565 Life After Death

She pursed her lips, staring at Agathe as she smiled back awkwardly. 

This girl...

"...Anyroad, don't call me Leader anymore," Ptolema sighed, shaking her head. 

"Right... Sorry," Agathe bowed again. "It's a force of habit. But real talk? I hate the naming sense. 'Sons' of Qotal.' 'Scarmother.'"

"The reports, woman?" Ptolema tapped her finger against the planning table. 

If she didn't stop her, she'd babble until morning. 

"Yes, Scarmother," Agathe smiled with chagrin. 

Ptolema glanced through the pieces of parchment. She felt an oncoming headache, trying to read them. Their scouts were technically illiterate, so it was a pain to parse the mashed up, phonetically-spelled words. 

Agathe had been her closest friend and greatest support since she first registered Snowy Village with the Adventurer's Guild. Even after disbanding it, they joined the Sons of Qotal at about the same time-- and by sheer luck, were even assigned to the same century. 

That wonderful and infuriating woman... had gotten pregnant. 

She and her husband had been trying to conceive for at least half a year. 

Ptolema was happy for her-- she really was. 

It wasn't her fault that the news reminded her of how f*cked her life was. 

She'd gone to the healers, a few weeks after coming back from the Halls of the Dead Serpent. They told her... that with her symptoms, she was probably barren. 

She was hurt-- devastated, really. 

It didn't make much sense that it did... It's not like she was planning on remarrying. 

It was like... a crucial part of being a woman was... just gone. It was like the heavens were saying she no longer had the right to be a mother. 

The feeling... of something important, something taken for granted, but integral to being a person? Taken away? 

She wouldn't wish that on anyone. 

It felt like ages ago... when guild Snowy Village went to that Flame-taken place. 

Back then... she was pregnant with her husband's child. They were planning on saving for a horse. 

Then everything started to spiral out of control. She suffered a miscarriage. Karodin never came back. 

She was starting to forget his scent... what his laugh sounded like... even how he looked like. 

The more she thought about him, the worse she felt. 

No, she'd never get married again. 

Even thinking about romance felt like she was insulting him... like it would make his ghost cry. 

The big baby...

"Here you go, Scarmother."

Ptolema looked up. 

Agathe was offering a clean cloth, "Take it, sister. Dry your tears."

"Get the HELLS out!" Ptolema snapped, pointing at the entrance. 

...She'd have to remember to return it later. 

"I am the heir of ash and fire," She muttered to herself. "By the dragon's flames, my sins are purged. By the dragon's flames, I am born again..."

It didn't seem like much-- just lip service... but repeating the mantra put her mind at ease. 

The Sons and Daughters of Qotal were led by an armored man they called The Exarch. He was a fanatic, that was for sure... but he was a good man, crusading for the Eternal Flame... against the heretics and the xeno's and *especially* the Flamescarred source of all her problems, the Snake Cult. 

After her life fell apart... Ptolema was lost and without purpose. 

Without direction, she was forced to remember just how shite her life was. The guild she led was ruined. Her face was hideous, scarred beyond recognition. The only man she'd ever loved was dead. The proof of their marriage, their child-- she never saw the light of the sun. 

The Exarch gave her something to believe in... something that she could work tirelessly towards. 

It was a reason to keep living. It was a reason to work her arse off. It was a crusade-- one she never knew she needed. 

At first, she was terrified of being found out when she joined the Sons of Qotal. Thankfully, it turned out that The Exarch was a decent human being. When she confided her past as a guild leader to him, she wasn't executed on the spot. Instead, she was offered an officer position. 

She took it.

She excelled at it. 

In a few short moons, she earned the rank of Centurion-- as well as a new name and title:

Scarmother Talon. 

It wasn't particularly pointed at her-- the other female Centurions were called Scarmothers too. It was just strange that-- not ironically, she had the most scars among them, both physical and otherwise. 

Just like in the mantra, taking up the new name was a rebirth of sorts. It was like a gift from the Flame, herself. 

She didn't want to be known as Ptolema anymore. Ptolema was weak. Ptolema cried every night over her useless, dead husband. 

Scarmother Talon was a badass b*tch that didn't take shite from anyone. 

The promotion was a trap, of course. 

Being a Centurion meant she was also given a century. All the waking bells of each sun was spent dealing with the b*tching and moaning of entitled Decani and their piscine subordinates.

F*ck those criminal bastards. 

...

Ptolema awoke to the whistle of the icy wind outside her tent. 

...She'd fallen asleep reading reports. 

As for how long she was out... the sun had gone down and the lamp on her table had gone out. 

She'd been tired lately... and had mentioned the fact to Agathe. It was probably her fault that no one came to wake her. 

"...At least wake me for lunch," Ptolema muttered as she rubbed the outsides of her forearms. 

She clasped her hands together... and concentrated, 'listening' carefully for the 'sound' that fire made. She'd heard some of the other faithful call it 'circulating mana.' Whatever it was, it warmed her body and fended off the cold. 

Gently separating her palms, she looked into the dancing ball of fire she'd summoned. 

It comforted her. 

This was the gift The Exarch gave her... a gift granted to all the Sons and Daughters of Qotal. 

The gift of dragonfire.