Once again, Mary was saved by Kaw. She had to thank her later, very thoroughly, and grinned stupidly as she imagined how she'd express her gratitude. But she couldn't waste time on such thoughts, and put a scowl on her face instead before anyone else saw the grin. She rubbed her neck, waiting for the Ranger to turn away before she got up again. She gripped her axe and silently stood up, gliding in behind the man as he debated with the Legionary once more. He'd pay for underestimating her...

The axe flashed as she raised it over his head...

((Sneak attack again! Better odds this time since he's wounded. 5 or greater hits; 10 for instant kill))

Y1rUVhvq1-10

...and with all the desperate strength she could muster stabbed downward, piercing through the back of his skull! "Asshole!" she screamed, jerking him back and forth, scrambling his brains good and proper before lodging her boot in his neck and brutally dislodging the once-proud veteran. "Ahh! Fuck you! Fuck you fuck youuu!"

And just like that, all the NCR goons were dead. Mary trembled, adrenaline and exaltation singing through her system. "We won!" she crowed, raising her bloody weapon high.
1-10

Violent and horrific was the end of the ranger, whose time in the world had been cleaved by the rage-driven Khan, spattering the earth in his mind-tissues. The legionary was considerably content with this outcome, and lethargically forced himself to pick up an ownerless revolver, and then return to where they had inadvertently dropped their luggage when the fight began. His pace was slow, hobbling, his arm across his waist wounds, with a small, distant frown inlaid upon his face.

He did not hear Kaw, but had made the decision not to force himself to travel much longer. Rather, he sat down, suddenly and hard, and reclined until he lay himself on his back, breathing a bit heavier than normal. Carefully he dug his finger hard into his torso, sloshing around in the hot, masticated meat, where the projectile had bore into him. His fingertip brushed against the cold, unfeeling lead, and managed to snag it, while he dragged it out of his body. He groaned angrily, but relaxed once the wound filled itself again with blood, relieved that the bullet would not be discharged by the ensuing infection it would have caused.

If the women had kept pace with him, and decided not to desert him, he would offer an encouraging, nearly stoned smile. “I always questioned the proverbs,” he said, tight and vibrating strangely, “that said women are less than men. But very strong, good warriors,” he said, “brave. You would yet make Caesar’s heart smile.” He touched his shoulder, where an unseemly bruise was forming around the wound there.

“I am glad you both are okay,” he sighed, closing his eyes. “Perhaps it is a good time to talk, until I feel well enough to stand again,” it would be a strategic time for Mary to gut him, he assumed, since Kaw had seemingly made the decision to keep him alive—if only to exact her revenge against his kith and kin. It was a sorry sight, and unlike him to face battle so foolishly, so stupidly. What part of him had he thought with?

“Mary,” he said, “you are very strong—so . . .” he paused, his inflection verging upward. He did not want to bring up when she had frozen directly, for fear it would cause her to remember whatever caused her to lament and to fear so deeply.

“Never mind all that, I suppose,” he said, “I am truly sorry for what has been done to either of you, to make you hate—me—the Legion—so,” he said, “and for the thought that you are less than I.” The precipice of death begets honesty, he supposed, placing his cool-feeling palm against his forehead. The paleness of his flesh was threatening, and his stomach uneasy, yet neither hunger nor thirst came to him—only fatigue.

“I will continue in the morning,” he said. He hoped they would not leave him here, but he had not been thinking clearly, as he had not sought out shelter, simply a place to lie down.

[not a perfect post, but hope it will do!]

The tribeswoman had been holding onto Octavius’ arm to steady him, so when he made the abrupt decision to sit, she helped lower him to the ground. She watched him dig the shell out of his gut, and as he spoke his apologies she realized he was likely delusional from blood loss.

The thought of spending the night out in the open left Kaw feeling uneasy, but she knew Octavius would not make the journey to a set of nearby caverns she had familiarized herself with over the years. He was feverish and required medicine and water, which she would retrieve.

Their success against the New California Republic left the Khan jubilant, so Kaw did not take her comment too seriously. Plus, Mary was known to be sarcastic, so she was wary to take anything she said to heart. Lowering to one knee, she placed her hand over Octavius’ chest – “You need to rest, Mary and I will keep watch tonight.”
She took the revolver from Mary and briefly examined it. It was a foreign object to her, as the Southern Utes never used firearms. “Thank you, but I do not think I can shoot this,” she said sheepishly, stuffing it into the pack Octavius had given her earlier.

Kaw stood and faced Mary, offering her a brief smile. “Could you start a fire? It is starting to grow dark, so I will go to the river and get us water, and see what I can do about medicine for Octavius.” She knew a thing or two from the shaman in her tribe.

"Huh? A fire?" Mary replied, distracted at first. "Oh, yeah, sure." Carefully she set the rifle aside, wandered out to gather some mesquite and dry grass. Any Wasteland wanderer worth their salt could make a campfire, and the spot they'd picked happened to have a decent little dip in the ground. Nonetheless she did her best to find stones to encircle it with, since that was how she had been taught.

Lighting a fire was rote and automatic for her, the movements oddly soothing, and they soon had a merry little blaze. Glancing at Avi in the flickering light, her expression seemed to soften. "You need not fear my fury tonight, Legionnaire... Octavius," she said to him. "I am not so ungrateful as to murder a comrade, however temporary they might be." She rummaged in her pack, came up with the healing powder she had taken off the dead soldiers that afternoon. "That might help," and she placed it near to him, then retreated back to her task, and her new guns.

Rhythmic was the fading drumbeat in his chest, hitting hard against the bone-cage inside him. His flesh was bruised, clothing wet with the black syrupy remains of blood, armour spattered and uncomfortable. He looked down, and beheld his failing body, how shallow his breaths were despite how he could not feel that, nor did he remember when it became that way. Thoughts were tangible, lucid things, flowing about his fingers, coming in great swells of flavour over his tongue; and at the same time, he could not recall any one moment in detail, despite only seconds having passed him by.

He hearkened to Mary’s shrill, annoying voice (though that was just how he felt), and made out the words well enough to decide to respond. “I would not fear you any night,” he said, a hoarse, honest whisper that crept from his throat. But instead of dripping with the usual condescension, his maintained a modicum of integrity and sincerity, and he continued, “you are a worthy and fearsome opponent, I will be honoured to face you one day.” There would not be much sport in executing him now, he knew, and in some odd way, he wished it would never come to blows between them—her fiery heart was somewhat amusing, perhaps he found it endearing.

“Gratias,” he said, when she set the healing powder next to him. His eyes followed after her movement, but he did not reach to grab the bottle, feeling an insurmountable pressure upon his body that struck him still. “Mary,” he said, surmising she would not strike a dying man for prying, “what did the NCR do?” He omitted a part of his sentence to her, to you, to allow her the strength to interpret the question as she would. There was no sense in picking the scab of an old hurt, if it were still to bleed. He spoke with the understanding, patient fraternal tone he might have in questioning his youngest sister, who often scorned the elder men, and her husband-to-be, with her cunning mind and trickery; or when she refused to learn to cook, or mend wounds, because she too, wished to play at war. It was possible that Mary would very much enjoy his sister’s company, they were of similar character—forged by the fire of Mars.

When Kaw had returned, he felt rested enough to force himself upright only slightly, stifling a wounded moan. The segmentata he wore felt suffocating, the metal plates of a Decānus being driven hard into his pale flesh; he ignored it for now, accepting the leathery pouch to supply him with some much needed water. He sipped hesitantly, feeling the cool liquid trickle down a dry, cracking throat, before he gulped hard in an attempt to swallow; down the wrong tube, as it were, causing him to wince.

That would not be the end of his quiet suffering, he decided, as he left his wounded arm to support his heavy, healthy weight, and used his freehand to untie the leather thongs that kept his armour in place. The plate fell away from his body, and he pushed it off into the sand, before meekly struggling with the threadbare shirt he wore; no sense in promoting disease, or wearing an old, bloody shirt, before walking into the heart of Balius’s camp. For the sake of his dignity, he did not move to pull off his pturges, half because he could not, and the other to spare the womenfolk from seeing his complete manliness.

That would do, for now, he let himself collapse back onto the ground, still resting in the plated armour that was attached to his back. He could not bear to try to remove it, and would be content as he was now. “My mother was a Hangdog, I think,” he said, thinking aloud, swept still by his in-and-out delirium. “Caesar ordered the men killed, who surrender unto him, at the order of—but the women and children were spared, given new lives in the empire, transported into safer lands,” he said, the end of his sentence faded into a quietness, he lost his train of thought. “Perhaps you, and your raven hair—you are not the only one left.”

Octavius gasped quietly at a sudden strike of pain, and fell back exhausted, incapable of speaking or doing anything more; he would, until morn, unless otherwise kept up by the women.

Kaw was silent as she brewed the tea, staring intently at the fire as the Khan poured her heart out to them. She understood her pain, knew what it was like to lose an entire family, and she walked over to where Mary was standing. If she would allow it, the tribeswoman would place her hand on the Khan’s shoulder to reassure her that she was not alone in this world. “You must never underestimate your strength, Mary,” Kaw said, looking her in the eye.

She returned to the fire and remove the pot, handing it to Octavius if he had been kept awake by Mary’s story. “Sorry, no cups,” she said with a shrug. “But this will help you rest peacefully, which you need to help your wounds heal.”

Kaw began digging through the contents of her pack, curious what else it held. Octavius’ words surprised her, and she whipped her head around to look at him. The tribeswoman had a million questions for him: Did he know if Caesar had spared the other women and children? Had he seen them? Were they slaves? She stopped herself though, refusing to believe in such a fantasy.

She could tell Mary was emotionally spent, so she would keep watch for the first half of the night. “You should sleep too,” she said to the other woman. “I will stay awake.”