Clean Up Operation
Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2023 2:55 pm
37th Searing, 123
The sudden disappearance of the Rift from the sky above Zaichaer was still unexpected, every time Stefan looked out over the city and saw the skies clear and bright, or even overcast, but lacking the sub-real rend in reality he was, for a moment, confused. While each time he had seen it his conscious mind had viewed it as a horror and a failure of things he had believed in all his life, his subconscious had gotten used to its presence and (because of the determination his conscious had always inserted in association with it) had bucked up and strengthened its resolve at the sight.
It was an excellent thing that it was gone, of course it was, but its removal had been as mysterious as its arrival and that was troubling. In fact, the disappearance was even more so as he now had some idea of what had caused it to come into being but he had none whatsoever as to what had taken it away. Stefan knew well the warning about the proverbial gift horse, but it was his job to understand what had caused disasters so that they could be prevented in the future, so, however much the collective of old wives of Zaichaer might chastise him, he intended to learn the causes.
Order mages had been sent out almost as soon as the first reports had come in, which had been within minutes of the disappearance. They had reported back that the Rift was, indeed, closed and that it wasn't some sort of illusion that was fooling the naked eye. There were other reports that Stefan understood on an academic level, if in no way on a personal one, about the flows of aether in the area still being disturbed but that being theoretically normal for a place that had been covered by an open Rift for so long. The normality was only theoretical because no living Zaichaer mages had ever encountered an open Rift before, nor, as far as was known, had any mages from anywhere else. Not any human ones, at least. Perhaps some of the elves had, but they were, of course, unlikely to share any information that might be useful. Not unless they were forced, and Zaichaer was in no position to do anything of that kind. Yet.
The area remained under constant surveillance, just as it had while the Rift had been open, and would, he imagined, remain so, in some capacity or other, forever. There was a team investigating both the opening and the closing, and Stefan read their reports with great interest but, as things stood, there was nothing else to actually be done about it. It required nothing and gave nothing, and so, however odd it might feel, the Rift was for all realistic purposes, no longer his concern.
What was of concern, significant concern, were the remains of the Mist spawn that, having dropped dead (or more dead) all over the city moments before the Rift had closed, were now rotting all over the city. The perpetual state of Frost that had taken over the world had been a trial in many ways but, in this circumstance, it meant that the decomposition of all the bodies was slowed significantly. How long it might continue was anyone's guess but the other problems that had arisen with the rise of the Eclipse had all either stopped or significantly weakened and that spoke of an end to the changelessness of the seasons at any time. Therefore it was imperative that the streets and buildings be cleaned out and the bodies dealt with as quickly as possible.
The soldiers that were now pouring in from Reichart's command to his (or, more properly, to Eitan's) had been prepared to begin an extended campaign of assault on the city to retake it and kill the spawn within. It would have been a hard fight, but everyone had been resolved in the knowledge that it was necessary and worth what it would cost them. Upon arriving, however, the soldiers had learned that the fight was effectively over before it had begun and all that remained was the clean up.
Oddly, and interestingly from a psychological point of view, when men fought and killed and then had to clean up the aftermath there was a pride in it, in having won and now being the victors that carried them through the grim tasks that came in as a result of victory. Without this, the commanding officers had come to Stefan worried that the men's morale would flag under the weight of weeks of discovering the dead of their homeland, some killed by and some turned into, mist spawn, and having to burn them.
There was no other option but to burn the bodies, if the weather turned warmer, disease would spread from the dead to the living like a spark onto a field of dry cotton. The population could not withstand a plague, it would be the death of Zaichaer. So, the bodies must be gathered and put onto pyres as quickly as could be managed. There were record keepers sent down with each group of soldiers to take descriptions of anyone that was still recognizable, as well as where they had been discovered, so that, for some people, there might someday be closure.
It was still awful work, and seemed endless to the ones who were forced by necessity to do it. Stefan had initially insisted on taking shifts with the men but had been persuaded against it as not all the dangers in the city had been Mist spawn, there were still Shadow Spawn, though they now died as easily as anything else with a bullet in them, as well as gangs of people driven mad by the disaster or else simply out for what they could get.
Unable to lend himself to the effort in a physical sense he had been determined to come up with something to help keep the spirits of the soldiers up during what, he hoped, would be the final major psychological trial of the disaster. There would be others, but these long, drawn-out months during which the minds of his people were under constant and intense siege of despair might be nearing their end. If he could keep a plague from starting, if he could ensure there was enough food once the Riverland Forts stores ran out, if none of Zaichaer's neighbors decided that, with the Rift closed, the weakened nation wasn't just too ripe a fruit not to try to pluck. If, if, if, there was always the possibility for catastrophe but Stefan's life over the past two years had been learning to anticipate or react to those hazards that might mean the end of his way of life, of his people and he was, if he allowed himself to step back and view the situation with some perspective, rather good at it. That didn't make it less terrifying, but he was getting used to living with a low level of constant terror. It probably wasn't good for him, in the long run, but it was better than the alternative.
The solution that he had come to, after talking over his worries and the worries of the officers with his wife, had been a simple one but one that he imagined would be quite effective. A major part of both the idea and his confidence in it had come from Delia herself and it centered around a simple concept; Hope. Since the events of the 34th even the men and women who had been taken care of had been simply surviving, living to live another day. Now, with the city on the cusp of being able to hold a population again there was the option to hope for more, for prosperity through their efforts. The problem was, everyone was stuck now in that survival mode, and needed something to let them know it was safe to come back out of it.
So they were beginning, led by Delia, Luca and some of the women who had stepped up to lead the community with them, a campaign of hope, to replace the one of war that had been planned and then abandoned. The promise they were offering was something people could build on; homes, businesses, jobs. The things that gave people dignity and surety for themselves and their families. Zaichaer would need families with as many children as possible, and the best way to encourage that was to ensure they had places of safety to live and grow.
There were ample homes that would be empty; away from the Presidium, most of the destruction had been in the form of death and mutation, not property damage Once they were cleared of any bodies or dangers they could be moved into, transformed from tombs back into homes. Every soldier who wanted one would get one, that was the first promise. Every craftsman who knew his trade would also, as well as a place to ply his trade. No man would be left without a job, and no woman who wanted one either. It would be a long time before Zaichaer could afford to deny work to any set of willing hands, but the propaganda turned that idea into a prospect of prosperity. An office was opened where anyone could go to sign up for a home and, if they weren't in the military, work. Airships were sent all over, anywhere Zaichaeri citizens still lived, dropping fliers proclaiming the beginning of the rebuilding effort.
Even though he'd been in all the meetings, had seen all the intention that had gone into the designing of this plan, he couldn't help but feel the hope it inspired himself, swelling his sense of self, his pride in his nation, and the sure knowledge of its future.
The sudden disappearance of the Rift from the sky above Zaichaer was still unexpected, every time Stefan looked out over the city and saw the skies clear and bright, or even overcast, but lacking the sub-real rend in reality he was, for a moment, confused. While each time he had seen it his conscious mind had viewed it as a horror and a failure of things he had believed in all his life, his subconscious had gotten used to its presence and (because of the determination his conscious had always inserted in association with it) had bucked up and strengthened its resolve at the sight.
It was an excellent thing that it was gone, of course it was, but its removal had been as mysterious as its arrival and that was troubling. In fact, the disappearance was even more so as he now had some idea of what had caused it to come into being but he had none whatsoever as to what had taken it away. Stefan knew well the warning about the proverbial gift horse, but it was his job to understand what had caused disasters so that they could be prevented in the future, so, however much the collective of old wives of Zaichaer might chastise him, he intended to learn the causes.
Order mages had been sent out almost as soon as the first reports had come in, which had been within minutes of the disappearance. They had reported back that the Rift was, indeed, closed and that it wasn't some sort of illusion that was fooling the naked eye. There were other reports that Stefan understood on an academic level, if in no way on a personal one, about the flows of aether in the area still being disturbed but that being theoretically normal for a place that had been covered by an open Rift for so long. The normality was only theoretical because no living Zaichaer mages had ever encountered an open Rift before, nor, as far as was known, had any mages from anywhere else. Not any human ones, at least. Perhaps some of the elves had, but they were, of course, unlikely to share any information that might be useful. Not unless they were forced, and Zaichaer was in no position to do anything of that kind. Yet.
The area remained under constant surveillance, just as it had while the Rift had been open, and would, he imagined, remain so, in some capacity or other, forever. There was a team investigating both the opening and the closing, and Stefan read their reports with great interest but, as things stood, there was nothing else to actually be done about it. It required nothing and gave nothing, and so, however odd it might feel, the Rift was for all realistic purposes, no longer his concern.
What was of concern, significant concern, were the remains of the Mist spawn that, having dropped dead (or more dead) all over the city moments before the Rift had closed, were now rotting all over the city. The perpetual state of Frost that had taken over the world had been a trial in many ways but, in this circumstance, it meant that the decomposition of all the bodies was slowed significantly. How long it might continue was anyone's guess but the other problems that had arisen with the rise of the Eclipse had all either stopped or significantly weakened and that spoke of an end to the changelessness of the seasons at any time. Therefore it was imperative that the streets and buildings be cleaned out and the bodies dealt with as quickly as possible.
The soldiers that were now pouring in from Reichart's command to his (or, more properly, to Eitan's) had been prepared to begin an extended campaign of assault on the city to retake it and kill the spawn within. It would have been a hard fight, but everyone had been resolved in the knowledge that it was necessary and worth what it would cost them. Upon arriving, however, the soldiers had learned that the fight was effectively over before it had begun and all that remained was the clean up.
Oddly, and interestingly from a psychological point of view, when men fought and killed and then had to clean up the aftermath there was a pride in it, in having won and now being the victors that carried them through the grim tasks that came in as a result of victory. Without this, the commanding officers had come to Stefan worried that the men's morale would flag under the weight of weeks of discovering the dead of their homeland, some killed by and some turned into, mist spawn, and having to burn them.
There was no other option but to burn the bodies, if the weather turned warmer, disease would spread from the dead to the living like a spark onto a field of dry cotton. The population could not withstand a plague, it would be the death of Zaichaer. So, the bodies must be gathered and put onto pyres as quickly as could be managed. There were record keepers sent down with each group of soldiers to take descriptions of anyone that was still recognizable, as well as where they had been discovered, so that, for some people, there might someday be closure.
It was still awful work, and seemed endless to the ones who were forced by necessity to do it. Stefan had initially insisted on taking shifts with the men but had been persuaded against it as not all the dangers in the city had been Mist spawn, there were still Shadow Spawn, though they now died as easily as anything else with a bullet in them, as well as gangs of people driven mad by the disaster or else simply out for what they could get.
Unable to lend himself to the effort in a physical sense he had been determined to come up with something to help keep the spirits of the soldiers up during what, he hoped, would be the final major psychological trial of the disaster. There would be others, but these long, drawn-out months during which the minds of his people were under constant and intense siege of despair might be nearing their end. If he could keep a plague from starting, if he could ensure there was enough food once the Riverland Forts stores ran out, if none of Zaichaer's neighbors decided that, with the Rift closed, the weakened nation wasn't just too ripe a fruit not to try to pluck. If, if, if, there was always the possibility for catastrophe but Stefan's life over the past two years had been learning to anticipate or react to those hazards that might mean the end of his way of life, of his people and he was, if he allowed himself to step back and view the situation with some perspective, rather good at it. That didn't make it less terrifying, but he was getting used to living with a low level of constant terror. It probably wasn't good for him, in the long run, but it was better than the alternative.
The solution that he had come to, after talking over his worries and the worries of the officers with his wife, had been a simple one but one that he imagined would be quite effective. A major part of both the idea and his confidence in it had come from Delia herself and it centered around a simple concept; Hope. Since the events of the 34th even the men and women who had been taken care of had been simply surviving, living to live another day. Now, with the city on the cusp of being able to hold a population again there was the option to hope for more, for prosperity through their efforts. The problem was, everyone was stuck now in that survival mode, and needed something to let them know it was safe to come back out of it.
So they were beginning, led by Delia, Luca and some of the women who had stepped up to lead the community with them, a campaign of hope, to replace the one of war that had been planned and then abandoned. The promise they were offering was something people could build on; homes, businesses, jobs. The things that gave people dignity and surety for themselves and their families. Zaichaer would need families with as many children as possible, and the best way to encourage that was to ensure they had places of safety to live and grow.
There were ample homes that would be empty; away from the Presidium, most of the destruction had been in the form of death and mutation, not property damage Once they were cleared of any bodies or dangers they could be moved into, transformed from tombs back into homes. Every soldier who wanted one would get one, that was the first promise. Every craftsman who knew his trade would also, as well as a place to ply his trade. No man would be left without a job, and no woman who wanted one either. It would be a long time before Zaichaer could afford to deny work to any set of willing hands, but the propaganda turned that idea into a prospect of prosperity. An office was opened where anyone could go to sign up for a home and, if they weren't in the military, work. Airships were sent all over, anywhere Zaichaeri citizens still lived, dropping fliers proclaiming the beginning of the rebuilding effort.
Even though he'd been in all the meetings, had seen all the intention that had gone into the designing of this plan, he couldn't help but feel the hope it inspired himself, swelling his sense of self, his pride in his nation, and the sure knowledge of its future.