by innocent blood!
 
I resolved to see these folk safely to Tica’Ma as soon as we touched down, barely biting back fury and revulsion as I reentered our airship. To think that I had been so eager to rush into battle against those who could barely defend themselves with firearms clutched in their fists! That the greatest military engineering of Draconia united with the greatest martial and monastic traditions had been called down to Lilting to crush a group of peaceable travellers, travellers whose faith held at its roots the origins of my own Pilgrim’s Invested Divinity! I nearly wrenched the communication device from Azon’s hands when he told me the dispatcher was expecting a report.
 
And what voice greeted me on the other end of the line? What malign notes had compelled me to violation of my sacred vows and steered me from my course? The voice of a snivelling beaurocrat, some Tofling Haflinger who could barely sniff his words out from behind his upturned nose. I did not train my entire life, dedicate my whole spirit to my training, to do THIS petty thing. I haven’t the time to deviate from my current mission when such a malign curse of the crow lies upon me… but innocent blood festers on unclean hands. I will see this Haflinger’s deep wrong against me corrected—mark my words.
 
Great Spirits pardon me, my steps have strayed from their path. May their hidden waters wash my spirit clean. May their blessed song soothe my fractured soul. May the folk I meet and the lives I touch offer me the opportunity for redemption in my deeds and actions; may the disharmony I have sown be rectified in the course of the hallowed song. May my swords, my blessed sun and moon, not be splintered by evil glories and my heart find the truth at the heart of my unintended misdeed. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.