//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Tensions // Story: Wings of Iron: The Sphigyptian Affair // by TheGMan //------------------------------// “In the Owlstrian Army, all problems have a simple, widely known solution. Officers usually refer to it as sergeants” -Captain Edward Blackwing, 3rd Company, 2nd Battalion, 111th Land Regiment Kaska, Owlstrian Constabulary … “Fascinating,” Sergeant Stockade said, mostly to himself. His hoof flipped quickly through the report’s pages. “Truly fascinating.” Seated across from him, Constable Lycia frowned in worry. When Stockade said those words with that thoughtful tone, it meant that something very nasty was about to come right down on their collective heads. Which in turn meant either a lot more desk work for her, or that soon enough some creature would have been shooting at her. After all, those were the privileges for being counted amongst the senior gendarmes in Kaska, aside from the pay slightly above average. The grifoness raised one clenched claw up to her beak and coughed softly, causing Stockade to glance up at her. His expression changed as he finally noticed her presence in his office, and he smiled. “Thank you for coming, Lycia.” Then he added, “I would offer you a seat, but it seems that you’re already on one.” She shrugged. “I figured I might as well spare you some time. Besides, you were so taken that I did not have the heart to disturb you.” Stockade nodded. “Ah yes, very considerate on your part. Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. So, what’s the matter?” “This,” the stallion said, gesturing at the dossier before him, “it’s Caltrop’s report on the South Gate Incident of last week.” Lycia’s brows furrowed. “Really? I thought it would take her a few more days do get it done.” “Normally, yes, but I asked her to do some overtime.” “You’re kidding me.” Lycia had to keep herself from bursting out laughing. She tried to imagine it, Sergeant Caltrop actually working for once! A snort escaped from her beak. “That mare will kill you for sure once this thing is over, you know it, right?” “Oh, it’s not that bad,” Stockade said. “Besides, I’m her superior. She can’t do it.” Lycia chuckled. “Sure thing, chief. Keep telling her that once she starts nailing your moustache at the door.” Stockade said nothing in response, but if his broadening grin was any indication, he was clearly trying to keep himself from laughing. It was funny how, amongst the general public and the Army, the Royal Gendarmerie was imagined as a bunch of stern-looking, uniformed ponies and griffons, plagued by extreme paranoia and always ready to jump on shadows. In truth, the working environment within the organization was much more relaxed and informal. Even the ranking system was, unlike in the Army and Navy, more an indication rather than an actual and enforced hierarchy, at least at the lower levels. Of course, that prejudice was quite useful more times than not, especially when you wanted results. And those were the only thing the Gendarmerie was interested in. “True as it may be, Lycia,” Stockade said, his voice turning suddenly serious, “let us now focus on more pressing issues, shall we?” The grifoness nodded. She shifted her weight in the wooden chair to stand straighter. “Sounds good to me, chief. Go ahead.” “Well, for a start, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that last week operation was not the bust we feared.” He set the dossier aside and pressed his hooves together. “On the contrary, I might even go so far and call it an almost success.” Lycia blinked hard at that, her head slowly tilting to the side. She had been there with the team tasked to breach the warehouse in the Riverside, and the entire building had been utterly empty. How could that be a success? Stockade must have noticed her confusion, for he quickly added, “We managed to seize, apart from the burned one, the carts present at the South Gate. And judging by their cargo, I’m quite confident they came from the same warehouse we were about to raid.” Lycia blinked again. Now that was a surprise. “You’re sure about this?” "Positive," he said. “Some of the sphinxes survived the shootout, and we managed to interrogate a few. According to them, they stopped there that very morning and took some cargo. They knew that it was probably illegal, although they ignored what was inside. The leader of the caravan, Shabali, I think his name is, apparently took care of the whole business.” “And what was the cargo?” She asked. “Oh, a lot of things. Carpets, working utensils, a few bottles of local alcohol, clot-” He stopped. “Wait, you’re talking about the legal or the illegal one?” Stockade asked with a grin. Lycia just shoot him an annoyed look. “Fine, fine, I stop it” he said. “It was mostly weapons, as a matter of fact.” He picked up the dossier and quickly flicked through it to a specific page. “Revolvers, shotguns, a few bolt-action rifles and - oh, look at that- a couple of carabines. There was also a lot of ammunition, hidden amongst the less conspicuous merchandise.” “That’s all?” “Well, there was also a machinegun,” Stockade noted. “A machinegun!?” Lycia’s eyes widened in shock. “Where in Talos’s mercy did they find one?” The stallion shook his head. “I don’t know about them, but we find it in the wreckage of the burned wagon. The flames had melted the barrel and a good chunk of the firing mechanism, but we identify it as a local version of an old Equestrian model, although it was too damaged to help us know where it came from.” “Luckily for us, Lycia, we don’t need that.” He removed a sheet of paper from the dossier and pushed it with a hoof towards the grifoness. “Or, should I say, you won’t be needing that.” Lycia shot a quick look at it. On the paper was a list of almost names. She glanced back up to Stockade. “Suspects?” she asked. Her tone was serious now. She knew from experience that there was to be some hard work ahead. As expected, Stockade nodded. “Those sphinxes gave us at least something to work with, and named a few of their accomplices. I don’t know if you’ll find anything, but I say it’s worth the shot.” “I assume that I’ll have back up from Third Company for this.” Lycia would have never admitted it, but those soldiers were professional enough to know what they were doing, and Lycia preferred to have some serious back up should the situation go sour. She grimaced. Even if that meant meeting again that bitch of a corporal of last week’s raid. What was her name again? Helena Ice-something? Lycia was sure it had something to do with ice; that would have explained a few things about her. Stockade shook his head. “I think we’d better deal with this thing on our own. The captain is probably busy with all the South Gate’s fallout, and I would rather not compromise his position any further. Besides-” he lowered his tone, gesturing the grifoness to come closer, which she promptly did. “Some of those rifles had ORA stamps over them,” he whispered. “Personally, I want to think that those within Third Company knew nothing about but, if they do, well, let’s just say that the ground beneath our dear Blackwing might get a lot hotter than it already is. Can I count on your discretion on this?” Lycia answer did not come immediately. It took her mind a few moments to really understand what was being asked of her. It was no secret that between the Royal Army and the Gendarmerie there was no love lost. The general approach of the two towards the other one never went beyond the polite acknowledgment of its existence. Captain Blackwing was the exception, of course. Most Owlstrian officers in Sphigypt would have swallowed their own stripes rather than collaborating with the Gendarmerie, preferring to keep their endless watch on the Nilus and wait for an attack that wasn’t coming anytime soon. Still, Lycia suspected that the captain was just using the Gendarmerie as a trampoline for his own career. What if Third Company was on this? She guessed that it wouldn’t be too hard for them to claim that a few weapons had gotten lost during transport. And Owlstrian weapons, even rifles, were of a greater quality that of those produced in loco, which consequently meant that they could fetch a much higher price in any black market. The grifoness pushed those worries out of her mind. If she was worried about stepping on some creature’s paws, then she shouldn’t have enlisted in the Gendarmerie in the first place. She fixed her eyes on Stockade, locking gaze with him, and nodded. “Always, chief. But I’ll be needing at least two full squads, plus one in reserve.” She quickly added, “Also, I’m confident that there will be quite a few searches before this matter is over, so if you can ready for me a warrant or two, that would help.” Stockade nodded. “It means more than half of our numbers, but alright. They’ve been bound to their desk for too much anyway.” “Regarding your second request though, I’ll see what I can do. I don’t believe that the marshal will be enthusiast at the prospect, so just try to keep it a low profile for the time being.” He winked at her. “Understood, sergeant,” Lycia said. She was careful to keep down the grin that was slowly creeping on her face. “You have my assurance that I’ll keep it low.” She knew that keep it low could mean a lot of things. Besides, the marshal had to consult the local authorities before drawing up an actual warrant and, knowing the Republic’s bureaucratic mess of a judicial system, that could take weeks, if it happened at all. Lycia did not have weeks, and there were a lot of names on that list. A good start puts you half-way from the finishing line, as her mother used to say. And she already knew where to start. Kaska, Owlstrian barracks … The mess hall was quiet and, except for a single occupied table, empty. An old and spacious room with a low ceiling made of stone, it was big enough that 3rd Company would have barely occupied half of it. Just like the rest of the barracks, it had been designed to expect a battalion-level of activity. As of now though, Blackwing felt its emptiness and silence unnerving. He took a sip of coffee from his cup, fighting at the same time the urge to spit it out in disgust. Caffeine kept him sharp, even if that meant drinking what amounted to a drainage pipe’s content. “Now, that wasn’t too bad, was it? I mean, it could have been worse, right?” Gregory Buzzard said. The statement felt too much like a question, as if he needed to reassure himself of what he was saying. The only thing the griffon achieved was receiving a frown from every creature seated at the table, accompanied by a much more tense silence. “How so, sergeant?” was Lieutenant Nebula’s reply. Buzzard shrugged. “Well, the major could have come here and said something like “I hope none of you was planning to get home anytime soon, ‘cause those sphinxes just decided to have another war, so we’ll all get to stay in this Talos-forsaken place for a couple of more years.” “Isn’t that what he said, though?” Lieutenant Castor chimed in. The griffon sported pale-yellow feathers, paired with an equally light fur on the rest of his leonine body. A layer of white feathers was framed around his face and owl-like beak. “I mean, not in those terms as far as I recall. Then again, he did not specifically say that the Pharaoh was having another go at it, so this all business can still die down in the next months.” It was around that moment that Sergeant Major Iron Crest exploded. “Shut your beak, Greg!” the unicorn mare snapped. “I swear on Talos, just try to say something like that again and you’ll regret it!” She rose up from her seat, leaning forward and placing both hooves on the table. Her eyes narrowed to sharp slits at the griffon. “Do you really think that, Greg? You think that’s not too bad, uh?” Buzzard was caught off guard and said nothing. “Maybe that’s for you, but somepony here counted on spending at leas the next winter with her family!” she hissed. “So just do a favour to everypony and shut up, will you?” The griffon blinked, stunned by its colleague’s outburst. Then he finally replied. “What in Tartarus is wrong with you, Crest? I was just trying to lighten the mood a bit!” “Then why don’t you go back to your platoon and said that to them, uh? I’m curious to see how many shoots they manage to put in your body.” “That’s enough, sergeant,” came Castor’s stern voice. “Sergeant Buzzard is here in Lieutenant Falcon’s stead, so you’d better get a hold of yourself right now.” The two of them exchanged a quick glance. Reluctantly, Iron Crest got her hooves off the table and lowered herself back in her seat. She drew a deep breath. “Yes sir. Sorry sir.” As her name implied, the earth pony mare sported a grey mane with a distinct metal-like shade, coupled by some stripes of dark red, a colour pattern followed by her tail too. She turned to Buzzard. “And I’m sorry to you too, sergeant. That was uncalled for,” she said with a grimace. All 3rd Company's COs and their respective NCOs were present at the table, aside from Lieutenant Falcon. As such, Sergeant Major Buzzard was now in the not-so-enviable position of acting as both the platoon’s de-facto commanding officer and most senior NCO. Still, if Blackwing had to make a guess, the griffon was still thinking of himself more as a sergeant rather than a lieutenant. It would take time for him to adjust to his new position, as temporary as that was. Buzzard shook his head, waving a dismissing claw to the mare. “Don’t mention it. I was a bit foolish myself.” Blackwing sat the cup down beside him. “Now, if you two have finished,” he said, shooting a glance at both, “I say it’s finally time to decide on the news delivered by the major.” Longbow wasn’t there fortunately; the stallion had left a few minutes before, insisting on taking a thorough look at their facilities. He didn’t know if what was some kind of surprise inspection on his part or not. Most of the buildings within the perimeter were empty, given that he did not have the need, nor the soldiers, to have them occupied. Whatever the reason was, he had Bronze Tail stuck to him and showed him around, so to have some warning should something be amiss. At his side, Nebula lit her horn, seizing the bundle of documents left by the major on the table and raising them at her eye-level. She squinted as she read them for a third time. “With all due respect sir, I don’t think we can actually do much about it. The orders are clear; the withdrawal schedule is suspended indefinitely, and all Owlstrian troops within the Republic must assume immediate defensive posture.” “Yes, Nebula, I know that part.” It was Blackwing’s turn to grimace. “And I know there’s not much we can do about it,” he added. He tried, and failed, to hold back his bitterness. “I was referring to the fact that the rest of Second Battalion will soon join us here,” he explained. “As such, we’ll all be seeing some changes around here. I hope you kept your khaki uniforms in good order, because we’re going to need them shortly.” Having the entirety of the battalion -nearly five hundred creatures- was surely to be a spirit’s boost in the barracks, especially once the news of the delay in the withdrawing plan reached the rest of the company. There was also the added plus of keeping the Civic Cohort wary should Ley try something stupid. As a matter of fact, though, that had yet to happen, and the Cohort had remained silent since the South Gate’s incident. Blackwing had found it weird. He had thought that, once he caught wind of the raid in the Riverside, Ley would get absolutely livid. Surely, he would have realized by now that the griffon had lured him away out of Kaska to keep his subordinates’ warnings from reaching him, knowing full well that the Civic Cohort dared not to move without his approval. And yet, not a single letter of protest had reached his desk in the last seven days. That was good and worrisome at the same time. “Does that mean we’ll stop running errands for the Gendarmerie, then?” Castor asked, crossing his forelegs on the table. “We never did that, lieutenant,” Blackwing pointed out. “Ours was an agreement to collaborate in maintaining order within the city.” “Really? And here I thought for a moment that I’d mistakenly enlisted myself into the ONP. My bad, then.” “I don’t see what the Owlstrian National Police has anything to do with us, Castor,” said Nebula from his side. “Would you care to explain?” “Do I have to? Because I thought that the issue was evident.” Castor shot her a skeptical look. “Please, don’t tell me you’re trying to deny it.” “Perhaps it’s not as evident as you seem to believe then,” Nebula said with an even tone. “Sure, it could be that. Or maybe, and that’s just my impression, you’re too busy being the captain’s own mastiff to notice.” Blackwing knew he should have ignored that last remark. Instead, he found himself directing his gaze towards the griffon, his eyes narrowing in irritation as he regarded him. “Are you trying to imply something, lieutenant?” he asked, his voice carrying an icy edge. “Because if there is a problem, now is the time to bring it up.” “As a matter of fact, I do have one, sir.” He met Blackwing’s gaze with one of his own. “My problem is that you seem to have forgotten why we’re here in the first place. Third Company has not been assigned here to do police work.” “It’s not our job to arrest smugglers, nor do searches, nor identify suspects, nor whatever bullcrap the Gendarmerie asks us to do!” he all but yelled. “We are soldiers in His Majesty Army, and our job it to fight to protect the Kingdom! And how are we supposed to protect it if we’re too busy chasing around those scumbags?” Once again, tense silence filled the room. Castor seemed to realize that, and drew a deep breath to calm himself down. “So that’s my problem, sir.” He was speaking with a lower tone now. “I believe that putting our noses into Gendarmerie’s affairs was a mistake. And also why Falcon is not here now.” From his eye’s corner, Blackwing caught a glimpse of Buzzard trying to slink away in his chair, as if he wanted nothing more than to disappear from view. Almost comical if not for the situation. “I see.” The sound of his claws drumming on the table echoed through the room. “So I’m the one responsible for Falcon’s status, is that what you want to hear?” “I did not say that.” Castor laid back in his chair. “What I’d like to hear though, is why we’re even bothering with any of this to begin, sir. This is not Owlstria, those are not our problems, and most important, we are not getting any extra pay nor recognition at playing police.” “That’s it then?” Blackwing all but hissed to him. “You just want to close your eyes, shut your ears to the outside world and pretend than nothing is happening? Go ahead if you want, but don’t get all surprised on me when you got a sphinx uprising in the streets.” Castor rolled his eyes. “The Summer Riot again? Really? No offense, sir, but you can’t use something that happened years ago as an excuse.” “That excuse is why I can’t fly anymore, lieutenant,” Blackwing snapped. The griffon’s eyes went suddenly wide, his beak agape as the rebuke died in his throat. By his side, Iron Crest shifted somewhat uncomfortably in her chair, eyes darting nervously between the two of them. Sensing his pause, Blackwing quickly seized the initiative. “I never told you about that, did I?” He glanced in turn to each one sitting at the table, before settling his gaze back on the lieutenant. “I was there, you see, and there I gained my stripes as captain.” He frowned. “The crippling wing injury was an extra, but that’s beside the point. Akhri was an absolute disgrace, made even worst by the fact that it was an avoidable one.” “But no, ‘cause in the Owlstrian Royal Army we’re only good at shooting problems once they present themselves. Instead, we decided to simply ignore the Gendarmerie’s warnings and then act all surprised when the sphinxes were up in arms.” “So I hope you’ll forgive me, Castor, if that event is somewhat relevant to me.” A heavy silence fell again in the room. Then, seemingly for no reason, Blackwing flashed the griffon a vicious grin. “I thank you though, lieutenant, for raising this matter with me. And since you said that doing police work is clearly beneath your capabilities, I might already have a different task ready for you.” Blackwing reached with a claw for one of the documents floating in mid-air, plucking it from Nebula’s telekinesis. “As it is stated here,” he began to read, “it is paramount for the troops in the field to make an assessment of the defensive works in their local area. Said report must then be sent to their respective Regimental HQs for a general evaluation of the defensive network.” He set the paper down, fixing his gaze on yellow-feathered griffon. “Do you think you can handle it, lieutenant?” Castor blinked, then opened his beak only to then close it. He did that a couple of times. “Sure thing, sir. Not a problem at all.” He spoke evenly, but not even him could totally hide the ugly grimace taking root on his face. Blackwing guessed that he was probably fuming, but if he was, he kept it well-hidden enough. It was in that moment that the door at the far end of the room swung open, bright sunlight breaking inside. A uniformed griffon stepped in the mess hall, closing the door as he went in, and made a beeline for the five creatures gathered around the table. Blackwing did not recognized him immediately but, as he came closer, his eyes fell upon the griffon’s shoulder marks. He walked slowly, taking each step with the upmost care. The jacket he wore was unbuttoned, as if he had donned it in haste, and thick white canvas around his belly were clearly visible beneath. “Lieutenant Darius Falcon,” Blackwing said. “Captain,” he acknowledged with a small salute. “My memory is not what it used to be, so please remind me. Did I not tell you to remain in bed and recover?” “Yes sir, you did.” “And yet you’re not in the infirmary,” he noted. “That’s also true, sir.” Blackwing furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you mind telling me why?” “I heard that Major Longbow wanted all Third Company’s officers for this meeting,” he said with a shrug, holding back a painful wince. “No griff thought about warning me though. Sorry for the delay, but I came as fast as I could.” “No, that’s not why I …” Blackwing sighed loudly. “You know what? Forget that I asked.” Why he had even thought for a moment that Falcon would follow his advice, he did not know. Blackwing saw no reason to press the matter further though, especially now that Buzzard had a gleeful smile stamped on his face. “Darius,” Castor acknowledged him with a formal nod. “I see you’re still alive.” There wasn't much enthusiasm in that statement. “Yeah, I know. I was disappointed too when I found out,” Falcon quipped. He turned then to Buzzard, matching the griffon’s smile with one of his own. “I trust that all is well, right sergeant?” “Well, that depends, sir. It could certainly be better.” “Really?” Falcon cocked his head slightly to the side. “I didn’t miss anything important, did I?” “The withdrawal is cancelled,” Nebula said. “Suspended,” Blackwing corrected her. “But yes, it’s basically the same thing for now. Seems like Akhri decided to piss off the Pharaoh again. Don't ask me how, for I've no idea whatsoever. Still, we have to keep an eye out in case the situation escalates.” He paused. “Are you regretting getting out of bed already, lieutenant?” Falcon said nothing. He glanced to Buzzard, as if seeking confirmation of what he had just heard, only to see the griffon nodding in response. He sighed. “I am now, sir. I am now.” Blackwing’s walk back to his office was brief and uneventful. After much convincing, Falcon had agreed to return to the infirmary for the time being, much of the relief of Last Aid, their unicorn medical officer. Whether or not he would stay there, it was anypony guess. The barracks were a series of identical stone-made structures, all one story-high. It was originally meant to house up to eight hundred Owlstrians when at full capacity, more than enough for a single battalion. However, Major Longbow had decided some time prior to allocate 2nd Battalion HQ west in Edso, situated on the Abbay River, the Nilus’s eastern affluent, and taking 1st, 2nd and 4th Company with him. Speaking of whom, Blackwing guessed that he had by now completed his survey of the facilities, although he was nowhere to be seen. He did not complain about that part. As of lately, he preferred to keep himself as far away from Longbow as possible. The letter still rested in one of his uniform’s inner pockets, acting as a bleak reminder. Other matters bothered him though; his mind kept going back to the previous meeting. He grimaced. In hindsight, he had handled Castor quite poorly. The griffon would probably see his new assignment as a way of keeping him occupied and out of the picture, and he was not totally wrong in that. Blackwing was accustomed to butting head with Falcon; the griffon had a talent for command, and the verbal skirmishes he had with him were more or less a routine by now. Castor was an entire matter entirely though, and the relationship between the two griffons was tenuous at best. The lieutenant had once been on his comfortable way to a promotion as 3rd Company’s CO, but then Blackwing got transferred to Kaska to take command. At the very least, he bothered to hide his hatred for him beneath a thin veil of professionalism. Furthermore, he had stubbornly opposed Blackwing’s decisions regarding the Gendarmerie from the beginning though, and that had reached a breaking point after the South Gate’s Incident. The captain could tolerate many things, but to hear from one of his very lieutenants that he was to blame for Darius’s injuries had almost caused him to snap violently at the griffon. Then again, that could also be because Castor might be right about it. Falcon had been there because of his orders after all. Could he be responsible for what had happened, then? On his way, he passed the sky carriage, still parked in the large courtyard. Members of the security detail busied themselves with maintenance, assisted by a couple of unicorns from 3rd Company, checking for any signs of weakness on the enchantments that kept it flying. He pushed that thought aside with a frown. No, it was just overthinking it. Castor was trying to shift the blame of something that could not be predicted in any way on him. Hell, he had probably gone straight for Major Longbow to report his beliefs as soon as he was out the mess hall. Sweat trickled down in front of his eyes, and Blackwing spat a curse. The outside air was getting sweltering hot again, and it wasn’t even midday! As he stepped through the entrance of the building were his office resided, he allowed himself a sigh of relief as a wave of fresh air rushed up to meet him. He looked up to see a hoof-sized, blue crystal embedded in the ceiling, glowing softly. Tiny, translucent flecks of what could only be snow fluttered lazily around it. He smiled. Specialist Ruby Rose and her cadre had finally come up with a solution for the heat a couple of nights before. It was nothing sophisticated – a basic ice enchantment – and the company’s crystal stock was barely enough for the common areas. From what he could understand about the magic involved, they also required a daily recharge. Blackwing suspected it was an attempt on her part to make up for their actions at the South Gate. Commendable, but not enough to avoid a couple of weeks of latrine duty. Without magic. Half of company would kiss her in gratitude anyway though. He made his way to the office after that. Sentries snapped to attention as he passed, and Blackwing waved them back at their post without much thought. Climbing up the stairs to the first floor and reaching his door, he was surprised to find two envelopes tucked just beneath it. He picked them both with a claw before stepping into the room. His office was more or less as he had left it that early morning, except for the pile of paperwork sitting on his desk. He was sure it had been smaller a few hours ago. Pushing out of his mind the ridiculous notion that paperwork could simply grow on its own, he sat behind the desk and proceeded to cut open one of the envelopes with his index claw. His eyes fell on the sender’s address, and he blinked. Blackwing squinted, reading it a second time to be sure. There were no mistakes though. That was from his brother Alder. He ripped the envelope open and quickly unfolded the written letter within. It was brief. Edward, I hope this letter finds you in good health. Mother has been worried sick since she read about what happened in Kaska. Me and Phoebe tried to calm her down, but you know how she is, so here I am writing this letter to you. Phoebe would never admit it, but I’m confident she was equally concern. By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll be probably heading aboard the OSL Bucephalus to Port Kossen, near Akhri. Should you happen to be nearby, feel free to visit. And please, at least try and write to mum once a week. I would ask you to do the same with Phoebe, but I don’t want to overdo it. Stay safe, Your brother, Alder Blackwing. Blackwing set the letter back onto the desk, grinning. If Alder had wrote him a letter, then worried sick was a massive understatement for their mother. He read it another time. The Bucephalus, uh? It seemed his older brother had finally gotten the promotion. That would make him what, a commander? A captain, like him? Blacwking shook his head. He had no idea how ranks worked in the Navy. Regarding Phoebe, well, it was certainly reassuring to know that her sister was concerned about him for once. The two of them had never talked that much; to be fair to her, the grifoness had been the only one to take over the family business in Rockspring, once both him and Alder went out to attend the Academy. Something that she constantly reminded them. That got him thinking though. Had he actually spoke with his siblings since his last leave? He and Adler almost never got one at the same time, and family reunions had always been rather… uncomfortable. The train of thought caused his eyes to wander, until they finally fixed on the second envelope on his desk. He went to open it too before stopping dead in his motion. Blackwing picked it up with a careful claw and examined more closely. Why there was no sender on it? He flipped it around in his claws, checking if perhaps he had missed it somehow, but there was no indication of the sort. Blackwing shrugged and went to open it anyway. And then there was a soft knock at the door. He glanced up to see Second Lieutenant Koralia Whitepeak standing in the doorway. The grifoness had white feathers with streaks of rosy brown around her eyes and along her wings, while her coat was of a more mundane chestnut. Aside from the standard-issued and unmistakable green officer uniform, she wore a set of round glasses, perched on top of her beak. Blackwing noticed that she was also wearing a bag slung over her right shoulder. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. Do you have a moment?” she asked. “As of now I do, lieutenant. Take a seat.” Blackwing waved her in, but not before scooping both envelopes with a claw and pushing them in one of the desk’s drawers. There would be time for that later. Whitepeak sat down in the chair directly across him. If she saw him putting those papers away, she did not mention it. “I’m not sure if you know, captain, but Major Longbow just came to the depo an hour or so ago.” Blackwing nodded. “Yes, I do. He insisted on conducting an inspection of the barracks. Why? Were there any problems?” “Oh, not at all, sir! In fact, he actually commended the tidiness of my working environment, saying that it was an example to be followed!” Her face lit up as she spoke, her brown eyes glinting. Only then she noticed the mound of paper on the desk. Whitepeak blushed. “I-I meant it with no offense, sir,” she began, but Blackwing waved her a dismissive claw. “None taken.” She nodded. “Thank you, captain. I have to ask though.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Is it true what they say, sir? We’re not going to withdraw?” “Where did you hear that?” Whitepeak shrugged. “On my way here, actually. I happened to hear a pretty heated argument amongst the troops.” Blackwing had to hold himself from swearing out loud. Had the news spread already? How? It had been barely been an hour since Longbow’s arrival, how in the- oh, dear and almighty Talos, there was also the security detachment! He felt the overwhelming need to smash his head onto the desk. He had utterly forgotten about the major’s escort. Blackwing could almost picture it. Some 3rd Company’s members had probably paid a visit to their assigned billet for a chat, maybe even a smoke, one thing led to the other, and in a matter of minutes every creature in the entire complex would become aware that they were not getting home anytime soon. He sighed. Of course, problems just could not get simpler, could they? “Apparently so, lieutenant. I hope you’ve not come here just to complain,” he said at length, “because I don’t have the patience, nor the interest, in hearing another one after Castor’s.” “I…uhm, I’m not exactly sure what Lieutenant Castor has to do with any of this.” She slowly tipped her head to one side in confusion. “I’ve actually come here because of another matter I wished to bring to your attention.” As she spoke, Whitepeak produced a large, heavy-looking dossier filled with papers to the brim from her bag, placing before her upon the desk and pushing it gently toward her superior with a claw. He did not open it. Instead, Blackwing took a skeptical glance at the thing, specifically to how thick it was, before saying, “What is this?” “A dossier detailing our logistical situation in last two months. I’ve took the liberty to attach to it copies of requisition forms, custom manifests for supplies cargos arriving by train, and the like. Oh, there’re also the forms sent back from the Regiment HQ about-” “Whitepeak,” the griffon said, holding up a claw to halt her, “I’ve just had a really bad day. So, would you please explain to me why you are here or, even better, why you shoved a novel-sized block of paper on my desk?” He spoke evenly, but the irritated edge in his tone was unmistakable. “In short? Well, there’s a considerable deficiency in our registers.” “A deficiency, lieutenant?” Blackwing asked. “As in “supplies are getting misplaced”?” That was a quite common occurrence after all. Their supply lines run all the way back to Akhri, and that was only just where they were unloaded via cargo ships. If you also added the not-so-stellar Sphigyptian railway network, missing equipment became a normal occurrence. Whitepeak shook her head. “No, sir. As in “some creature is stealing them”.” The griffon blinked. Then, he slowly rose from his chair and went to close his office’s door, which had remained open for the entire time. “Alright, lieutenant.” Blackwing said a few moments later as he sat back behind his desk. “You have now my attention. Feel free to elaborate.” The younger grifoness nodded and proceeded to do so.