Your memory is popping again. Happens every once in awhile, ever since…

Super specific memories exploding into your minds eye out of nowhere. 

Try to forget. 

You’ll be on the shitter and boom: Tchasko’s showing you what kind of mushrooms are best for bread making on the trail. Going through a list of herbs and nutrients they provide. Drilling into you the difference between wild carrot and poison hemlock. 

Havin a drink at the pub and bam: Basil’s reciting battle poetry to you while sharpening his halberd right before a big hunt. 

Setting up a campfire and pop: You’re looking into the eyes of Aslan Feust as she’s checking your gullet for Malt Leeches after that stint in the Vedther.

The memories pang like a knife through your back—and you know how that feels. Something about being the final holder of all the memories of the Bombarde: Names. Habits. Food preferences. Combat tactics. Stories. The stories of your rag tag forged-in-fire ass rogue squadron. Stories of their valiance. Stories of their blood. 

Some nights it’s the only thing that keeps you going.

After all, they all get to live a little bit longer if you do. 

Don’t they deserve that. 


Memory’s popping again. Always ends the same. Wipe the tears away. You’re connected to the chaos now, son. The phantom magical realm of empathetic energy. You cannot be caught lacking. One PTSD spiral here is an open portal over there. Six seconds left unchecked you got your first invader and oh buddy it’s a snowball from there. You’ve got to be ready. 

Because they deserve that too. They deserve revenge. 

Besides. A man of your talents? 

what else can you do but sharpen the sword. 

Buck up soldier. 

Take a Deep breath. 

You still got one more mission left to do.