Chapter Text
"There is naught left for us to conquer. I have outlined the continent with charcoal ink, measuring the glory of Roma in leagues of ash. Our compasses have gridded the earth, our steam hath devoured the horizon, but upon my maps, the rivers no longer flow to the sea; they stagnate in the trenches, thick and dark. We no longer draw borders to separate nations, but to keep the specters at bay. May Progress forgive our myopia: we have drawn a millimeter-perfect empire over a world that hath ceased to breathe."
— Amadeo Etriolo, Chief Cartographer of the 4th Squadra. Last entry of his field logbook, Winter of 1520.
November 1, 1520
The rhythmic rattling of the steam locomotive cut through the silence of the Carpathians like a handsaw upon old bone. Within the armored car, the air smelled of ozone, cheap tobacco, and the cold sweat of men who have been wearing a uniform for far too long.
Beside the window, a young woman of rigidly perfect posture kept her chin resting upon her fist. Her eyes, dark, empty, and terrifyingly analytical, followed the endless sea of black firs and virgin snow parading upon the other side of the frosted glass, and her red hair, tied in a half-crown braid, remained still due to the lack of ventilation within the train.
However, her attention was not upon the landscape. Her mind dissected the vocal vibrations that arrived from the adjacent seats, ignoring the guttural and rabid growl that scratched at the back of her own skull, an ancient presence that always seemed to demand blood.
"...and I tell thee the supply line in the valley maketh no sense," murmured an older man, of sharp visage, whilst he traced frantic lines upon a wrinkled parchment with his brass pen. "The French are not advancing to take territory. They are pushing in the shape of a funnel."
"High Command saith it is a disorganized retreat, sir," replied the boy seated across from him, an emaciated recruit who ceased not to rub his hands to gather warmth. "We have only to take the coordinates unto the relay station. Think not overmuch upon it. The cold is punishment enough."
The young woman beside the window analyzed the tension within the boy's vocal cords and the imperceptible tremor in the older man's fingers. Fear.
"Thou art a thousand leagues from hence, Vittoria."
The thick voice, harsh and drowned in alcohol, cut through the background conversation. The young woman blinked, drawing her mind from the throats of her companions.
❖ VITTORIA CALVINO
Vanguard of the 4th Squadra of the Empire of Nuova Roma. Rank: Cavaliere, nominated for promotion.
Vittoria straightened her back immediately, adjusting her posture unto the military perfection expected of her, and focused her gaze upon the enormous man seated across from her, of short brown hair parted to the side and a short beard covering his entire lower face.
He had his arms crossed over his massive chest, a liquor flask peering from the pocket of his worn coat, and a heavy, sepulchral gaze that seemed to crush the very air about him.
"Mine apologies, Dante," she said, with a flat tone, devoid of true guilt. "I was discourteous to ignore your presence. I was... distracted."
❖ DANTE FABBRICI
Commander in Chief of the 4th Squadra of the Empire of Nuova Roma. Rank: Cavaliere Scelti, nominated for promotion.
Dante let out a hoarse laugh that ended in a wet cough. He waved a calloused and heavily scarred hand in the air, paying it no heed.
"Be at peace, I am not easily offended by manners. Least of all in this coffin upon wheels." Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. His eyes studied the girl's expressionless visage. "But thou art never 'distracted'. Thy brain is ever chewing upon something. What lookest thou so intently at out there?"
Vittoria turned her face slowly toward the window once more. The perpetual white of the Carpathians seemed to swallow all the light of the world. The glass radiated a cold that numbed her cheek. The growl within her head grew sharper, more frantic.
"All hath been... passing strange of late," Vittoria murmured, her breath slightly fogging the glass. "The stillness. The air. It is as if the world were holding its breath..."
Vittoria turned her gaze from the window to look upon Dante.
In that microsecond, the light of the compartment vanished.
A colossal silhouette, a mass of pure unnatural darkness that blocked the snowy landscape entirely, struck against the side of the train.
There was no time for screams. The sound of the impact was no crash; it was the agonizing groan of a hundred tons of Roman steel yielding all at once. The armored glass mere inches from Vittoria's face exploded inward in a storm of cutting diamonds.
Time seemed to thicken. Vittoria beheld, with terrifying clarity and blinking not, the physics of the disaster unfolding round about her.
Inertia tore the car from the tracks. The floor beneath her boots tilted violently at an angle of ninety degrees. Vittoria felt gravity lose its meaning. She saw Dante react by pure instinct; the veteran's muscles tensed and his boots seemed to turn to lead, anchoring themselves with an impossible attractive force against the wood lest he go flying.
But it proved useless: the force was so great that the floor itself tore asunder, separating from the chassis. Dante shot forth along with the broken planks toward the ceiling, his enormous mass crushing the brass chandeliers.
The car began to turn end over end in the air whilst it fell down the snowy embankment. Up was down. The wall was the ceiling.
Vittoria was spat from her seat. Her body crashed brutally against the inverted metal ceiling, the impact knocking all the air from her lungs.
She closed not her eyes. She beheld the cartographer smash against the luggage rack; she heard the wet crunch of his ribs breaking whilst his meticulous maps went flying, floating in the chaotic air like decapitated white doves.
The world spun once more. The steel twisted like the stomach of a sick beast. Centrifugal force cast the messenger against what remained of the left wall. Vittoria observed how the boy's arm bent at an unnatural angle, the bone piercing the fabric of the uniform, accompanied by a scream that was devoured immediately by the screeching of the metals.
Vittoria fell again.
A piece of the ceiling lamp structure broke loose, passing mere millimeters from her eye and cutting her cheek. Hot blood gushed forth, contrasting with the freezing mountain air that now flooded the shattered cabin. She felt no panic. Her mind, shielded by its own apathy, simply registered the trajectories of the debris lest she be impaled.
The car rolled one time more, snow and earth pouring in through the broken windows, covering them all, mingling the immaculate white of the Carpathians with ink, twisted steel, and Roman blood.
At last, with an impact that made even Vittoria's spinal cord vibrate, the car came to a halt.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken solely by the hiss of steam escaping from the pipes and the sound of Vittoria's own dripping blood. She hung upside down, trapped betwixt two deformed seats. The air was saturated with the stench of frozen earth and somewhat dense, rotten, and heavy.
The presence in her head howled with murderous fury. Whatsoever had rammed them was out there, walking slowly upon the snow.
…
Vittoria analyzed the tangle of brass and steel beams that imprisoned her right boot. If she pulled, she should lose the foot.
Vittoria flinched not. She raised her free hand, covered in half-dried blood, and gripped the main steel beam. Her knuckles paled. With a sharp movement, devoid of visible effort yet laden with overwhelming strength, she clenched her fist. The steel of Nuova Roma crunched, denting beneath her fingers as though it were wet parchment, until the structure yielded and snapped in twain.
Vittoria fell heavily upon what remained of the car's roof, landing upon a mattress of snow and broken glass.
She sought to sit up, but her body responded not with symmetry. She observed her left leg. Below the knee, the limb bent at a grotesque angle, the splintered bone pushing painfully against the fabric of her military trousers.
Vittoria grunted from the pain, and also from annoyance. She closed her eyes a second. She focused upon the unnatural heat that throbbed in her chest and pushed it violently downward, through her nervous network.
A wet and horrifying crunch was heard. The muscles of her calf writhed like serpents beneath the skin, pulling the fractured bone until it snapped abruptly into its original position. The torn tissues knit together at a dizzying speed, weaving new fibers over the broken ones. Seconds later, Vittoria rolled her ankle, testing the support. Perfect.
She crawled through the open breach of the fuselage, thrusting aside the smoking scrap, until she emerged outside.
The wind of the Carpathians struck her like a whiplash. The snowstorm was a white wall that devoured visibility but a few meters away, yet the thermal contrast was undeniable: the air was freezing, but the ground about her radiated a sickly heat.
Vittoria stood, the snow crunching beneath her boots, and advanced toward the mist.
She almost tripped upon the first obstacle. It was an arm. The sleeve betrayed the messenger's uniform, but the rest of the boy was nowhere to be found. A few paces further, she found the torso of Amadeo Etriolo, the cartographer. His meticulous maps were scattered about him, stained a brilliant red that swiftly froze. A notebook lay also upon the ground, the cartographer's field logbook, Vittoria assumed. She took it in her hands, noting how scarce a couple of pages were used, ere storing it within her coat.
The dismembered bodies of the crew formed a macabre circle in the snow. Vittoria noted somewhat disturbing: the pieces of dead flesh continued to twitch. They were no natural muscle spasms. From the open wounds sprouted a heavy, dark, and iridescent vapor that clung to the blood like oil upon water. It was the residue of an alien miasma, an energy so toxic and dense that it continued to electrocute the inert flesh hours after the impact.
In the exact epicenter of that carnage, a figure remained motionless.
Vittoria narrowed her eyes to pierce the blizzard. It was a young man, lying upon his back over the stained snow. He wore an impeccable black leather trench coat, a white shirt, and a silk scarf tied about his neck, an attire absurdly elegant for trench warfare. His dark hair was asymmetrical: combed rigidly backward on the right side, whilst upon the left, a long and heavy lock covered half his face. A trickle of fresh blood ran down his brow, losing itself in the whiteness of his scarf.
At first glance, he was but another corpse. His chest rose not, nor did it fall. He emitted no heat.
Vittoria walked unto him, halting beside his head. The presence in her skull kept a tense, analytical silence. Vittoria extended a hand, with the intent to touch the man's neck to confirm rigor mortis, but mere centimeters from his skin, the "corpse" suffered a micro-spasm in the jaw. A nervous tic.
Vittoria stayed her hand in the air. She withdrew her arm, crossed her arms to conserve heat, and looked down upon him with a dead expression.
"It is not befitting of a gentleman to play dead, Lorenzo."
The man's visible eye snapped open. His pupil, dilated by adrenaline, locked frantically upon Vittoria's figure. A long and trembling sigh escaped his lips, forming a cloud of vapor in the freezing air, as though he had been holding his breath for ten straight minutes.
❖ LORENZO ROSSI
War surgeon of the 4th Squadra of the Empire of Nuova Roma. Rank: Unlisted.
Lorenzo blinked, the pure terror in his gaze dissolving swiftly into a genuine relief. He propped his elbows in the snow, ignoring the blood of his own comrades that stained his leather coat, and offered her a weak and crooked smile.
"Vittoria..." murmured Lorenzo, his voice trembling slightly. "Thanks be to Progress. I swear, if it came to be the giant once more, I should have let myself be eaten merely to have not to continue holding my breath..."
"Arise and walk. We must meet with the others. The cartographer and the messenger are dead, by the looks of it, but perchance Dante or Valeriana abide yet hereabouts," saith Vittoria, her voice firm as ever.
Lorenzo arose, shaking the snow from his garments and taking a little in his hands, crushing it that his hands might grow moist and then rubbing them upon his bloodied brow, cleansing himself somewhat. Vittoria and he begin to walk shortly thereafter, with Lorenzo trailing behind her.
"Thinkest thou Valeriana is well?" asketh the boy, pushing a few pine needles aside.
"If thou livest yet, so doth she," saith she, turning not to look upon him.
"...Very well," replieth he, lowering his head and repenting of his inquiry.
"What is that concerning the 'giant', in any case? Did Krampus appear and frighten thee?"
"Not at all! But it was passing strange... somewhat very large knocked the train from the tracks, and I know not if it was a living thing or a projectile, but it was not normal. It is as if it had hurled itself straight at the train with the prior intent to slay us... it was no accident, it was planned." Lorenzo then looketh backward to behold the wreckage of the car wherein he had been. "Wherefore I played dead; I feared lest, if it had been someone, they should find me..."
FSHH
"Then thou didst well." Vittoria turneth ninety degrees, looking to her flank and seeing how, passing through the trees in the distance, there is a shadow. A shadow drawing near.
Lorenzo taketh cover behind a tree, obeying a signal from Vittoria.
BANG
A flash peereth through the darkness of the trees, the gunpowder exploding with aggression and loosing a projectile at the speed of sound that headeth unapologetically for Vittoria's brow. No normal soul could deflect a bullet, much less at so short a distance.
[ ⟨ Howbeit, Vittoria is not normal. ⟩ ]
A miasma of appearance akin to tar surroundeth Vittoria, who in record time graspeth her rapier that was sheathed at her belt and unsheatheth it in a fraction of a second. A simple and swift slash deflected the bullet aimed at her, embedding it in the very tree behind which Lorenzo was hiding, frightening the man and causing him to step back and tumble to the ground. Vittoria sheatheth her rapier, seeing how a part of its edge is now dented. She fixeth her posture and walketh forward, without fear.
"Show thyself and draw if thou art not going to flee. It shall take thee at least twenty seconds to reload; thou ought not waste my time." And at Vittoria's words, surprisingly, the shadow advanceth from its hiding place.
"...Could it not be but a mountain hunter?" asketh Lorenzo, now afoot after the prior mishap.
"Nay," saith Vittoria, just as the silhouette of her attacker is revealed. A soldier covered in light armor and bearing a now-discharged musket. His breastplate hath three fleurs-de-lis engraved upon it. "Frenchmen."
The Frenchman, visibly vexed at having been discovered and outmatched, unsheatheth his saber, curved and sharp. He lunges at Vittoria with a diagonal slash, which Vittoria dodgeth paying it little heed.
A kick to the knee unbalanceth the Frenchman, who by a hair's breadth manages to deflect one of Vittoria's slashes; both sides exchange places, with the soldier now turning his back unto Lorenzo.
"Damned conquerors! Ye possess neither soul nor honor!" exclaimeth the soldier with venom in his voice. His expression turneth to one of absolute wrath as he letteth loose the following slashes, with Vittoria delivering two consecutive swipes in the shape of an X to deflect the attacks with minimal effort.
"In one ear and out the other," thinketh Lorenzo, and sigheth watching the fray, as if he knew how it shall end, as if he had beheld this dozens of times already. The following actions are not delayed, with the Frenchman visibly consumed by fury launching another almost entirely vertical slash with much force behind it.
Vittoria steps from the trajectory of the cut by making a small spin. The saber striketh the snowy ground, stripping the soldier of his balance and strength, and Vittoria kicketh him once more, now upon his foot, suffering gravity to begin bringing him to the earth, and seizing this inertia, she delivereth one final ascending slash with her rapier. The edge cutteth the Frenchman's throat as if it were a leaf, letting the blood gush forth, staining the immaculate snow a red most familiar to all in the scene.
Vittoria shaketh the blade of her weapon, cleansing some of the bloodstains that clung to it in the snow. Howbeit, as soon as she turneth she can see somewhat that maketh a spark appear in her eyes, be it from amusement or surprise.
"I see. Thou art as we are," saith Vittoria, her mouth expelling a little vapor into the cold air.
The soldier yet liveth; he fell not to the ground as soon as the cut connected. Instead, he remained upon his knees, as if bearing the pain, and of a certainty he is. His hands dropped his saber, both of them going to his throat to stay the flow of blood, which grew lesser with the passing of a few seconds. Unnatural. Exactly that which commanded Vittoria's attention.
"If folk such as thou be here, thou comest not alone. But the French are not so foolish; they would not send an entire battalion so far from their territory. Surely attacking us was not even an order, but an attempt to display dominance," saith Vittoria whilst she sheatheth her rapier, binding it to the left side of her belt. "How many are ye, counting thyself? Four? Perchance five?"
The Frenchman at last can speak, his throat visually healed yet still stained with blood. He letteth loose a small grunt whilst his hand reacheth once more for his saber in the snow. But ere he can even close his fist about the hilt, Vittoria acteth.
The woman's hands seize both of the soldier's temples, incredible strength holding him in place. The Frenchman attempteth to break free, struggling against Vittoria's forearms, but it is as if two anvils were crushing his head.
[ ⟨ Power is not always a matter of brute force. Vittoria Calvino's power melteth not matter, nor doth it crush it beneath tons of pressure. ⟩ ]
"Trouble not thyself. If thy companions yet abide out there, we shall leave at least one alive. It is a code of honor, somewhat of which thou wouldst know. Is it not so?" Vittoria's palms begin to emanate a terrifying power. As if they were two pairs of hands, ones far more sinister and wicked caressing his skull. Vittoria's eyes open wide, and though the soldier is forced to make visual contact with her, it nevertheless feeleth as if those empty eyes were not looking at him, but gazing right through him. And in short order, they seem to focus upon somewhat. The pressure upon his head becometh greater. That presence which was felt is now physical, no longer merely a sensation.
[ ⟨ Her technique is far more absolute and silent. She understandeth that naught in this world is perfect. To Vittoria, all matter is a crystal that is already cracked... she simply decideth where to apply pressure. ⟩ ]
The Frenchman loseth consciousness even ere Vittoria speaketh, with a voice that seemeth to belong unto two persons at once, a growl that soundeth of fury, not of effort.
"Rimpianto, Il Disastro."
Vittoria's hands crush the soldier's skull as if it were no more than a mound of dirt, the brain being damaged beyond all repair and the blood running in streams. She troubleth not to cleanse her hands, simply casting the decapitated corpse unto the snowy ground, knowing that with his head destroyed, he shall return no more.
… "Let us depart," saith she, knowing Lorenzo shall follow her regardless. That miasma which surrounded her hands directeth itself once more to the ground, almost coiling about her legs ere vanishing. The surgeon, without many choices, simply taketh care not to tread upon the remains of the French soldier and continueth walking two paces behind Vittoria.
"I yet understand not how thou dost that," saith he, in a low voice.
"Thou shalt have to specify."
"Er... I meant thy Rimpianto, rather. Methinks killing is somewhat to which we must be accustomed," saith Lorenzo, quickening his pace a little to walk beside Vittoria and not behind her for once. He cannot help but observe how upon her chin, right beside the scar that crosseth her lip, she still beareth a couple of drops of blood. He bringeth a hand near, with the sole intent to point. "Thou hast somewhat-"
Vittoria swateth his arm away, wiping her chin with the fabric of her sleeve.
"My is simpler than it seemeth. I believe we have had this conversation several times already." Monotonous as ever, Vittoria turneth not to look at him.
"Aye... I think I remember thee mentioning that it is like breaking a crystal from a place wherein it is already cracked. Canst thou then do that unto anything?" asketh Lorenzo, taking no offense at Vittoria's prior action. He knoweth she doth it with no ill intent.
"All things have their limits. Are thy threads stronger than steel?"
"That is to say, I have never attempted to cut them..."
"Perchance we ought. It would serve me to know how much they can withstand."
…
The walk is not greatly prolonged, for the cluster of pines through which they were walking openeth the way for them unto a small open field covered in snow, where more of the remains left by the derailed train can be seen.
That which drew their attention from that direction, is that right in the center of all there is a great light, a fire of an unusual nature and of a crimson hue that contrasted with the white of the snow. And its source is obviously somewhat of an equally unusual nature.
"Come, Frenchmen! Doth not honor and battle characterize ye!? Ye attack me two against one, and ye cannot handle a simple woman!" A female voice emergeth from a cluster of these crimson flames, flames that dim in short order to reveal the figure of a girl of youthful appearance, of pale skin and hair as short and white as the snow that surrounded her. Clad as an aristocrat, with a simple leather protection, one would think she is a noblewoman who found herself embroiled in the fray.
They could not be more mistaken.
❖ VALERIANA FONTANA
Bodyguard and private of the 4th Squadra of the Empire of Nuova Roma. Rank: Cavaliere, nominated for promotion.
"So there she was..." Lorenzo seemeth not surprised. It appeareth he expected somewhat like that which he is witnessing.
Whilst he and Vittoria draw near the scene, they behold how Valeriana indeed fighteth against two French soldiers similar unto the former. Howbeit, they appear to possess lesser skill with the sword than the one slain by Vittoria, as they are being forced to fall back by the woman they face. At a precise moment, nevertheless, it seemeth a spark of bravery formed within their bodies, for they launch themselves in a coordinated thrust from two different angles. Valeriana appeareth to have no escape.
But the impact was not as expected. The albino offereth no resistance, and in fact receiveth the thrusts without even defending herself with her rapier, both swords piercing her abdomen and staining her impeccable dress with blood.
She also spitteth the same liquid, staining one of the soldiers. Red runneth down the Frenchmen's swords, and even so, she looketh neither vexed nor surprised. In truth, both soldiers can glimpse her blood-stained teeth forming a smile, just ere she uttereth a few words.
"Rimpianto: L’ardor."
The same fire that burned a few minutes past now engulfeth the three combatants of the snowfield. Screams of agony can be heard from the two male soldiers, and a twisted laugh almost hidden by the sound of the flames rippling through the environment, distorting the air about them.
After an agonizing minute, the flames begin to subside, and the scent of ash is now the only one that predominateth the entire snowfield. A figure emergeth practically unscathed, with solely parts of her garments and armor scorched, whilst the other twain are now but mounds that continue to burn weakly in the snow, entirely bereft of life.
"Vittoria, Lorenzo!" Obviously the survivor is Valeriana. The holes in her abdomen have been completely healed; now there remain only the openings in her garments stained with blood. Waiting not for her companions to answer her call, she approacheth them almost running, nearly tripping and falling in the snow.
As soon as she is about to leap unto Vittoria, she placeth a palm before her, staying her in her path.
"I appreciate that thou art well, Valeriana, but thou art stained with blood and ash, and I like not the smell," explaineth the redhead, watching how Valeriana maketh a small pout ere shrugging her shoulders and going for the second closest person, Lorenzo.
"How good to see thee, Valeri- ack!" Lorenzo is somewhat surprised when Valeriana's arms wrap about his neck, giving him an embrace much stronger than he expected.
"I missed ye! I was already fearing lest the wolves had eaten thee, Lorenzo," saith Valeriana, freeing the boy from her grip.
"Didst thou face solely those two?" Vittoria goeth straight to what is important, pointing to the two dead soldiers before them.
"Er, aye. Dante said I could handle them alone, thus I amused myself a little," saith the albino, placing her hands upon her waist.
"Was Dante with thee?" asketh Lorenzo, joining the conversation.
"I am!" And Dante's voice surpriseth them all. Suddenly, the wreckage of a car, right beside where Valeriana fought the French soldiers, beginneth to tremble as if it possessed a life of its own. The snow moveth at the same time as that very destroyed car beginneth to rise into the air. Gravity itself also lifteth small snowballs.
Behind all that rubble, Dante Fabbrici is found. His burly figure is seated upon a pine log that appeareth to have been uprooted recently. The light of a campfire illuminateth the scene, also made a few minutes prior by the commander. The team, finally reunited, positioneth itself near the campfire, with Valeriana and Vittoria sitting in the snow whilst Lorenzo remaineth standing, drawing his hands near the fire.
"It is good that we have found each other. For a moment I thought the wolves would eat Lorenzo," saith Dante, likewise drawing his hands near the campfire to maintain the heat.
"Why did everyone think I was going to die?!" Lorenzo suddenly crosseth his arms and crieth out in a general direction, with Valeriana letting out a laugh in response and Dante snorting. Vittoria remaineth quiet and crosseth her legs.
"Very well... Hath anyone somewhat to write with?" asketh Dante, stretching a little upon the log whereon he is seated. Vittoria speaketh not, but draweth forth the logbook she had collected from her Squadra's cartographer. She showeth it to Dante, who noddeth in gratitude. "I require that thou notest all the casualties we suffered and the things that were lost in the train... and also note the train and the location, for they shall surely come to recover what remaineth of it."
Vittoria noteth all that is mentioned unto her, with Valeriana observing her notations whilst she cleaveth close to her.
"Thou ought to keep that notebook, Vito. Thou lost the last one I gifted thee, thus with that one at least thou hast not to purchase a new one," mentioneth Valeriana whilst she watcheth Vittoria note the names of the cartographer and the messenger in the 'Casualties' section. "It is like thy new diary!”
"Wherefore should I desire a diary? That is the very reason I told thee not to gift me that notebook. I am not good at caring for things," confesseth Vittoria, without ceasing to write but granting her friend a sidelong glance.
"It is merely that I delight in watching thee draw! I believe it is one of the few things I note that thou enjoyest," saith Valeriana, smiling.
"And thou drawest exceedingly well, Vittoria. I prefer to paint, myself, but thy sketches are passing good." Lorenzo also addeth his grain of sand.
"He hath reason, mia cara figlia," saith Dante, suddenly. Vittoria ceaseth to write as soon as she heareth how he addresseth her. "It would do thee well to have somewhat to do, especially now that we shall have to return afoot unto Roma. I shall ensure she loseth it not." This last he saith to Valeriana, who noddeth in gratitude.
…
"...and, do we know yet what caused the derailment?" asketh Lorenzo, looking about him seeking an answer.
"It must have been a soldier with a powerful Sorrow. The others were users, but they were weak, wherefore they troubled not themselves to use their abilities and focused upon fighting with pure fencing and muskets. If that last user be a sensible soul, he must have fled," explaineth Vittoria, finally finishing writing the list and storing the notebook once more.
"Ha, it would be passing, passing amusing if that which caused the derailment was a giant snowball, think ye not—" Valeriana beginneth to jest, almost laughing at her own joke, but is interrupted.
"DAMNED ROMANS!" Amidst the rubble of what was erstwhile the locomotive, standing atop them at nearly five meters of height, is found the figure of the last French soldier. He is hyperventilating greatly, the vapor clashing against the cold air with more force than is customary.
"Alas, I pray thee." Dante speaketh with disappointment in his voice, but also with a tint of amusement for that which he is witnessing. The French soldier hath his hand raised, and levitating right beside him, is also... a giant snowball. Or rather, an amalgam of snow and ice compacted into a ball. "It seemeth we have found the culprit."
"YE ARE MONSTERS! WHAT GIVETH YE THE RIGHT TO TAKE THE LIVES OF ALL MY—"
"Il Ferro." Dante's words are almost like an immediate pressure that silenceth all voices around him, including the screams of intense fury of the Frenchman. Immediately, all feel that the atmosphere changeth, but solely the soldier faceth the consequences, for not only feeleth he how his body can scarce maintain itself afoot from the weight, but the snowball that erewhile he lifted above his head now weigheth more than triple, falling with force right atop him and crushing him with so much inertia that he falleth from the locomotive where he was perched unto the snowy ground, right a couple of meters from where Dante was seated. "Not all have the right to speak for so long."
He appeareth unconscious, with the snowball covering almost his entire body.
"Requirest thou that I slay him?" asketh Valeriana, with her hand upon the hilt of her rapier.
"Nay. We always leave one alive, remember ye? Let him live to tell the tale, or whatsoever it be. I am not in the humor to take prisoners," replieth Dante, simply sitting anew and stretching his back once more. "Er... on the morrow we set forth on the path to Roma. If I be not mistaken, going afoot shall take us some... Two months?"
"Two months?! Shall I not be able to take a bath in two months?!" exclaimeth Valeriana, startling Vittoria beside her.
"We can always stop at a lake," saith Vittoria, offering solutions.
"I am not going to bathe in a filthy lake with fishes! And neither shall I suffer Lorenzo to play the peeping tom! Not at all!"
"Why must it always be I?!" crieth Lorenzo, now joining the dispute.
Vittoria watcheth how the twain begin to shout at each other, with Lorenzo in short order beginning to beg pardon for reasons she cannot comprehend. She turneth to look upon Dante, who is reclining against the log. He appeareth sleepy. Vittoria focuseth upon her thoughts, to then look upon the notebook within her coat.
"What a useless pastime," saith a voice she can recognize full well. The voice that solely she can hear.
For once, she seemeth to accord, albeit but a little, with him.
END.