[center][h3]Private Durandal[/h3][/center]
Durandal had positioned herself away from the window, to let someone with a proper gun up, to fire on their retreating enemy. She loaded another mortar round to her lance, but found their role in combat had come to an interlude. She took the opportunity to steady herself; even years of her mother's martial arts training had not prepared her for war. Though she understood the skills she had to be lethal, they had been... studied... as a (albeit strict) form of art. An artist, not a warrior, though there were chunks of the latter that came as inseparable from the art itself.

Regan stopped her thoughts. She was about to become philosophical in a dangerous place. She finished cleaning her sword, sheathed it, and gathered her equipment to await rendezvous on the first floor. She found herself a Lilly. Something had happened to her squad leader's mentality during the fight. "Jatmoore," she approached slowly as she spoke, not wanting to potentially startle her, "holdin' up alright?"

It wasn't long before Hunt showed up, however. A quick rally later and they had new orders. As Regan moved to form up on Jatmoore, she took stock of her surroundings, and it struck that this used to be someone's home. People lived here...

[i]Stay focused.[/i] She was becoming acutely aware of the mental strain she was enduring. Twice now, her mind had started to wander. However, with any luck, she could get rest enough to gather her thoughts after this battle. A good evening's meditation should fix what ails her.