Joy felt a slight rustling in the distance, something like movement on the borders of the grass, and he let instinct stir him awake from his slumber. A lazy confidence let him stretch his limbs with a tired yawn before shaking himself, shedding himself of the vestiges of sleep. The sun was a gentle warmth with its light, a lulling heat that made him wish to do nothing more than rest. He snorted, trying to shake himself awake. He remembered when he woke without difficulty, when he could shed slumber like water from the skin. He had grown complacent. He had grown weak.

Footsteps. He could hear them, stirring the grass. Many, far too many to be mere raiders, and so there could only be one answer: the soldiers had returned from their supply run. Eager anticipation filled him, a bubbling excitement that he might see these machines that Mors but such faith by. Mere things of rope and wood, how strong could they truly be?

Pushing himself onto his feet, Joy hurried through the grass just in time to see the first of the soldiers making their way out of the undergrowth. With their short swords out, they seemed to have cut a path through vine and brush, clearing a trail for their horses. Those beasts were nervous things, but Joy could not deny their ability when it came to hauling goods.

And these horses indeed hauled much. Tied by rope in teams of four, they pulled carts of lumber and other supplies through the vegetation. Other soldiers ran by their side, their eyes shadowed from want of sleep but enthusiastic at the sight of the clearing. Twine. Timber. Is this not enough for you to start? Joy practically wanted them to start right now, wanted nothing more than to scream at them to start building these weapons that might shatter stone with ease. Yet he held himself back, restrained his tongue. An alpha, some part of him knew by instinct, knows when to speak and when wait.

Instead, Joy returned to the camp. The recent times of leisure as they encircled the Capital had left him complacent; the sun was already crawling towards halfday, and yet he had just woken. Making his way through to the pitched tents where the Swords and lords tended to gather, he found Mors sharpening his blade. It was a curious thing, the nervous gloom that settled over the soldiers when they had nothing to do. Often Joy had seen Mors wandering the campgrounds, apparently for want of someone to scream at or something to stick a sword through. He would have thought that men of war would treasure these moments of peace, but it seemed to unsettle them more thoroughly than the fighting ever could. Should I ever have to fight the man, Joy smirked to himself, ought I take a nap then, and unsettle him into throwing away his blade?

“Sword.” Joy growled out, his throat still rough from sleep. The man raised his tired eyes upwards, and the demon saw the webbed, bloodshot veins. It was clear that the man had not rested well—perhaps guilt over his dead men?

“Aye, m’lord.” Mors replied, with a tone that walked the sliver between insolence and formality. “What would you have with a poor man as myself?”

Joy tossed his head, throwing a brief glance over his shoulder to where the returning soldiers were unhitching their horses. “Your men are back. When shall they make these weapons of yours?”

The words seemed to strike a nerve for the Sword. “Not my men.” he replied tersely, flicking the whetstone rather callously down the blade and nearly nicking his fingers before setting his hands on his knees with a huff. “I know not how to fashion the catapults, but some of the Second Swords from House Tyne ought to be familiar with the engineering. It is not nearly as complex at it might appear, although it has a tendency to throw a fit during assembly.”

Joy snorted, feeling the words fly over his head. “Get these men, then. The sooner they finish, the better. I would see these stone-throwers of yours, that you are so proud of.”

“Not merely stone, m’lord.” spoke of the other men nearby, some Sword from House Tyne. “They had throw all manner of things. Pitch, corpses, even—”

“Corpses?” Joy asked in surprise.

“Aye, corpses.” the man affirmed. “They ruin the humors, have men coughing out lung and soul before an arrow ever falls o’er the ramparts.”

Mors snorted at that. “I know nothing of humors; I’m no apothecary. But I’ve seen what happens to men that live near the dead, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with fever so hot. I thought he might burst into flame.”

The Sword suddenly rose up, sheathing his sword into its scabbard with a practiced, deadly motion. It was a grace that even Joy had to respect—those were the movements of a man who was one with his blade. “Flame… aye. It was flames when we marched, like the fools we were.” His eyes were distant, and Joy held his breath when he intended to speak.

“We were too many fish, too few legionaries. And the new fish, they hardly knew the right way to hold their shields. They would have been useless in a fight; why did I ever agree to Festus and Saaron? Those men’s blood is as much on my hands now.”

Mors shook his head tiredly, his gaze once more returning to the sky. “I know not what Savos used on us that day, but it rained fire from the skies. Ash and flame, from the heavens.”

“A new blastpowder, m’lord.” the other man replied, nodding furiously. “Ruination, that they found it before our own alchemists did. Those men, always stealing away too much gold for too little effect, I say. I’ve always known it, useless fools. Unlucky, I say; if we’d been the first to find the blastpowder—”

“Aye, then we’d have burned their men in their armor. Is that any better, Maaras? Is it any better to slaughter them with flame from a thousand paces, even farther than any bowman could hope to attain?” Mors whirled on him, his face wearing a tired expression of loss and confusion.

“Of course it is, do not be foolish.” Joy snarled, his claws tightening into a fist. “Do not grow weak, Sword. I have need of your fangs. Should they dull, then I’ll slit your throat and find another who’s suits me.”

That seemed to get through to the man, at the very least. His hand fell to the hilt of his blade, his expression twitching to a scowl. For the briefest of moments, Joy could see the murderous flame that flickered through his eyes, a slightest dance of madness—not unlike from Sister. Yet it winked out in an instant, his eyes once more returning to a dark shade of brown as he nodded.

“Of course, m’lord. Blades and slaughter.” He turned once more, facing the soldiers that were scattered about the bluff. “We’ll start construction as soon as we can, but it will most likely take at least a month before they’re ready. Too many of these men have no crow’s claw what they’re doing.”

“Perhaps sooner, Third Sword.” the other man responded, smiling. “You are still thinking of the large trebuchets, perhaps? Those beasts could take an army to man, indeed, but we have no need for such behemoths. It would be easier—more economical as well, aye—if we were to take of inspiration from some of the eastern designs, ought we not?” His words slipped out of his mouth like serpents from a den, and Joy could feel his own thoughts tripping over themselves as he struggled to follow.

“Mangonels, I do believe they called them? Smaller engines, although they still do possess quite the kick, if they are to be believed. Aye, I’ve never known a Issai to brag; if anything, their new toys as twice as strong as they claim. With wheels, more mobile, and more versatile on the battlefield. I do imagine that they could be built faster, indeed—if, perhaps m’lord, I was to oversee the soldiers?”

Joy just barely managed to catch onto the trailing tail of that sentence, of that blustering gale that blew apart his thoughts. Ah, so that was where his prattling led. “Your name?”

“Jhossa, m’lord. They call me Jhossa, although it is a name that cannot admit to ever have been fond of—”

“Can these tools of yours go through a waygate?” Joy interrupted, before the man’s tongue found its way down the demon’s throat. His question was not a new one; he had first asked Kha, but he had proven unable to answer. Waygates were curious things, transporting all manner of living things, but proving fickle with stone and dirt. Was wood any different?

“I—I cannot say, m’lord, but I see no reason it should not. I have heard, aye heard of the old King Alerick calling for trade to the Capital from far lands through his waygate. They brought fruit and silks, all manner of delicacies and finery through the royal waygate. I cannot imagine that wood and twine would prove any more difficult than Ossian ruby peaches.”

Joy felt a smile split through his maw. “Then start, Jhossa. I would see your tools soon, and see if you cannot find what strange flame Savos used. It could prove useful against the skal.”

He saw fire, raining from the heavens as he watched nearly a thousand paces away. He saw massive beasts of wood and rope, flinging stones at speeds enough to crush a man into paste. He saw the writhing mass of shadow suddenly turn into a sea of flame, its amorphous body turning into ash and smoke. Aye, these new toys could prove most useful indeed.