Priorities

'The claw marks wounded its left side more, uhhhh... left it is.'

The Revolver and Musket muzzles that had been staring at him unwaveringly a mere second ago began to falter and drop as the Salivitians were transfixed by what was approaching from behind the masked enemy. 

They were an arc around Ilyas, and so the ones who were closest to the thicket were first. 

THUD!

A hand three times bigger than a puny human pounded a Salivitian Imitator into a bloody mist. The earth cried and trembled at the impact of the clenched GranOrangutan's fist. 

Absolute bedlam overtook the northwestern end of the camp.

The hastily established formation scattered like ants. Some Salivitians cried out in horror, others in suicidal resolve.

Stew bowls were abandoned, and tents spat out their inhabitants, indifferent to their conditions. Those who couldn't walk ran, and those who couldn't run paled and joined the red haze as a consequence.

It was a morbid scene of finality. 

In the midst of all, shrouded in a crimson cloud, too barbaric to slow down, too monstrous to tame, a raging beast roared and bellowed, mindlessly bringing death and devastation with his iron-like fists.

And if Ilyas was the main attraction a minute or so ago, he was absolutely forgotten by now. Which was why he was carelessly hurtling between narrow alleyways, shoving Salivitians marching to the bloodbath aside, eyes narrowing on his objective. 

He didn't even look over his shoulder at what was ensuing behind; it would either slow him down, disturb the hell out of him, or most likely send him blindly crashing into a tent. 

Where was he going?

Simple.

This was a two-in-one plan after all. Weren't they low on supplies?

While Ilyas brought the calamity to the Northwestern sect of the encampment, Alexander, Cenric, and that new fella Henry made their way to the supply tent.

It took an hour or two of stalking to concoct the particularities of the plan, and these few adrenaline-inducing, most likely deadly minutes to execute.

The most attention he received was a few peculiar glances before the screaming and gory noises ahead rattled off their suspicions, returning them to their main concern.

A few minutes passed, and Ilyas finally glimpsed the supply rotunda.

Countless bodies were hurrying around in panic.

Imitators retrieved packs of blood in case they ran dry, while Ordinaries armed themselves with gunfire and shields.

Dressing stations prepared their equipment, stretchers, and gantries; nurses and doctors stood alert and ready, their grim faces awaiting those fortunate enough not to have joined the red cloud.

No matter.

It didn't concern him. Their plan required swiftness and non-faltering commitment. They should get the supplies and sneak past the distracted scouts, and hopefully head north enough to get out of this damn forest.

After passing a few more anxious troops, Ilyas finally entered the Rotunda tent and immediately scowled.

What faced him were heaps of meat, trimmed and portioned into ordinary-looking red meat, all cuddled by blocks upon blocks of ice. The smell was revolting, and the sight was even worse. Every single one of them was once a human life, with memories, dreams, emotions and quarks.

Every single one of them hoped to survive.

Hoped to live on.

Hoped to see the walls of Marianne but ended up stored in a filthy tent in a vile forest, ready to be consumed by inhumane lives. Ilyas would've retched, but god, he didn't have the time.

Alexander, Cenric, and Henry were there, at the very end, scavenging fearfully in a very adorable manner. He could hear the whispered quarrelling between Cenric and Alexander, with Henry struggling to quell them.

Ilyas shoved his emotions aside and strode to his companions, breathing heavily from all the running. 

By the time he reached them, they were almost finished filling their haversacks with various vegetables, spices, and oils. 

They fell silent at his approach, nodded at him in commendation, then he squatted down to join them. 

The barking and crying outside seeped into the revolting tent, keeping them on edge and prompting their nerves. 

If even one of those bastards decided they needed to feed, they'd either get blood on their hands or join the ice. And with their current circumstances, they very much could not afford to engage in any sort of conflict, so the latter was all but guaranteed.

'Yeah, let the beast take care of it.'

But it wouldn't last long.

It wouldn't be long before either enough Imitators gang up on the beast to take it down, or the possible Congruent in charge of the encampment takes action.

Considering how far the Command tent was from the Northwestern edge, it would take him at most a few minutes to reach it. Or if they decided to use their Congruent powers, then Ilyas had no way of knowing. 

"That's enough," Ilyas whispered. "Their surprise is dying out; we have to leave now."

That was true.

The screams outside weren't as desperate; they were growing more composed. More... in control. The GranOrangutan was no longer an unknown surprise attack, but an established opponent that needed to be dealt with.

They tightened the sacks, nodded at each other, then made their way to the exit, all scowling at the meat as they passed.

Alexander opened the flappy door first, concealing his presence as he did. After quickly surveying their surroundings, he nodded over his shoulder and left.

They all followed. 

They crept between the tents, trying to seem as inconspicuous as they could, sprinkling a little panic and fear into their gait so as to fit in.

Tents thinned, and the thickets showed themselves ahead, beckoning them back into that bittersweet forest. Salivitians rushed around them, busy feeding the barrels of their muskets and listening to the commands of their superiors.

The only giveaway to their identities was the direction in which they scurried: Away from the chaos and into the trees.

They were close. 

They kept their cool.

They said their prayers.

They steadied their breaths.

Until...

Until Ilyas saw something that stopped him in his tracks. The others didn't stop, merely turning over their shoulders with urging, reprimanding eyes.

But Ilyas didn't see them.

His eyes were fixed on something else.

Resting regally upon an armament rack was one beautiful Twinblade. 

His eyes flickered with love, and his lips curled ever so slightly behind the mask.