You signed up for this. The army (or navy in his case) didn't sign up for you.
Corporal Barnaby Grathier heard the scream, as did the other four members of his patrol. They froze, slowly crouched and scanned their surroundings. The shadowy trees and scrub swayed in the breeze as if mocking him. He listened for the whistle of an arrow or the crack of a rifle that would kill him before he hit the ground.
It was from far ahead of them. Something had slipped the patrols and attacked a peasant or lumberjack. The others breathed a silent sigh of relief. Corporal Grathier didn't relax - he couldn't. He was the lead scout. The one who died first in a contact. The one who stood on the first landmine and vanished into a red vapour. When he encountered an enemy, the first one to shoot wins, and the relaxed man never won. It was nerve-wracking, but he was good at it.
Five days had passed since he stepped through a portal (not the red one - he didn't get that privilege) and two since the marching had ended and Admiral Taylor began sighting a base of operations. He had a small army at his command with labourers working day and night to get trenches dug and walls shored up. Barnaby thanked whatever deity waited for him that his digging days were over. His job was patrolling. There had been frequent animal and arakkoa attacks on the march, but since they stopped they had been left alone. Even one day without a single incident either made you complacent or made you paranoid. Barnaby was fairly sure he was leaning toward the latter.
Two minutes passed since the scream. Barnaby looked in to Sergeant Bartholomew, the patrol commander. He gave Grathier the all-clear to start moving again. They were returning to base now, having patrolled for six hours in the forests of... whatever they called this place. Dark forest, rocky foothills and enormously high spires was the terrain.
They patrolled again without incident, before sighting open ground between the trees. When he reached the edge, he knelt down and surveyed the area. It was a clearing they had crossed on their way out. Eighty yards beyond was a logging area, and beyond the rocky outcrop on the other side of that nestled Admiral Taylor's garrison.
There was also a dead lumberjack amidst the tree stumps and discarded work tools being eaten by a ravager.
Bartholomew was at his side quickly and Grathier pointed out the ravager about eighty yards away.
"There's your screamer." he reported, scarcely above a whisper. Bartholomew put a hand on his shoulder as he rose from his hunker into a half-crouch.
"Kill it. We cross when it's dead."
Grathier nodded and tested the grass with his free hand. The crossbow remained in his shoulder, always pointing forward as he slowly lowered his body, pushed his legs out and adopted a firing position on the ground. He had a headwind from the sea beyond. The ravager happily gored its prey, unaware of this new threat.
He didn't mind crossbows, though he'd have preferred his rifle. The principle was the same, at least. Barnaby aimed slightly up, at the things abdomen. His breathing settled into a controlled rhythm. This was shooting 101, and he had done it a thousand times before. His finger curled around the trigger and took up the slack, careful not to jerk the bolt tip off-target with unnecessary movement. He gently squeezed the trigger.
The recoil was nothing compared to a rifle. It was more of a wiggle due to the moving string. The bolt shot out with a suppressed thunk and a moment later, the ravager reared up. Barnaby began winding his crossbow and took aim again. A screech of pain reached his ears as he fired again.
It reared like a horse would, then fell to one side. It didn't move, which was good enough for Barnaby. He wound another bolt, got to his feet and strode out of the tree line. He kept the crossbow in his shoulder, making sweeping scans around his front. He heard the two footmen, one crossbowman and one mage pattering behind him. He weaved around tree stumps toward the ravager. It twitched, so he pinned its body with a boot and put another bolt into its head. That did the trick.
A leg and half a torso remained of the lumberjack. The other marines were stony-faced as Bartholomew ordered them to burn both carcasses. Fresh meat attracted more problems. Private Andrews - their patrol mage - went about the task while the others waited.
"It's dead!" Sergeant Bartholomew shouted out into the silence. "Back to work!"
No reply. Private Marth muttered a remark about civilians, which would have caused a snigger in any other circumstance.
"They'd have run all the way back to the Garrison, perhaps?" Private Collier, the other crossbowman, suggested, voicing everyone's thoughts.
"Probably." Bartholomew said. "Grathier, take us home."
Barnaby stood up and patrolled off, the others picking up one by one to follow him back to the Garrison. Once they passed the first picquet, he relaxed at last.