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Dexter winced as he took a drag from the cigarette in his mouth.
It had been a long time since he'd last had a cigarette, probably ten years or so, but he'd been lucky enough to be over in Spain - where they were a lot more popular - before he'd been called home to fight. The taste hadn't gotten better thus far.
It's almost 1706, I wonder when people will start to make things ruddy things taste better, Dexter couldn't help but wonder.
There had been a war brewing under the world's skin for almost sixty years by this point, with ever-increasing battles being waged everywhere as those supporting the Faceless Ones clung to their ideas and tried to usher in a new evil.
Dexter had been a part of many of these battles over the years, often finding himself in trouble with known Faceless One's supporters, but he'd tried his hardest to stay out of it. The Sanctuaries would handle it.
There was a campsite up ahead, Dexter could see the smoke rising, and he readjusted the bag on his back as he fought his way up the incline. This would be the first time the group of men that he was meeting would be together as an actual group.
There was Skulduggery Pleasant, of course, a strong Elemental with a personality that often wasn't at all pleasant to those that annoyed him.
He was prone to jokes and sarcasm, and was awfully arrogant at times, from what Dexter knew. He was an anomaly, a living legend when he should be dead, returning as a skeleton after being tortured by Serpine.
He had come back to them only this year, having disappeared since October of 1700, just five years ago. No one dared ask him where he had been all this time. He was a changed man, and it was not worth the risk.
There was Ghastly Bespoke, the one with the scars, a tailor, a boxer, an Elemental, all things that seemed to contradict each other. Dexter considered him to be the closest thing he’d had to a friend for the last ninety years since he’d had his Surge.
Hopeless was another member, a mystery that Dexter had never heard of before, but a friend of Ghastly and The Skeleton.
Erskine Ravel was another well-known face. A particularly gifted Elemental that had the wit and charm to woo just about anyone.
Anton Shudder, who Dexter wasn't ashamed to admit he was wary of, was a serious man with a Gist and someone that would be hard to get to know.
Saracen Rue had joined the fold, a 'friend' of Shudder's that he had been forced to save after he attracted the attention of a battalion of enemies after tripping down a hill. Somehow, he was still seen as valuable.
Lastly, was their temporary tag in member, a man called Larrikin who was rumoured to be the complete opposite to Shudder, a funny man with a lot of smiles and laughter to give.
Surrounded by the elements and those that could control them, Dexter was sure this would not be hard. This was only supposed to be a stakeout, a chance for all of them to meet as a group.
Dexter had done odd jobs with a few of them and had been in the same room as all of them when they'd signed up to be apart of Deuce and Meritorious' group of secret operatives, but the meeting hadn't been longer than an hour or two at most, and he'd never stopped after jobs for anything more than a debriefing afterwards.
This time, they would be together for about a week, and it would be a test of strength to see how they all got along.
"Dexter Vex!" Someone called as Dexter reached the top of the incline.
Everyone was facing away from him, staring down at something on the ground, and when one of the voices spoke, everyone turned to look at him. "Nice to finally meet you."
A dark-haired man with a lopsided smile and kind eyes had spoken. He was the first to stand, walking over to greet him. Dexter shook his hand.
"And you are?" Dexter asked, taking a few shorter drags from his cigarette, flicking the ash to one side.
"Saracen Rue," The man replied.
"Ah, the clumsy one," Dexter said. Saracen looked over his shoulder, glaring at Shudder.
"I tripped on a mission one time, Anton!"
"And yet your reputation is still fragile enough to be destroyed by it, Rue." Anton shrugged.
Dexter dropped his cigarette, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot before he approached the fire and the men surrounding it.
Hopeless, Rue, Larrikin and Pleasant were the only ones that he had to be formally introduced to, and they wasted no time in getting that over and done with.
"So, what's the first port of call?" Dexter asked.
"We're double-checking the map of the area," Pleasant explained, nodding his head towards the large paper sprawled out across the floor. "Vantage points, outcrops of rocks that could be used as cover, anything that might help."
"You're expecting trouble, then?" Dexter asked.
"It would be foolish not to," Shudder said. "These are Vengeous' men. He's been getting bolder as of late, and it needs to change. If there's trouble, we'll have to stamp it out."
"I thought Meritorious wanted us to just camp out here for the week," Rue said, frowning.
"Afraid of a little hard work?" Dexter asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. Rue narrowed his eyes as they flicked up to Dexter.
"Not in the slightest." He replied, voice stony.
"Good," Dexter said. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but if we're preparing for trouble, then I suggest an early night."
"I'll second that," Pleasant added. When the skeleton spoke, Dexter couldn't help but notice everyone's eyes on him, clearly deciding that he was the leader in Deuce's place.
The group moved when Pleasant spoke, kicked into action by someone they seemingly universally agreed was a rightful fit to take charge.
Dexter chose a spot relatively close to the fire, taking the pack off his back and unrolling his sleeping bag and using his pack as a pillow.
It was a cold night, now deep into December, and Dexter had to wrap himself up in extra clothes before he tucked himself into his sleeping bag.
It was a long fight for sleep, a good few hours long, but Dexter eventually found it in staring up at the stars in the sky, feeling slightly at peace on this hill in the Irish countryside just outside Cork, amongst thick boulders shielding them from sight and men that he still wasn't sure whether he could trust yet, but knowing that they were in it for the long haul now.
And Dexter was nothing if not stubborn when it came to carrying something out.
~
It took three more days of quiet for the group to finally come together around the fire and discuss something other than their mission.
Things had been quiet except for a few mortals travelling through looking for some kind of historical site nearby, and they had stopped to talk to the mages gathered, completely unaware of the seriousness of their travels.
It had been nice to get some normal human interaction, and Rue's incessant need to try and flirt was still a war being raged in of itself now, hours later.
"We don't have time for those kinds of things, Rue!" Shudder exclaimed.
"I've got to get all this pent up frustration out somehow!" Rue said. "All we ever talk about is planning for trouble and waiting for Vengeous' men to pass through. It's been three days, I've been in war mode the entire time. I need something human!"
"Why not make an effort to talk to us, then?" Shudder asked.
"What, so we can sit around in a circle and talk about our feelings?" Rue laughed. "I don't think so. I hardly even know any of you."
"Fine, then get to know us," Dexter said, joining the group with a small bowl of stew that Larrikin had made with a smaller fire not too far away.
He was a much better cook than Ghastly, who had almost burnt the soup they'd had the night before.
"How?" Rue deadpanned, frowning over at Dexter.
"I don't bloody know! We're not all Elementals, are we? What're everyone's disciplines?" He asked. "I'm an Energy-Thrower."
"Adept," Shudder answered.
He tapped his chest, and the group understood.
They knew of his Gist, everyone did. Those with Gists were always subjected to having their names known.
It was a difficult discipline to master and required a powerful soul filled with strength and good that balanced out the havoc that the Gist brought.
Dexter had a lot of respect for Shudder, and he was sure that so did the rest of this group of Dead Men, as they had been affectionately nicknamed, did.
"Elemental." Ghastly offered. Skulduggery and Ravel chimed in that they were the same.
"Vitakinetic," Larrikin said.
A healer. Dexter had to admit that he was shocked about that one. He would never have expected that from Larrikin, whose nature was to always roughhouse with the other Dead Men, especially Shudder.
He often played pranks on everyone or tried to pester them about mundane idiocies whenever they were in the middle of doing something. He believed that everyone needed a little laughter and stress relief these days.
Regardless, it was good that they had a healer in their group, and Dexter was grateful that at least one of them had had the patience to specialise in something that couldn't cause violence.
God only knew that they had enough violence to atone for. If one of their souls could be saved still, Dexter felt relieved.
He couldn't wait for this all to be over so he could find something peaceful to do, something that his devout Catholic mother would encourage as penance for the violence he’d gotten involved in.
"I know things," Rue said slyly when people looked at him.
"How cryptic," Dexter replied.
"Not cryptic. Coy, maybe." Rue replied, flashing an award-winning smile and dropping a wink in Dexter's direction. In response, Dexter rolled his eyes and looked to Hopeless.
"I can create illusions." Hopeless added. "Like Robert Crasis. It's a forgotten discipline, but it comes in handy."
Hopeless was a different one, that was for sure. Dexter found it difficult to focus on the features that Hopeless possessed, and was never quite sure whether the other Dead Man was a man or a woman.
Hopeless' face seemed to change and blur in minuscule movements every time Dexter looked at them.
Sometimes the hair, sometimes the eyes, or the way their nose looked, or the set of their jaw, and Dexter found it all immensely interesting.
"Is that why you don't always look the same?" Ghastly asked, his thoughts along the same lines as Dexter's.
Hopeless just smiled sheepishly. “The way I see myself changes in my head. Sometimes masculine, sometimes feminine, sometimes both, sometimes neither. I wanted something that would help people see me the way I see myself, that flexible that would change when I needed it to. It doesn't feel like an illusion to me, more like a natural response between my brain and my magic. Its a coincidence that it comes in handy in wartime, too."
"So ... what? Is there a rule about what to call you or anything?" Rue asked.
He was looking confused, but that might've been to do with the bottle of whiskey in his hand more than genuine confusion.
"I think what Rue is trying to ask is what are the acceptable pronouns?" Pleasant clarified.
Hopeless beamed like a child on Christmas morning and the tension seemed to release from the Dead Man’s shoulders. "They." They said. "I like 'they, them and their'."
"They, it is," Ghastly said. He took a deep breath and grabbed a nearby bottle of whiskey. "Well, gentlemen, and gentlethem's, I feel like this requires a toast."
"To what?" Larrikin asked.
"To what will hopefully be the start of a friendship," Ghastly replied. "I feel like I at least know Hopeless better now. I hope that, over the coming nights, we can have more conversations like this, and many more both in wartime and in eventual peace."
"To friends." Pleasant mused. "I like it."
Each of them raised their bottles, looking around the campfire at those they would most likely be spending more and more time with the longer this war went on.
So when they echoed, "To friends," and took a drink from whiskey that burned on the way down, they meant it.
Until they were down to less than a handful of the original members three hundred years on, they meant it.
Each time they drank whiskey, they meant it,
Each time they were on a battlefield and looked over their shoulders to check on the people they were used to fighting alongside only to see emptiness and the ghosts of enemies and battles long since won ...
... They meant it.