---

“Thanks. And thanks for the feedback too. I’ll keep it all in mind.”

Elliot had some great points. It likely would be so that marksman, already having all their specialized equipment already, wouldn’t bother with this mediocre mish-mash that did none of the other’s equipment better. But marksman were only a small minority of soldiers, so it is better if he’d focus on the other majority who would have loved to look at a creeping Imperial shocktrooper more closely. That might end up saving a trench sector one day.

On the other hand, hearing the curt reaction from the brown-haired lady...kind of tickled him. Oh god, is she another one of those stuck-ups? There were no shortage of these ‘soldiers are meant to kill not relax’ machines in the army, but she thankfully doesn’t seem to bother with him not doing it. He understood their rationale though.

“Suit yourself miss.” Michael gave a fuzzy smile as he replied. He wouldn’t bother with her for the next hour or two, nor for Elliot, respecting their duty. Instead, he worked even further on the design for the next half an hour before occupying himself with a good book and writing letters home. It was getting a lot easier to write compared to the first few months of his enlistment. Now that he stopped with describing how wet and full of rats the area was, or how great his friends are and that they are his strength and all that cheesy stuff, he suddenly found himself having a lot more to say. Like the stale food, the cute dogs in the squad and how Michael would want to wallow in their fluffy furs, or some random rambling about communication technology.

With the conversation having died down, Elliot soon settled into the rhythm of sweeping the area with his own periscope, detecting nothing in the initial sweep, and then sweeping the area once more, this time with the scope of his rifle. Peeking out of the safety of the trenches to get a better look at things with his scope was always a risky prospect, but if there was an enemy marksman lying in wait, Elliot would have spotted them long before.

Or he’d be dead.

...But seeing as neither of those things were the case, the boy settled into the monotony of his job. Thankfully, a marksman was nothing if not patient. Two years of war experience had desensitized Elliot’s perception of seemingly boring jobs-- as disinteresting as they were sometimes, they had a purpose to serve.

Soon, Michael found his hunger becoming more and more unbearable. The growling in his stomach were getting more and more obvious. Having no reasons to not eat anymore, he packed up his things and trotted down the trench line back to the reserve line for some good ol’ packed rations, the marksman seeing the young man off with a tip of his hat. It was a nice enough diversion, but Elliot supposed the sapper had no reason to stay for much longer if they were going to be quiet, which was reasonable enough. He would’ve done the same thing, in his shoes.

And thus, Elliot went on to do sentry duty...

After grabbing his portion of the meal, Michael was finding himself a seat at the tables, but he suddenly remembered both the sentries, wondering if they had had lunch yet. They might have already, and it would be a waste of time, but eh, it wouldn’t hurt if they did anyway. It would also be nice to have some companies. And so, Michael went back into the soup kitchen, and, with a little bit of modesty and politeness, convinced the soldier in charge to give him 2 more rations for ‘his friends’. And he wouldn’t betray their trust in him to do what he was told either. He went back to the observation post with them in hand.

”Anyone want some food?” He laid them out at the spot he last sat a few moments ago and sat down and took one for himself.

Elliot was surprised when Michael had returned, with food in his hands. The marksman had planned on getting lunch after his shift, but seeing as the sapper had gone out of his way to do this much…

”I’ll take some.” He said, the faintest of smiles on his face. ”Thank you very much.

The marksman placed down the meal before him. As far as army slop went, the food was still better than the claylike rations given to him on extended trips away from the trenches. Water, a small teabag, stale biscuits, dry bread, tinned meat and some kind of soup, the kind of which Elliot could not identify.

The marksman set a nearby kettle to boil-- the thing likely left there as a small reprieve for watchmen and sentries assigned to the observation posts. As the water began to heat up, he couldn’t help but ask. ”I would’ve figured you’d have preferred to spend your off-time back in town.” He commented. ”Why return to the frontlines?”

Elliot certainly wasn’t complaining-- anyone willing to bring food back for someone was a good enough sort in his books; he simply wanted to hear the sapper’s reasoning for it.

Michael put his fingers on his chin. He tried coming up with whatever reasons like he wanted to work on the periscope more, which he could just do it back there, or he wanted to work on the trench, which he wouldn’t get to do so without authorization, or he just wanted to talk...which sounded dumb. At the end of the day, he’d just give a light shrug as he picked up the cup of diluted tea.

”Well, I don’t know…” He said. ”I figured it’s not noon yet, so maybe you guys haven’t had lunch yet. I don’t think it hurts being nice.

If they already had lunch, he would be handing them to someone else anyway. Not everything is for personal benefit.

The sapper then took a sip of the tea. Although freshly boiled, it was still bland and watered down. Pretty tasteless and if he paid too much attention he’d probably appreciate just a cup of water more. But it’s wartime, he wouldn’t demand more than this. He’d treat it like any first-class meal he once ever had: with some delicate touch beneath the cup.

”How very thoughtful of you.” Elliot said in response. It was unclear whether or not he believed it to be so, but he looked thankful enough. ”...Well, you were certainly right about one thing: I haven’t eaten yet.”

With that, the marksman mixed in his own bag of tea with the newly heated water. He took the metal cup in both hands, holding the handle with his dominant hand, and using his other as an impromptu saucer. Elliot curled his fingers inwards, letting the warmth of the tea run through his hands, before raising the cup to his lips.

All things considered, the tea was bland and not nearly as sweet as he would’ve liked. He had heard that sugar rations were issued early in the war, but by the time he had enlisted, those were reserved for officers. Still, even despite the lack of taste, it was suitable enough for warming the body.

After taking a long sip, he set the cut back down on the palm of his other hand. Normally, this was done on a table with a small plate or saucer, but both things weren’t strictly necessary in a war like this. Elliot enjoyed his tea (or what passes for it) in silence, letting only a small sigh escape his lips.

Too Michael let out a sigh, as he grabbed the biscuit and held it by the very tip of his finger, biting it small and careful not to let crumbs stick on his lips. If any was left on, he would wipe it off with the given napkin. On the while, he was quick to notice the same exact posture carried out by Elliot. The palm beneath the cup, the fingers and especially how he didn’t have the next sip without putting it back into his hand. It might be just confirmation bias on his part, but Michael recognized these social gestures.

Whether or not he’s right, he let himself loose a little and asked, his head tipped slightly sideway.

“Y’ new mahney?”

His accent changed suddenly. It was no longer the neutral intonation that everybody across Europa were taught, but a distinct Tyrellan one. He was taught to be proud of his heritage, which was kinda dumb, but it helped recognizing people.

Elliot looked up at Michael, somewhat surprised, though he did his best not to show it. He took a moment to parse that Tyrellan accent back into the more neutral tone he had grown accustomed to, before letting out a small exhale through his nose, as if slightly bemused.

If Michael was going to hang a little loose, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for Elliot to do the same.

”Aye, something like that.”

Unlike the sapper’s Tyrellan accent, the marksman’s own accent was distinctly Castletonian. Elliot gave the young man a knowing glance, before shifting back to a more neutral tone. “...money’s a little tight nowadays, though.” He let out a shrug.

”What of you? Old, or new?” Elliot figured small talk like this was fine, as long as he was careful. Besides, it was better that he start making new friends and acquaintances in this platoon sooner, rather than later.

”Eh...Kinda both.” His eyes glanced up, ”We inherit our wealth, but our grandfather kinda squandered our wealth through...variety of means,” And rolled around, exasperated. ”So my father had to patch it up like a sinking ship. He did well though, professorship gets good pay so we’re doing just cozy. A nice house and some good academic opportunities.”

It was nice seeing an upper-class (somewhat) Castleton brother around. Despite Michael not wanting to look like a spoiled rich kid, he couldn’t help the pre-imposed impressions of these people in society, so he tended to keep his status hidden, only letting loose when he was around familiar territory. New money might sound derogatory, but if anything he even respected those hard working people. People underestimated the strength of the manual labourers these days.

Elliot nodded as Michael went on, the marksman occasionally snacking on a biscuit. It was interesting-- he didn’t expect a blue-blood to be working the trenches, but he’s seen more than his fair share of surprising things in the war. Still, he couldn’t help but ask another question.

”...So what are you doing here?” Elliot asked, not unkindly. ”I ended up being drafted, so I didn’t have that much of a choice-- not that I mind all that much, mind you.” He quickly appended. ”...but forgive me if I’m presuming a little much: you don’t seem like the kind to want to go to war.”

From behind a sniper’s scope, Elliot’s seen plenty of faces. Michael’s own countenance just happened to be the kind that didn’t seem like the kind to enjoy fighting overmuch (though in fairness, there were very few that did). It made the marksman wonder about the young man’s convictions.

”Oh I don’t have a choice either…” Michael sighed. Well, it was not necessarily right. ”W-Well, I do have a choice. Go to university and be considered a reserved-skilled worker, which is what I’m into anyway. But... He snapped his fingers several times, getting irritated by each. His accent changed once again. ”Some tired old codger in the Board of Admission prob’bly slept during the job or somethin’. Got the admission letter a week late, and got called. So ‘ere I am.”

To be fair, he wasn’t too used to the new admission process either. Most of what he was referenced to was from his father, who studied in Vinland instead. So it took him a bit of time to gather the documents. Probably served him right he should’ve checked early, but hey, whatevs.

”To be fair, it does make me a lil more plucky than if I stayed home, He said, which is true. His Amone experience really toughened him, but nevertheless...”Don’t get me wrong though, I hate this fecking war regardless. No disagreement is worth millions of deaths.

And whose disagreements anyway? Some worthless kings’ on the throne? All the while people die like dogs. People that probably don’t even know the country, let alone the soldiers, they’re fighting if they hadn’t been subjugated under so much propaganda.

Michael put the cup of tea down for a long sigh. He doesn’t often get riled up.

Elliot calmly sipped at his tea, giving Michael an apologetic look. The marksman didn’t seem to mind the sapper’s sudden turn of mood. ”It’s a damn shame.” He simply commented. ”The world is a beautiful place, made darker by the war.”

Was the world beautiful, and the war ugly? Or was the world ugly, and the war merely a byproduct of that ugliness? Elliot pondered this for a moment.

The marksman set down his cup and looked to the sky. Though bleak and overcast, there was a certain beauty to its dreariness. He then turned to his compatriots: the sapper and the rifleman. This moment, as fleeting as it was, was likely to be the calm before the storm. It was best to cherish it while he could.

Elliot then reached for some of the dry bread, cutting it crosswise before putting some of the tinned meat between the loaves. Impromptu sandwich complete, the marksman took a bite. It was lacking in many things, but it was still better than nothing. He ate in silence for a while, occasionally pausing to take a sip of what little remained of his tea, or to survey the area with his periscope.

Michael let the talkings die down a little as they both enjoyed their lunch, while Michael cooled himself as well, relatively quickly though. Thankfully with Elliot here, he wouldn’t mind releasing the valve a little. He wasn’t one to hang on too long onto negativity as long as he could just say it to someone and someone understanding. It gets boring. Better to hand it to someone so both can bury them into the Earth.

Once he was done, he briefly cleaned up and prepared to get back to the reserve line. Some bloke coming to replace the two here informed him they were probably gathering soon.

For a while, he also wondered about the idea. The world. A beautiful place? He didn’t really see it as such, nor he saw it otherwise. He just...didn’t really think about it a lot. He’d really love to think it is, for there is beauty he wallowed in. His family. His sickly yet gentle mother. His stern yet kind father. As of now, he fought the war for them, because he is an only child. He is their future.

What about Elliot?

”Also, if you don’t mind me asking something as well. It might be intrusive, but you have someone at home you look forward to seeing?”

People who love the world probably have someone to fight for.

The marksman gave the visiting man a nod. Elliot hadn’t even realized it, but it seemed his shift would be over soon enough. The man said that they were probably gathering soon, prompting the boy to wonder as to what kind of operation they’d be doing soon enough.

Michael’s question snapped Elliot out of his reverie, though. Someone at home he looked forward to seeing… He pondered the question for only a few moments, before continuing. ”I’ve got family back home. My mother, father, and brother.” He started. ”It’s no exaggeration when I say that a big part of the reason as to why I signed on was to protect them.”

”...Truth be told… I don’t know if they’d be glad to see me.” Elliot admitted sheepishly. Going behind their back, breaking off a betrothal, and generally making a mess of their plans tended to breed more than a little bit of resentment, even if his intentions were good.

”...but when the war’s over, I’d like to see them again.”

And that was the truth of it. Even if he had left out a large part of context, Elliot was content with that answer.

”Ah I see.” Michael nodded firmly, and gave a genuine smile. Thinking for a couple of seconds, he reached for his pocket and took out another piece of paper. This one not the weary yellow notes he had for his designs and other random things he needed to write down, but a pinkish-white one, slightly marred by the dirt, but still looked modest enough on its own.

”I have someone to see too. My mother. Basically the angel of my life. And she wrote me this. He unfolded the paper and read. ”I swell in pride in hearing your accomplishment. But please don’t get carried away. I don’t care what you did or how many battles you won. All that matters is you coming home...”
He stared at the paper for a little, held it out then folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, laughed a little. ”A little dramatic I know. But those who stayed always have strong feelings.” He then patted Elliot on the shoulder. ”So I hope everything will work out for you.”

Elliot looked on as Michael read out his letter, and soon, in spite of himself, the marksman revealed a genuine smile of his own. He knew his own family might not have approved of him disappearing, but he knew that they wished for his safe return as well.

Thoughts of family tended to make the world a brighter place.

”That they do.” Elliot said in reply. ”...thanks… I hope everything works out for you too.” He smiled.

The boy then reached into his pocket, retrieving a simple, brass pocket watch with just a little bit of tarnish. He opened it, looked at the time, and then looked to his companions, the sapper and the rifleman.

”Looks like our shift’s done. Shall we head back?”

”Let’s go then.” Michael said.
@Hawthorne@TGM

There was a lot of waiting around, as there usually was. The day of monotonous postings and just being present for an attack that was yet to come and go trialled many young soldiers through sickly tests of boredom. Some officers made it clear that it was better than constant distraction. Those who were bored actively looked for things to do, and thus it made them more attentive to what went on out in No Man's Land. And with the ever-looming threat of raids, observers, wirecutters and more, the emphasised attention was all welcomed to those along the Western Front. Jean, having spent much of his time there, indulged himself in writing and poetry, but it only lasted for as long as his creativity and graphite did - the rest of that time was spent either engaging in menial talk with local soldiers he'd never seen or listening out for the slightest discrepancy in the natural order of things.

Lucia dawdled in thought as she said her greetings to passing privates and corporals. Many had grown to appreciate her presence, from the men who saw her as the platoon's daughter to the women who adored her somewhat dazzling appearance throughout the muck and mud of the trenches. Of course, there were the belligerents. Some saw her connections to the officers as a sell-out or as a shill for the authorities at large. Hell, even Jean wasn't fully aware of her origins, and so rumours were more than fair game against the young soul. She'd grown used to hearing all of them and seemingly ignored that as they came her way. Not many dared to challenge her connections to power for fear of an officer's punishment, yet Jean begged to differ that her placement in the platoon was not one of privilege but misfortune. She maintained the few minutes they spent idle with her hellos and goodbyes, the yes and noes, and the common courtesies given to her through rigorous teaching from her superiors. It was hard to imagine that she was more of a veteran than he was, yet three years the younger. Horrendous irony, if anything.

On approach came another familiar face. Diana. Private Vastergoth. The woman who'd once tried to entangle with him and left with a little disappointment. No matter, he thought, she'd had her chance with but another man, and to that he cared very little of. It wasn't a bitterness towards her, just rather the place he had been in around that time. Even then, he'd grown distant from her both from common assignment and tedious postings along the front. He barely shared a sentry's post with those he knew, bar the odd one with Michael or Franz, yet he'd remained relatively inactive even out of duty hours. Obviously it was the dragged mood that weighed him down enough to note give so much of a damn, but he slowly crawled out of that shell if necessary. After all, he hadn't been so well since Reyna had since left the frontline.

Diana made her greetings with somewhat of a chipper-cheerio tune. But at first Jean didn't answer. He slowly turned to Lucia, expecting her to have more to say either way. And she did.

"I'm not doing too bad myself. Things have been as dull as the usual, but it's been warmer in the command trench than out there." She blew into the air, emphasising the temperature drop over the previous weeks. Ice and snow for as far as the eye could see. It did little to give the soldiers a little slack after all they'd been through. "We're gonna be heading to the village in a second. Just waiting for the clock to strike-"

"Speak of the devil." As Lucia had lost herself in conversation, Jean had been looking at a small pocket watch he'd been given as per his rank. Then, he returned his gaze to the visiting ally. "I'm the usual. You're free to join us."

Getting up and onto his boots, he stretched his arms down the aisle and exhaled. There was immense fatigue in his eyes, the glimmer all gone and faded for the countless weeks spend staring at grey and brown, black and red. He began their walk with a little flex of his fingers, bending them back into life after their idle slumber on his pencil. And as they walked, he went beside Diana, with Lucia taking the pathfinding duty of navigating the narrow trenchlines. They sauntered past the frontline support trench at first, doing their best to distance themselves from the command trench, all the while cutting it close. Luck was on their side, however, as their main obstacle, the one and only Captain Middleton, had stationed himself near permanently in that command dugout. It had what he needed - bedding, space to plan and radio equipment, and he only seemed to emerge to shower, as he sent for someone else to get him light meals as he did so. Even so, Lucia had once told him of his activities inside, where he'd be all over, making sure he was never just lounging about doing nothing.

But as he was pushing past the bodies, which in and of itself wasn't too difficult, he made his way into the vicinity of another soldier of whom he hadn't met. A somewhat averagely sized woman, kitted out with the standard military outfitting. She was a fellow Darcsen as well. Small bonuses, he thought, as she sort of waved in his general direction upon his passing.

"Hey, hold up!" As if he hadn't seen her the first time, she beckoned for his attention and stepped before him. "Jean? Jean Charpentier? Private Mehetabel. I've been transferred to your own platoon."

"My Platoon?" He rubbed his eyes, signalling for Lucia and Diana to head up ahead a little bit, though not too far to be out of eye and earshot. "It's...Corporal Robin-Charpentier, but yeah, that's me."

"Seriously?" Mehetabel furrowed her brow as she asked this, mostly to herself. She could've sworn that Robin part of Jean's name was a middle name but, realising it didn't matter, she shook her head. "Yes, your platoon," she moved on to clarify, "I take it you're the guy in charge?"

"No, I'm just a Corporal. Platoon belongs to the Lieutenants, but we all fall under the Captain's brow nowadays." Jean wasn't quite sure how she got the mix-up. I mean, judging by the differentiation in accent, anything was possible, so he didn't press in on the cause of the mistake. He didn't look directly at her much, but gave her the odd glimpse or two to make sure she knew he was at least listening. He then pointed to the two others who had been accompanying him. "That there is Private Lucia Farris and Private Diana Vastergoth. They're also in the platoon. The rest are scattered across the system here and there but I'm sure you'll bump into them eventually. Been here long?"

"God damn it, that asshole lied to me," Mehetabel took a moment to grumble before actually answering Jean's question, "Not long enough apparently. Got kicked off that other platoon within a month. My last commanding officer's a real piece of work, lemme tell you. And that's putting it lightly..."

"Word of advice, he sighed and looked to the grim sky of the December frostbite, "try not to get kicked out of this one either. You won't find an officer with a speck of kindness here."

He walked a bit further down the trench, ensuring he wasn't in line of sight of the command trench. He wasn't sure what Mehetabel was up to, considering she'd just been dawdling around the support trench seemingly expectant of his arrival. Jean made way, using a single finger to beckon her audience.

"I'm headed to Trebín now. If you aren't on assignment you're free to latch on, maybe meet with the others. I don't know. Lucia might be one to talk up a storm." There wasn't an inch of enthusiasm in his voice. Perhaps it was just the fatigue getting to him, or maybe he'd grown tired of waking up and finding new people to look at, to compliment and feel a flutter in his heart as he connected to them, only for them to be shot, injured or killed. The cycle of unending disappointment. Though his platoon seemed as well-kept as some, there was already quite a long list of names of those who'd came and went in the blink of an eye. If hell existed, by lord he was trapped in its mechanical devices.

However to his surprise, whilst taking a glance at her watch, Mehetabel rolled her eyes, noting that she'd already spent more time with this conversation than she really wanted to. She looked Jean square in the eyes one last time.

"Yeah... I gotta head back and get some more target practice in," she told him; she observed her surroundings again at this time as well, only to realise that she never really got the chance to fully acclimate herself with these accursed trenches, "Remind me where the shooting range is from here, again? Trying to navigate these things is such a pain in the ass..."

And so, with departure of Mehetabel, Jean made his own headway for Trebín whilst waving her off with a silent hand. He had a room booked out for himself, a small cubby hovel in the attic of one of the more emptier homes, half standing if anything. It was what as much privacy as one in the military could get out there.

---

---

As Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain, formerly Monsieur, walked down towards the furthest trench of Plymouth Lane, smile convincingly fixed upon his face and eyes fixed upon his carbine, he could not help but feel the juxtaposition – he, a cavalryman with a cavalryman’s uniform in the case hooked through his arm, stepping forth to the apex of these trenches, this construct of infantry warfare, of defence, of immobility. He could still remember surmounting them, striking through the biting stasis like…

He shook his head. That was done. It was all done. Valkyrur keep them.

And so Alexandre walked on, smile affixed. He passed by a few here and there, squeezing through the tight gaps and nodding as he went where he drew eyes. He drew a fair few, which wasn’t a shock; he must have looked an odd sight even besides his unkemptness, practically laid down with arms between his three guns and his two hand weapons, if one could reduce such tools of war to such a simple title. His sabre’s scabbard rattled, not from the tightly-held weapon inside but from its length clattering against the trench wall and the ground, dragging the mud with it – he would have to fix that somehow. As for Tue-Tyran… Well, its weight at his belt grew with every step he took upon this earth that his ancestors had left so long ago.

Alexandre closed his eyes, just for a moment – the images behind them would permit him no more. This is how I can fight for Gallia now, he thought. This is how I must.

When he opened them, he was rounding the final bend leading to the head of the trenches. Alexandre almost craned his neck to look both ways – almost, before recalling that, yes, that was indeed the best way to have one’s head blown off by an Imperial sniper. He took a breath; recomposed himself; fixed the smile upon his face once more. Then he went hunting.

Supposedly, this was where he’d find this ‘Britta’, who would reportedly be able to help with the ‘carrying two separate carbines everywhere’ business. It was an open secret that she and the one with whom she was living in sin had set up a trading post of some kind – not that Alexandre much liked living in sin or open secrets but he knew that some informality was good for unit camaraderie. Regardless, she (grey-haired before her years, tough, vaguely well-kept) was supposedly the structure of the operation to her not-husband’s familiar face – the sort of person who wouldn’t get things lost.

Precisely what he required.

And, seemingly, precisely when he required it, if the woman with the large gun that he caught sight of at that moment was any indication. Tracking forwards, Alexandre intensified his smile, adopting as open and enthusiastic an expression as he could. “Ah, excuse me, Priva –” Not that, you’re not a lieutenant any more – “Forgive me – you wouldn’t happen to be Britta Hagen, would you?”

His hands full, Alexandre opted for a small bow. “Al-hhh… Marius Blanc, at your service.” He infused himself with brightness. “I was wondering whether you might be able to take hold of something for me, if that’s a possibility.”

@FalloutJack

---

---

Diana noticed Jean didn't respond to her greeting, but everyone in this war feels like shit with how wrong everything has been. She had a smile on her face when Lucia spoke about how she's doing, and yeah, it is chilly as freaking hell. " Yeah, that is nice, Lucia. And yeah, it's dull as dishwater out here in the trench." Diana spoke with a happy look on her face while interacting with Lucia. It didn't help, and she didn't take leave to go back to her parents, but she stayed pretty much only interacted with a few of her platoon here and there. She was filled with some joy to hear where they were heading, the village the only place where you can warm up. " Trebin Village is a better place than the cold that's out here in the trench." Diana added onto the conversation to Lucia.

Everything that has happened so far, she was pulled back from talking to Lucia was when Jean finally responded to her last greeting. It took him a while, but it's better late than never is something her mother would have said to her. " The usual is all you say, Jean. Thank you, Jean." Diana spoke to Jean with a slight jabbing at what he usually says. It is like the one thing you can count on Jean, for he only says the usual without giving too much away. She would be better if he were more talkative, but he looks pretty tired, but she hasn't been getting much sleep either. It would be nice to deal with the small things rather than the enormous things still on her shoulders.

Diana started walking in the village's direction with Jean beside her and Lucia in front of them. Lucia was much better at navigating these trenches than her sometimes because she does sometimes get lost. She only gets lost some of the time, and at least, they were taking a better direction to keep away from the command trench. All because Captain Grumpus usually there, and a sigh of relief happened when they had no luck seeing the bastard himself. ' I hate that man but don't want to do anything to hurt my chances to return home. He's a cruel bastard and a racist on top of it.' Diana thought to herself while walking with Jean and Lucia. She did notice another woman who looks like she needs help or something but also a Darscen. It put a smile on her face to see another Darscen in the platoon always a bit joyous in meeting more people.

Diana stopped herself from greeting herself to the new Darscen since she wanted Jean's attention about transferring to the platoon. All she did was smile and be slightly more chipper around Jean. It didn't take long for Jean to signal them to head up a bit, which Diana agreed to since it sounds important. She walks up ahead to stay in earshot and eyesight range where Jean can see Lucia and her. " It is nice to get a new platoon member in our group." Diana said to herself but only loud enough for Lucia to hear her. She's a bit more chipper, but she yawns slightly. Because of that, she stretches her arms to wake herself. It had been a bit rude to listen in, but she couldn't help it since she enjoys listening in a bit. Mehetabel and Jean's conversation was slightly deep, but many officers show kindness or let alone worry for their soldiers. It annoyed her, which is why she stays quiet when Captain Grumpus speaks to the soldiers.

The new Darscen woman was interesting enough, but Diana realized she spent too much time loitering and wants to go to the village. ' I wonder where Mehetabel is from. Her accent sounds a bit different? Though, I never really left my home until this war where I was conscripted.' Diana thought with her movement towards the village with Lucia and Jean. It had been a bit of a hassle to deal with the reason she had been conscripted over enlisted, but she'll deal with more horrific scenes in this war before it ends. She looks over to Jean and smiles at him. " I need something more than what I have been getting of late, barely any sleep." Diana said with a slight bit of annoyance of not getting much sleep. It has been a tough time for her to deal with all these problems. She feels like she's on the brink of breaking and not being the cheerful person she is.

All right now, she wants to get something to drink to feel some warmth over the cold she has been feeling. Her life's dullest moments are all the shit that she had to do while the others in her platoon went home. It had been incredibly boring, even more so than that, but at least she got a lovely letter from her mother, which she keeps in her pocket. She hasn't read it all the way through, though. ' I should probably read my mother's letter all the way through when I get to the Trebin's Bar.' Diana thought to herself.

---

The trip home had two parts. Two completely opposite one. The first was the boat trip. Cramped, crowded and cold. The bunks were humid and reeks of sweat from god-knows-how-many previous occupants there were. It would be hell if Michael hadn't gotten so used to the stench of the trenches and rotting flesh before this. To him, it was respite. If anything, people weren't groaning about their misery, since everybody here had something to look forward to. And too did Michael. The first time in months yet it felt like years had gone by. War had obviously taken its toll on him, regardless how short it is, not only mentally but also physically as well. Within months, he already got himself two very ugly purplish scar on his right arm, still healing and still required some attention, after the heavy actions at Amone opened the old wound. Thankfully, it wasn't his dominant arm, so he could still write and do his sapper duty, to which he still did diligently until he was given the break.

The second trip, however, home from the port were different. As the troopships docked and the soldiers began to disembark, a figure was already there. A man still lush in his prime, donning his black suit, high white collar and a bow tie, yet salt and pepper tint began to appear on his neatly combed hair. Time and weather had also chiseled some crow's feet beneath and above his eyes. His job was made fairly easy today though, as it didn't take long for him to spot Michael, for his short height was very hard to miss. And even if he doubted his skill as a valet, the hat tip coming from the young master was enough confirmation. Both men, now having seen each other, maintained eye contact as they navigated their way through the crowd of expectant soldiers and relatives.

"Victor! I see you have been early today!" Said Michael as both men approached each other with a gentleman's handshake and a short firm hug, the scent of black coffee lingering in the chilly grey clouds of the upcoming winter.

"Oh how can I be late young master? A hero comes home today!" The middle-aged servant replied. Today would not be a chilly day no more, for the happiness he felt right now, there would be more to come a few hours from now.

"Ahaha, I wish. Right now, I'm hungry." Michael said.

"You're hungry?" Victor asked. "How about we go to this restaurant over here before we leave? It's the best sausage here in Tyrella."

"No I'm good." A little hunger meant nothing to him now. "In fact a hot bath is more preferable right now. I smell disgusting!"

The valet gave a hearty laugh before leading Michael to his car, a black Gallian 4-seater with a brown leather roof. A fairly old model already, quite prone to some problems, to which the Daunte family was considering buying a new one, if the market hadn't been quite stingy due to the currently going on Europan War. And it did break down a few times during Michael's trip. But having a companion made a lot of differences. Despite the lengthy trip home, Michael never felt bored. They talked, talked and talked. Like old friends. Well, they were old friends. Victor had been there throughout most of his childhood. The man is diligent yet witty and fatherly, dutiful yet not machine-like, kind and compassionate. If his parents hadn't been the closest people to Michael through his entire life, Victor would be.

Alas, through the rain, fog and occasional snow, both men arrived at the doorstep of the Daunte household. A mansion coated in dark red sandstone, born out of an architect of the previous era, and laid bit by bit by their owners to completion. The stones that stood greeted the winter storm and summer heat with dignity. The white fence settled in front of the flattening green lawn, the acrid botanical smell meant it was freshly cut. All added to the anxiety Michael felt as he trotted through the stone walkway to the wooden dark oak door. The man hesitated a little, calmed his nerves, breathed a long sigh, filled his eyes with life before knocked on the door, thrice.

The door opened.

And right there, without a word uttered, he fell right into her embrace. Norms be damned. He just defied death to return to his mama. He'd not let go.

---

The sky was still grey, the weather slowly sinking to freezing temperature as the sun settled for the day. But he felt warmer than ever before. Dinner that day was something beyond him. It wasn't made by butlers or maids, but rather by his mother himself. It wasn't the stale, diluted, bland and tasteless processed food of the trenches, nor the first-class meal of the professional cooks in his household either. It was imperfect, the pie she made was a bit too sweet but very well-cooked, the sourness in the cream, the soft layer of butterscotch. It was the most perfect meal he ever had.

Then the house servants all turned out for a talk with their young master. Work was off for them as soon as Michael arrived. Some were newly hired, curious to meet the Viscount's son, others were interested in the story the man had to offer. The Viscount himself was all too proud with the praises, but Michael himself led the conversation this time. They talked way into the night, Michael almost forgetting the leisure of the hot bath he said and wearing something other than the tight and dirty Edinburghian military uniform. As the day ended, Michael was in a cozy bed, in her arms.

"We haven't done this in a long time, have we?" Elizabeth said, as she wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

"Hmm...I don't think so." Michael replied. "It just feels so long."

"My poor boy. It must have been terrible." She said. "Having no one to be like this together..."

"Actually I do." He said. Her crystal green eyes lit up in curiosity, then realization.

"Oh yeah, that girl you said. Lucia, right?" Michael nodded. "Does she loves you?"

"...I think so." Michael, after a silent thought, said.

"And you love her back?"

"...I think so too..." An even longer thought, and a sheepish reply.

"What makes you think so?"

"...The scar I had here. My right arm...it's her work. Well technically there was another but nevertheless. She stayed by my side pretty much the entire time at that inn, holding my hand until I go to sleep." He confessed. Here, there is no need for embarrassment or reservation. "She even saved my life one time as well."

"My my. She is quite a girl..." Elizabeth exclaimed, her hand now turned to cuddle his cheeks. Indeed she is. "...though can't you say the same for the other soldiers out there as well?"

"What do you mean?"

"From your description, it seems like a normal response to someone dear to you being hurt." She said. "I'm glad you've made such a positive impact on her, but I don't know if that is actual romance."

Michael was a bit taken aback by the response. It was gentle, kind just like his mother usually is, but she didn't always push back on him this way. If anything his father would do this more often, so Michael couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Not love? The gestures Lucia showed him, the shyness, gentleness and care she gave him. But mama knows best. She didn't say this out of contempt for Lucia either. There is a tint of wisdom within her words that made him think.

"In that letter of yours, apparently she was abused?" Her tone switched.

"Still is."

"Then you might want to consider if she's doing it because she's desperate for affection?" She said. "I'm not saying it's bad. At 16, it is very traumatizing to be both at war and be abused. But she probably doesn't know what is love and romance, and rather is seeking a missing piece of her heart."

"..."

Her words cut. She was right...

"I am proud of the compassion you showed her, but romance is something else. You can want to show her affection and kindness, but not be physically intimate at the same time."

By the hands of the Lord she was damn right. But it was difficult for the young Michael to fully accept this. It was confusing, way more confusing than the technicality of engineering or the politics of the world. It also didn't help that Elizabeth wasn't being definitive on her answers either. Who can blame her for this really? His feelings are his alone. Only he could understand it.

"Come here..."

Feeling the silence her son left by her words, she pulled him into her warmth again. Michael really has grown up. She still vividly remembered him fit right in her arm's embrace, and now he's so big. Grown, mature and brave, ready to take on the world. But despite everything, he shall forever be her precious little angel.

“Wah, you damn tall lé.”

Cienie the performer had put on his best impression of the Captain’s posh accent and a more neutral narrator’s voice. Now that he was ‘backstage’, even if only for a few moments, he let loose his natural speech — a somewhat idiosyncratic dialect with distinctively non-Europan intonation and grammar, and at times the odd loanword or calqued expression thrown in. Now he couldn’t say that he really knew Victoria, but she was not a wholly unfamiliar sight. Especially around the pub.

“Mm, very nice show! Thank you!” He gave her a grateful clap of the paqpe. “Cienie, pour vous servir. I think I got see you before. Let’s see ah… Oh! The barkeep got talk about you. You are Vii-kii from the Ocean? Regular customer! Good business.”

Victoria had probably never been in one of his audiences before — he remembered the crowds remarkably well, at least when it was bright enough to see their faces. Now the odd night-time performances were another matter entirely, but those shows also tended to have more drunkards watching than average. The lack of memory would be mutual.

“From B-Coy also? The Butter one? Hm hm, they just transferred me over. Nice, nice. My Mee-ddleton voice how ah? Like the real one or not?”

Speaking of which, ‘Vii-kii’ absolutely reeked of both vices. She hadn’t just been drinking before noon: that cigarette was probably not her first. Or second, now that she’d tossed one aside. Cienie was somewhat of a teetotaller himself, and the Stygian smoke of tobacco reminded him too strongly of that odious opium which was sadly still popular among many Honngìn. Still, labourers and soldiers alike generally didn’t appreciate being critiqued on their choice of outlet.

“I think faster finish the smoke. You going to the medical post also ah? Later catch by the nurses, then you know.” Certain injured men could have their spirits restored at once by a mere whiff of spirits of the less-wholesome kind, and more than once had a patient tried to get buzzed on even the bitter and decidedly non-beverage surgical spirits. Or, so the stories went. Now that they had arrived at the entrance of the casualty clearance station, perhaps they could find out the truth first-hand.

Knock-knock.

“‘ello—“ he poked his head through. There were ‘angels’ aplenty, flitting and fluttering about, tending to their agonised and anguished patients. Cienie waved at one of them. “Mind some music for these troubled times?”

He looked back at the Oceanian woman.

“And also Vii-kii is here, for moral support. Can come in or not?”

---

---

“Thank you again, Senja. Maybe one day they will let us treat these injuries before they become so heinous. Mere minutes mean the difference between an arm kept or lost. As interested as I am in the prospect of having had fellow practitioner in you back when I was in school I cannot say that your ability to bring them back alive is anything short of miraculous.”

“Thank you doctor, but you have them to thank as well. Their loving spirit kept them alive, not I. God has graced me with the speed that I find them and bring them home, but I do but no more as a servant. Though I do desperately wish to be able to save them when they are beyond the reach of a doctor. Prayers, as you know, cannot always save the dying.”

“Yes, that may be true, but pray to your god that you might continue. It is surprising how many in your hand have survived just long enough to turn things around.”

Senja gave a bow, placing hands together at the sounds of entry. “Shall I grant them entry?”

“Of course, we are done here for now. I will return to check on them soon, but I must first cleanse myself. I trust you and the others to keep the peace.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Quinn is fine.”

As the doctor left the immediate area Senja moved to grant entry. Her first sight was a curious one, but not unwelcome. She had to look up a bit as he was a few inches taller. A pretty style of hair for sure and the roundness of his cheeks were cute. But this was no time for extended observation.

“Greetings, friend.” She began, listening to his explanation before giving a gentle nod. “Of course, they are resting now. Speaking to their soul will surely bring them to peace. Victoria is also welcome! I know you two will be very nice to them having come all this way just to raise their spirits. Blessings be upon your loving hearts.” She spoke, a wide yet closed smile given to them as she held the entry way open. She even gave a small wave to Victoria as she came into view. As they entered Senja quickly signaled a nurse to bring a chair as she herself grabbed another one and held it before approaching Cienie again. “And where will you be performing Mr…?” She asked, expecting his name to be presented.

---

@samakama@Smike

He didn't need Rikes to see this one coming.

The dynamic of the Isaac Store was basically this: Either one of them was good at getting the business, but one of them had to organize and determine the value of things while the other took that knowledge provided and made the decisions on what to DO with these things. This was all practice for when they got out of this war and eventually decided to corner the livestock and crop market by working together. Another reason they called it the Isaac Store is that any complaints from higher-ups or enlisted personnel should deal with him directly. Britta had more patience, but Isaac had the right attitude in dealing with the unreasonable, which is to say losing his patience was the correct response. It prevents people from walking all over you, especially if it involves them getting in the way of doing the right thing.

That wasn't important, for now. Nobody was complaining, right now. Except for anyone losing their hand at poker, that is. Isaac wasn't exactly cleaning up, but he wasn't out of it, either. They were generally having a good time, with the dark-haired Gunner facing the no man's land, so that if any unwanted heads or anything else tried to poke into the trenches, he'd see it and he could shoot it. It helped to have Rikes along when he could be here, because the wolf-dog had keen senses to bring to the gathering, and thus the chances of being taken by surprise were almost non-existent. It did mean that his back was facing the trenchway leading back to Plymouth Lane, but the other men here were obliged to warn him if anyone important was headed this way. Furthermore, Rikes would also spot anyone who would take a look at their poker game and hate on it. This one didn't need the glance from the other soldiers, nor the telltale sign of Rikes standing up and glaring down the lane. The fact is that the new arrival had a tell of his own that wasn't in reference to pokerfaces. He'd seen 'im around, him and his big slab of a dog. Isaac was only human, but he'd trained his senses well enough in the picking up of footfalls, breathing patterns, and so on. A man and his heavyset dog were fairly easy to pick out.

He asked of them what they were playing, even as the mostly-brown wolf dog began to sniff curiously. It was a ritual. Isaac had seen it among the pack and regular dogs often enough. No harm in it unless objections were made. Frankly, if the bigger of the two had any issues, he wouldn't have any trouble communicating them. Isaac glanced up at the...yeah, that's a Sergeant...and answered "Poker. Walcome to join.". Truth be told, they'd had a couple rounds, already. What the man had seen in their setting up was Isaac dealing in the latest. Anyway, there wasn't any harm in a Sergeant knowing anything about this. Most lower ranks, such as Sergeants, usually understood that unbearable conditions required them to bear the bending of some rules for recreation. To wit, nobody was going to stop gambling to pass the time away anymore than they were gonna give up a few innocuous bribes to get things moving. The Isaac Store had its assets partially to handle such payments. Getting the cooperation of the stingy quartermaster took a bit of work, for instance. He was kind of a prick... Anyway, Isaac was looking over the incredible bulk of the Sergeant's dog now.

"Strong breed ya got there. Push past or pin down damn near anyone."

Isaac knew dogs. Or rather, his father did, and the information passed down so that he could easily see that Valkur here was a living battering ram when he wasn't carrying supplies or messages like Rikes.



She tended to wander about the whole of Plymouth Lane, taking no particular direction unless she had particular goal. Sometimes, you could find things of import - people to address, problems to fix, opportunities to take - quite at random. At the very least, what the commanding officers wanted when you were on duty without a particular assignment was to look busy. As long as it seemed like you were doing something constructive instead of standing around and looking lost, you were alright. It was only when they had something specific for you to do or when they find you without something to do that things could get dicey. On the former, if you had something to do as per orders, you can be sure that you'd better get down to it, or else you were in trouble. And in the latter, you were basically already in trouble, and you were going to get an assignment you really REALLY didn't want, as a result.

All of this was important because morale in Plymouth Lane was terrible. Even one with determination such as hers faltered when the enemy line refused to budge in either direction, leaving them in a purgatorial state as a result. They would not move back, so as to give up the ground they'd gained, but there was yet any sign that an advancement would carve more than feet at a time. Isaac was worried that command would order them to dig tunnels to try and reach the enemy camps in secret, only for the weather and mortal shelling to collapse said tunnels with them inside of it. He did not like the military, and as much as she believed in the cause of the war, they'd both seen things that makes one question the methodology of those in charge. And so, the stalemate continued, with the probably breaking of it lying in potentially great sacrifice, a crazy plan, or both. Britta, for one, didn't think much of the fruitless charges from the trenches. Gunners like her standing in trenches like this made such people irrelevent, even if they were shocktroopers.

Speaking of which, a Shocktrooper chose this time to speak to her. So, 'Marius' had come up the staggered approach to the Assault Trenches - they were like this, of course, to break up the explosive force of any shell that exploded IN the trenches - and his description of Britta was...adequate, but perhaps not doing her justice. Ash-gray though her hair was, there was significant life in those threads, unlike someone for whom age had taken their toll. It was a strange sort of thing, life. It gave you unusual traits, at times. And indeed, Britta was full of life, herself. Also vigor, as she was glaring with machine gun ready out into the land that swallowed up many a soldier, as well as explosives, parts of vehicles, and all manner of debris. She would turn upon being addressed, professionally checking her weapon to make sure she didn't misfire or something. She noticed the slip of the tongue, and there was a slight tilt of the head when 'Marius' made it, but she made no address of it.

"I would be, indeed. Is there something I can help you with?"

Here was where he introduced himself and...funny. That was kind of a Francian name, right? She'd known Jean from her first day of active duty, and he was a Francian-Darcsen, so she knew kind of what to expect in the look, the body language, and certainly the accent. Maybe it was due to Jean being Darcsen while this man was not, but...he seemed quite different. No matter. He was a man in need of assistance, and she had no reason not to help him. Britta herself had on a bright smile, always wanting to reassure those who turned to her for aid, and this one sounded like he wanted use of the Isaac Store. Unless, of course, this were somehow personal. Nah, it didn't seem like it.

"Sure, I can do that. What're you looking to store away? And, forgive me, but is there some reason that a personal footlocker would be inadequate?"

There could be any reason, up to and including him just not having one issued. Isaac and Britta had one. When they started this, the two of them agreed to move their personal belongings - a short list, to be fair - to her own footlocker, and that the Isaac Store would be in the Isaac footlocker. Nobody stole from said store because everybody benefitted from it, and someone trying to would endanger the store, and thus bring down the wrath of a good two dozen people at least, upon said doer of the heinous deed. That all said, Britta would do what she could for the man. Simple storage of items wasn't ordinarily in huge demand, but they'd done it before.

---

Sure enough, Jean looked to be headed in the direction of Trebin Village, as did the recently introduced Diana Vastergoth and Lucia Farris, and Mehetabel was left to navigate the trench network on her own. Again. As she walked towards her destination in the Frontline Dugouts, however, she did wonder who else served under the platoon she just transferred to, if only for a moment.

'Bleh. Doesn't matter,' Mehetabel shook her head as this thought crossed her mind, 'Only more people that I probably won't actually get along with that well, really.'

...

That one simple thought was somehow enough to distract Mehetabel completely, however. She took a right turn earlier than she should've, and instead of coming up to the Frontline Dugouts, she found herself coming up to the Dummy Trenches as a result; a fact she realized upon seeing a group of soldiers play cards with one another. Needless to say, Mehetabel was livid with herself. She had a whole month to get used to the whole trench navigation thing and, for the umpteenth time, she still managed to screw it up in the end. And were anyone from her former platoon here with her, she'd never be able to live it down.

With a sigh of defeat, Mehetabel sat down and watched the game of cards unfold, expecting the soldiers to notice her presence eventually. She wasn't sure why they chose to play their game here, when they could just easily do so back in Trebin where they'd be infinitely safer. But for all she knew, it'd be just as rude to ask as it'd be to interfere with the game, deliberately or otherwise...

"I get that a lot."

She was tall to everyone. Taller than her parents, taller than her siblings and her friends back home and the cunt whose kid she had and all the soldiers in the trenches. Yes Victoria White was fucking tall, a freak of nature not suited to trench warfare so could everyone stop bringing it up all the time? Slouching constantly was bad enough, being reminded of how she looked down on everyone was just unnecessary. It wasn't like she was harping on Cienie's apparent inability to speak the language shared by everyone in B Company.

"Victoria but yes, that's me." She had long ago accepted the fact that people were going to use the diminutive form of her name, making the correction more out for appearance's sake than any belief that the habit would change. "Yeah yeah I know, I'm almost done."

Medical tent of course, the one place she couldn't smoke. But it was too late to back out now. The Oceanic took one last puff of her cigarette before stubbing it out on her belt. If she couldn't finish it now she could at least tuck it behind an ear to relight later. She followed her musical companion and waited awkwardly behind him, regretting the decisions that led her to this point.

You could have just gone back to the trenches but nooooo...

Cienie stuck his head in to bother the nurses while Victoria did her best to not look totally disheveled, managing to at least straighten her cape before Senja started speaking. "Don't dump all your blessings on me, save 'em for someone less lucky." Her smile was cocksure so as to present an aura of supposed untouchability, the same wolfishly arrogant expression she had worn when dealing with rival gangs.

Now just as then her demeanor was composed entirely of bullshit save for the disregard for blessings. There was no room in Victoria's mind for religious dogma or superstitious symbolism. Senja's stick worshipping gimmick was a crux (ha) that was simply incomprehensible for someone as mired in worldly sin as Vicky. But that was. Senja was pleasant enough of a person that her heavenly obsession was more quirky and less disturbing.

A tip of the hat and a chipper "Thanks!" was exchanged for the chair as Victoria took her place among the captive (thanks to injury) audience. "You guys are in for a show let me tell you." Poor bastards. If she had enough to share Vicky probably would have passed around her flask as an apology for the upcoming clatter.



The Isaac Store was one of those things that was definitely not allowed but was simultaneously not worth bothering. Pretty much everyone knew about the little shop and Alex felt no need to break up the fledgling business. As long as Isaac wasn't dealing in narcotics or figuring out a scheme to run men out to see the local whores then no harm no foul. This poker game was just another part of the enlisted man's fight against boredom and as an enlisted man himself Alex was grateful for a break in monotony.

"Thanks Black."

To his knowledge he and the lance corporal had never met before but that didn't stop Alex from using his name nor did it dissuade him taking a seat at the table. Valkur settled his bulk down behind his master so that he could stare intently at the other canine, beady-eyed monster immediately distrustful but not doing anything to provoke the wolf-dog. "Yep. Valkur fell into my hands when his old owner couldn't handle him."

Shell-shock had ruined that medic's nerves until he was unable to cope with such a massive beast. A man laid low by his own dog, it had been embarrassing to witness.

"He's certainly less regal looking than your wolf but you can't go wrong with a dumb lump of muscle." A firm hand kept Valkur in check enough that he made a good load-bearer and that was all that Alex asked from the animal.

"What's the ante right now?"

@FalloutJack @CFProxy @samakama

“Cienie, à votre service.” Senja was a bit younger than he’d expected of a nurse. She had to be only a year or two his senior. Yet her presence seemed to bring great comfort to her patients, as with any of her colleagues. It was an almost supernatural aura of reassurance. He would have to ask her for her secrets later. How would she do with presence like that if she had a stage and an audience?

Cienie gave the ward a cursory survey. Expecting good acoustics out of this place would be out of the question, no doubt. Up close to the beds would be better. A few steps later, he seemed to have found himself a suitable spot. “OK, I think here can. Thank you very very much, Miss!” The urge to tack on ‘green hair’ or some other moniker was strong. But Cienie had learnt long ago that Europan nicknaming customs were a little different, and besides, he had music to make.

Cienie pocketed the paqpe, silently slipping it into his pants without another clack. In its place, he took up his mouth organ. The sên had belonged to his mother Van and must have already been some fifteen-odd years old when she had bequeathed it to him. It was rather unwieldy compared to the paqpe, but leagues more elegant and refined. Too highfalutin for a boisterous sideshow; perfect for a peaceful performance. The question of what to play had long been answered before Cienie had so much as gotten up in the morning. The sên’s traditional repertoire was a bit intimidating to the unfamiliar ear — ‘eerie’ and ‘ethereal’ were some of the terms he’d heard from a previous audience. So something from closer to home — Europa — it would be. Mastery of blues or ragtime was still beyond his grasp, but Baroque and Romantic were game. Thus began Cienie: —


Cienie knew it only as ‘the Air’, as that was what the fiddlers on that street corner in Ostend had called it. Apparently it was quite a famous work within the Western classical canon. The Air was probably his best Europan piece, its rich polyphonic harmonies supporting an impassioned melody that was almost voice-like in its tenderness and warmth. As if there was more to the instrument than wind going past a series of carefully-made wood pipes. Maybe it could breathe some life into the medical post’s stagnant, heavy-laden air.

Not sorrowful — there was no need to further dampen this sombre mood with sad music. But serene. Something to ease the weary wounded into rest, eternal or otherwise. Nothing more and nothing less. That was all Cienie kept in mind as he let loose the sound of the sên.

The narrow labyrinth had been engraved into his mind. In. Out. Left. Ten posts that way. Don't take that final right turn. Up the little mound and down past the first response medical dugout, and then he was on the road back to Trebín. He drifted away from Diana and Lucia along the path, leaving them together to serve as one as one another's pairing, but he did stay within earshot. The day had just dragged. He'd done his time on the frontline again. Rumours had it that something was going to happen. Nothing big, just something. There were no words coming from the Imperial line. Part of him, knowing full well the patterns of the Federation, that a raid to grab a man or two would come through. Last time Jean went out on one of those he came back with half the size of the original party and with a younger Imperial who said he knew nothing, with eyes wide and fearful for the demons that had descended upon him. God, it pained him to see those soldiers. Anything that tried to humanise the enemy, he hated it. He knew what seeing them, their flesh and eyes, up close did to a soldier. It stopped them, maybe it made them second guess. Those who cared all too little made no complaint, but no one could really say that the first time they killed a man they felt anything but the shock of how easy it was.

Jean still had those nightmares on occasion. A phantom pain was still carved into the palm of his hand and it felt like the fragment of a mirror - no, a glass shard. The one that went in the woman's neck, where her blood leaked onto his face and her eyes became cold. Every time he thought of that, he reminded himself of how easy it was for him to be in that position. The wrong move was just waiting to be made, and he thought about how close it'd be until he slipped up. On the contrary, he'd become a better soldier, by the Federation's standards. He was more in line with some of its formalities and didn't do as much as complain unless it was a necessity, which it rarely was. He had far too long of a way to go. The respect of his peers was next to nothing, so long as they were still talking about a leader.

Without much energy left in him, he turned to Diana around the halfway point back to Trebín. To him, she looked a little paler than she usually did. Lost a lot of that sprite in her system, she had. Lucia had faded a little herself but that one-piece smile barely changed. He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. He'd have shaved it off if there was still a mother around to disapprove of it. If it meant feeling like a child again, then he'd take it any day over the trauma bestowed on them.

"Once we get there, what're you planning on doing?" He just wanted smalltalk - something to just break the mould of his dwindling thoughts. And though Diana was usually far too blunt and innocent to drag him straight out of hell, it was something for the walking time's being. "Maybe talk to the bar girls or something? I don't know. I'll probably go relax for the first time in a while."

Part of him wishes he took leave when he had the option. He could still request it if he were desperate. So long as there was no big offensive in the works, there was a chance he could get a week out of the area, maybe into one of the Valois cities far behind. Yet that compelling feeling in his gut still told him to not go back. A strong, sickly taste was on his tongue whenever he spoke of the lights and happy faces back home. They were all deservedly joyful of the war going in the Federation's favour, for the first time in many years. Jean just didn't like the idea of facing a world he couldn't fully integrate back in. He'd go back when the war was over, or in a coffin, but never for a break. Not unless it was worthwhile.

Eventually, they arrived at Trebín. The hustle and bustle of the settlement was at an all-time low for once. Somewhere in the village, there was a sweet sound of music. In fact it was a unique tune, one he'd never heard anything like. It was a unique strain of notes and whistles that went beyond the normal shanties and soldiers' tunes. Usually, the cynical yet comedic nature of Federation songs helped permeate the bitterness around them. But the off-side performance really sold a different atmosphere. Jean didn't stop too much to say hi, but he walked past it, slower than usual, just to preserve that drizzled goodness in his ear.

He disappeared off to the side, eventually crossing into the South-Western parts of the village. There, one of the small collections of rooms for booking was in place. Jean had paid two packs of cigarettes for the higher-quality place. Wasn't so much private in terms of being away from the village, but it was there to just have a lock and a key to rest at. And it was always the same room for Jean. Same bed, same sheets, same pillows. If he wasn't anywhere else, and it wasn't during an offensive, he was there. It was the closest thing to a real bed, or what he considered one. Jean was handed the key and threw his stuff inside, before he went and lounged outside on one of the nearby chairs. The weather was still bitter and he froze a little in his seat, but he was comfortable enough. The music was still on the cusp of his ears and he closed his eyes, waiting for something, as the distant tune gave him but a brief moment of peace. How short-lived it was to be a happy soldier.

---

---

Diana was walking with Lucia and Jean through the trenches to reach the village. In the back of her head, she felt a slight bit pang of guilt for not finishing her mother’s letter. Because of this reason, Diana didn’t notice or realize that Jean drifted away from Lucia and her. She slightly sighs about the whole situation in the war without allowing herself to see her parents on the principle of being a Vastergoth. Her family is the most important people in her life and support her until she joined the war and her mother was distraught about losing her. ’ Rebecca, Gavin. I will not give up until I get home. I don’t know any more about this war or anything anymore. How will I live with all these traumatic experiences in my life?’ Diana thought to herself. Diana sighed about how tiring all this is and how hard it is to keep everything in order in the war are. Mostly it is because Diana doesn’t know how long it will take to recover from these traumatic experiences.

Diana had to bear these problems and nightmares the best she can, but those nightmares usually happen when she sleeps. She slightly shakes her head, puts her left hand on her cheek to feel the warmth of her hand in the cold. It didn’t take too long to for her to start looking around her and realize that only Lucia and Diana are upfront. She noticed some things with Jean looked similarly drained of all the bullshit in the Federation’s Trenches. Diana was mentally still beating herself up over what happened during her confession to Jean. She is probably one of the stupidest things she has ever done, but she already did apologize for it previously. It made her look like a strange girl that wants attention during a battlefield setting bit of a stupid thing to do, but she was stubborn, hardheaded, and naive.

Therefore, Diana needs to get out of her head to be a person for others. This war entirely shot her enthusiasm or mood to nothingness, and she can’t deal with many things right now. She sighs at the whole situation, but it’ll probably require something to help her stop feeling like Diana can’t move on through this hell. In terms, Diana looks over to Lucia and sees her sweet smile, and that’s a bright spot in the hell that is EW1. However, Jean starts speaking up and asking about what she’ll be doing at Trebin. It causes her to think about what she’ll respond with, but she hopes they can reach the village sooner than later. These trenches are helluva annoying to traverse, for one thing, and sometimes getting lost is a pain.

” Primarily, the Bar, Jean. I do need something to drink to feel slightly warmer than I feel right now.” Diana responded to his question and felt like he wanted some small talk. She was blunt that she wants to go to the bar besides saying the real reason, but getting a drink and reading her mother’s letter all the way through would be better at a bar. ” They are nice. I give that bar something. They do have good employees. I do hope you have a good relaxed rest of your day, then.” How she spoke held a bit of emphasis on hope, good relaxed, and day with her Northern Edinburghian accent.

Diana gave Jean some encouraging words to him since he does need it more than others, even more so than her sometimes. It is hard to keep herself from being so twisted by all these horrible events, but she sighs at frequently falling back into her mind. Therefore, she decides to stop thinking and pushing them far in the back of her head for now since it would be hard to read the letter. ” Guess you were the one who suggested talking to the Bar Girls? Lucia.” It felt like the correct thing to ask Lucia since it would seem like something she would suggest because of how sweet she is.

Diana sighed in relief when they arrived at Trebin because it feels like an excellent place to be less annoyed at the arrangements of the military. Her eyes brighten up a bit, and her smile was back to how it was before Amone happened, which will probably be a black spot on their military’s history. She would rather not experience some things again, and what happened at Amone would be one of those. She did keep up while walking through Trebin, and she heard shanties, soldiers singing, and other types of music. These songs were delightful, but she needs to get to the bar to get a drink and read her mother’s letter.

Therefore, she notices Jean goes towards the south-western part of the village, probably to relax as he said to them earlier. Diana decides to help Lucia’s idea by walking her to a bar that she wants to go to because she wants to talk to Bar girls. Diana enters the bar with Lucia and realizes on small detail, having only enough currency to buy at most three drinks. It had always been that way, and no matter what, there is always a small hitch to her wanting to feel a bit warmer than she has. The weirdest currency had to be cigarettes of all things, but thankfully, she doesn’t smoke them. ” Can I have a drink, please? I do need one since it would warm me up a bit.” She sits at one of the tables at the bar since it would be better to sit at a table instead of at the bar itself. It takes her a small amount of time to take out her mother’s letter and sighs, looking at her mother’s beautiful handwriting. ’ Why do I feel so nervous? Where was I? Do I even remember?” Diana thought to herself. She puts her left hand on her forehead in disappointment in not reading it all the way through when she first got it.

---

---

Senja only giggled at Victoria’s brash entry. Ever a forward woman that one was. Even still, for all the pride in her voice- it was always good to see a soldier with their spirits about them. How proud her loved ones must have been of her to be able to endure such hardship and retain her strength. “Love and blessings are always bountiful for those who are ready to receive them… but- maybe a simple drink will do for one so down to earth. But we will save that for later. I do, however, look forward to see how our friend graces us today.”

As she finished assisting the musician with his position she gave a heart warming smile and stepped to the side with but few words to offer him for his anticipated service. “It is my pleasure, Cienie.”

With every step Senja watched Cienie’s motions and recalled his voice. A stroll in the mainland was brought to her. The memory was rather clear under the blue sky of a bright and sunny day. A clear path cut of stone and surrounded by lush green fields of rest. The chirping of birds and the sound of an accordion out beyond sight gracing her and her companion as they settled down upon a gentle bench. Finely crafted and fair suited for a couple of very peaceful friends seeking the shade under a great oak tree. Breezing the branches a gentle wind carries their song.

---

Beside her a man spoke, the same language carrying across but with no understanding outside of gestures in motion. Though aware of it he may have been, it did not stop them from taking a moment of respite in the park. It didn’t stop them from enjoying a humble meal of bread. A few pieces for themselves. A few for the birds. But there was that peace. In that peace she found herself drowsy. Or- at the very least- fully aware of every bit of stress folding into her. A few tears out of the sorrow she felt for others, but a handkerchief dried her very eyes. For that brief moment- she enjoyed the quiet. For that brief moment she slouched into the bench and closed her eyes.

---

Senja felt as though she may have blinked for but a moment, but she had awoken from her trance feeling reborn midway through his performance. Medicine was good for the body, but it has always been said that music is good for the soul. In the eyes of the patients she saw something different. She had brought them comfort and hope, sure, but in those many soft spoken notes she witnessed emotions arising in the souls so drowned in their own pain. Before her lay the miracle of rest. Even some who had mostly endured their moans of pain quieted down, focusing on the flow of wind that wrapped so tenderly about their souls. A dance of heaven so gently produced through the lungs of one so young and kind.

Before Senja lay a man who couldn’t help but stare upon the boy, eyes half open and calm. His left hand wrapped tightly around his blanket, lips shivering with a look to his patched arm. Before Senja lay a man who did not often speak, so unwilling to budge and unwilling to accept sleep out of fear and anger. Before Senja lay a man who finally turned to look at her as she crouched down to meet his gaze.

“I… I’m tired.”

“I know, I feel it every time I look upon you, Oliver.”

“I… I want to see my mother. I want to enjoy her food again. I want to lay beside the fire again… head in her lap.”

“You will, sooner than you know.”

“Can you?…”

Senja needed to hear no more, taking his hand as he offered it to her she gently held him with her arm, letting him peacefully enjoy the hard labor of their ally before watching him drift away into sleep. It had been the most relaxed he had looked in so long. Muscles gave way and hand transitioned from a tight grip to a gentle hold. As she fully confirmed he was now in a gentle state, she slowly released him, placing his hand over his stomach and pulling the blanket over his chest with head adjusted well for the pillow.

It was then that Senja found herself yawning quite softly, bring a hand to cover her mouth as she found some trouble standing back up, but everywhere around her she felt the radiance of peace shining upon them. She felt for those patients. She felt for every last one. Now here they enjoyed a rare treat with many drifting to their rest. Some with smiles, some with closed eyes, and others with gentle reminders of a life so simple that all reassurance that had been given to them- from Senja or otherwise- weren’t such a fantasy. Maybe it would be alright after all.

As the performance came to a close the Cruxian stood slowly, half tempted to sleep upon the floor there and then as she fought her urges and took careful steps to return to Cienie’s side. With a soft voice she spoke. “Victoria was right. That was gorgeous. Where did you learn to play such music, Cienie?”
@samakama@Smike

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---

Alexandre blinked. He hadn’t even considered a footlocker – it simply hadn’t occurred to him. Of course, he knew such things existed – he had inspected them regularly, after all, when he was… Before. Before. But throughout that before he had always had his personal quarters or tent, and his personal storage with them; footlockers were not the things foremost in his mind when he thought on sequestering or safekeeping. That… One ought to be assigned to me eventually, no? I am hardly the most aware of typical infantry procedure. Am I to ask? Would that be impertinent?

Is there paperwork?

For a brief bit of time he gave himself to that consideration before lifting his gaze to meet Britta’s eyes; she bore a joyous, somehow unfettered expression and with it Alexandre felt himself untensing, just a touch, as a half-remembered part of him resonated. “That would be a possibility were I to have one as yet; as yet, however, I do not. Even then, I fear I would be asking you regardless; this is of some significance, and I understand that you and your beau –” (Alexandre gave himself the slightest mental congratulation at having found a term that was both accurate and inoffensive in the instant before the sentence reached the point at which it was required) – “are well-respected here.”

Of course, it would also be ideal to keep the carbine tucked away in a more familiarly unusual space where fewer people would notice its exotic construction, as compared to the theoretical storage of a private who had been admitted to the unit only a few days ago and present in these constricting trenches for a shorter time than that. It would be distinctly non-ideal for it to be taken away for, say, reverse engineering or to be gifted to a Valois commander. No, far better out of sight, hidden among other oddities.

Alexandre turned the carbine over in his hands, letting its blue sheen catch the sunlight, looking over its polished form for the last time in a while. “As to what… An old weapon and but a few clips of compatible ammunition. It will hopefully be unnecessary, for the foreseeable future.” His expression flickered, turning downcast for a short second, before his smile reasserted itself to rejoin Britta’s. And, now I consider it… It is not as if I… “And, actually, perhaps this case too, if it would not be a bother,” he added, extending the arm upon which it hangs. “I will not be needing it either.”

There is already much to remind me, he thought, feeling the ever-growing weight of the axe at his hip.

“But, of course,” Alexandre concluded, “that will be later, will it not? You have your station here.” He looked about himself. “I do not suppose that you are one for company? I would not wish to distract you from your duties, of course; it is only that I have not been added to the rotations yet, and I…”

Alexandre, for a moment, froze.

Just a moment.

“…am aware of the benefits of camaraderie in a unit such as ours.”

@FalloutJack

It was of no surprise to Isaac, as the great slab of dog settled down nearby, that he was described as difficult to handle by previous owners. Isaac was not a dog breeder. He was a dog/wolf tamer, but that was on the bottom rung of the animal breeding ladder. He had an understanding of other peoples' desire to bring in or weed out certain traits of an animal. It was Isaac's job to provide the basic foundations by bringing fresh blood into the mix that would eventually become everything from sheepdogs and Collies to the massive mound that was this Mastiff. Even still, this hunk of dog muscle was certainly a breed to be contended with, and so people without a respect or understanding of how a bulky animal works don't know how to deal with them. Isaac chuckled at the man's comment about the two canines. Well...still canine and lupine, to be fair.

"Regal? Maybe, but your boy there is a mountain, and that's a pride in of itself."

And given that Rikes felt no personal threat from him, it must be said that Schafer had that mountain under control. Any dog in the world can be a trusted companion. It was only those who would turn them into weapons who would give any sort of impression of the breed as a violent one. Of course, neither Rikes nor Valkur were trained specifically as weapons, but as relief dogs, yet they were still given training to defend themselves in addition to their natural instincts. Actually, it was more than that, but rather to temper and focus their instincts to a finer edge with a stronger decision-making process, so that they would act in a specific way in certain situations automatically. This was, of course, how you got a dog to do most anything on command, but military training is a bit more complicated than 'Fetch'. In any case, the Sergeant settled down with the rest of them and asked about the anty.

"Mostly cigarettes and tobacco, or anything that can be easily carried and handed off. Nothing that anybody couldn't stand to be without or couldn't recover on their own. Count is five, right now on cigarettes. Full cigars and tobacco pouches are worth at least that much. Any other items are negotiable. Depends on what you bring to the table. Wouldn't ask anyone to bring anything big out here, nor do I think anyone has much around that could be consider 'high stakes', anyway."

He'd avoided the idea of a 'high stakes' Isaac Store poker game specifically because of the problems that would occur, as a result. A person who puts in something that they couldn't stand to lose or just something that was of heavy need or value around here would cross that boundary of harmless supply and trading to outright commerce of goods under the table that would be a bit more beyond the pale. He and Britta had agreed from the start: They were not a business. If anything, they would call it decent training for their partnership in business after the war, but this was not for profit. This was to support everybody in the trenches to ease their lives so that they were in some better state TO be alive while in this war. Once you started doing things that started tallying large debts and losses among people, where they were trying to spread whatever good there was to be HAD among people, that was going to be trouble and the higher-ups wouldn't like it. The reason, as mentioned previously, that this all wasn't cracked down upon was that it didn't cause problems. Schafer was dealt in, and while they probably wouldn't be here too long, they would break up the slog that was their duty and their dubious existence here in these trenches.



There was a momentary pause and confusion before the curious Private Blanc responded. She had caught him off-guard with something, perhaps in that he was so new to the company that procedure hadn't been explained to the man. It wasn't too surprising. There were a number of people who weren't exactly given adequate instruction on the basics of how anything operated out there and were forced to find their own way. Britta had, for her part, made it a point to learn said systems in her patrols and other movements about camps or trenches in order to get the right feel for things and pass that information on to those who needed it. She found herself nodding as the man began to explain his lack of footlocker, her smile sort of deepening at the mention of her and Isaac.

"We do what we can. They don't always give the fullness of consideration to the lower ranks here. You mentioned that this was a special circumstance?"

There were, and...wow. One look at the item in question was all it took to see that it was not a member of the standard issue carbine rifles. The wood stock was of a deeper and finer finish, probably of a better quality wood. The sheen of the metal in the good light told of a more loving craftsmanship in the smithing process, and maybe... Yes, the way he talked about the ammunition, the way he looked at it, it was clear that this...was more than sentimental. This was an almost unique piece. Britta didn't consider herself any greater an expert on weapons than most anybody else in these trenches, but even the uninitiated could tell that this was a cut above the rest. The only question was...what circumstances led it to be here with this man in these trenches like this? She did not ask, because there was definitely a certain pained or forced demeanor about the man, and now may've not been the time to broach the subject. No, better to make him feel welcome and help him in his time of need. In fact...

"I have no problems with having someone tag along with me on my rounds, especially if you need to get a feel for the place. I take it you haven't been assigned to anywhere yet, either. Let me see... Hold on. Corporal Ericson, do you need me around here, right now? Anyone?"

One of the nearby soldiers did got that faraway look people did when considering their options, then shook his head.

"People are rotating here in a bit. We can handle things 'till then."

Several others agreed with his statement. Britta thanked them and turned back to 'Monsieur Blanc'.

"Let's take a walk and we'll handle this right now. Then, you can help me moving people's supplies if anything needs moving about camp and such. It's better to get your feet under you here sooner than later, I say."

Outwardly, she remained positive, though inwardly, she was also like 'And better to get this little gem out of the public eye sooner, as well.'. That was a helluva piece of equipment! She could only begin to guess where it came from. The most plausible answer was that it was simply a weapon that'd been in the family for a while, but something in the man's emotions made her wonder if there wasn't something more...

---

It looked like two of those soldiers were talking about the canines that accompanied their respective persons. That wolf in particular seemed to remind Mehetabel of a certain trio of a similar breed, who would almost always hunt alongside her village's hunting party. Mehetabel was actually quite fond of them; enough so that she'd take every chance to play with any one of them that she could get.

While reminiscing this started off as a pleasant experience, the reason Mehetabel grimaced was because she knew where it lead. She looked away from the wolf that she took her time observing, and returned her attention to the soldiers, who looked to have just finished a hand. At this point, her patience was beginning to wear thin, and she figured there was one surefire way she'd have their attention. She'd have to try and throw her hat in the ring, or so the saying went, and that in turn meant she had to offer something of relative value, here. With that, she immediately set to filing through her pockets.

There were more than a few rations that Mehetabel intentionally set aside for later, but she never got round to eating said rations again, and ultimately forgot that some of them were even there. Doubting they'd be good enough to ante up, Mehetabel kept searching until she managed to find a box of matches in an inside pockets. Seeing what else had been coughed up thus far, they'd be perfect for this situation.

"Hey, uh... there doesn't happen to be any 'no girls allowed' bullshit in play, is there?" Mehetabel asked, holding up her box of matches all the while, "Figured these would go well with all those cigs that're lined up there,"

There, in a dark, dingy dugout - where the rats and mice gnawed at the walls, with roaches on their backs and nits in their furs - sat a candlelit map of the frontline. At its top were the words: Plymouth Lane. There were creases all across its papyrus-like body where recent scribbles had been marked down. In the vast open plains at the map's eastern side were the labels of: "No Man's Land". Each mile of unentrenched land had been circled with possible positions for advanced defences and to highlight any potential lanes of threat after the premonitions of something large coming afoot. And what had the Captain done to prepare for this? Well, there were only two things he could do.

Ever since the winter had settled in, Middleton had lost many of his centralised powers and freedom of movement. It was a frustrating piece of business, but the with the arrival of additional forces and the congregation of assisting regiments, the Generals and Colonels sat far behind the frontline had withdrawn the autonomy he wished to have. He was restricted from orchestrating large scale manoeuvres, as least as far as the Europan Front would allow, and his favoured use of artillery cannonades had to be confirmed through a series of radio calls to his superiors, half of which were denied without much thought. He knew better than anyone else that an offensive in their wintry conditions would be rather disastrous, more so than the usual assault, and so he had opted for an aggressive defence - hammering the Imperial positions with a near constant stream of mortar and soft artillery fire. What had come of this was a disappointing two-paged letter about how they were to just dig in. Of course, he still made use of his indirect-fire capabilities, but only on such a scale where his high-command wouldn't take much notice.

On the agenda for that day, however, were two meagre but potentially viable plans to make better use of their defensive positions. The first he had made clear on the map in clear, black ink. He watched as it soaked into the paper, immortalising its presence on the map. It would be a small, yet permanent addition to the frontline, and he knew it'd make good use of it. For five or so straight days, he'd been stood in the shitty dugout without any intention of leaving. But on that day, Alexander prepared to make due haste for the men and women underneath his command, for he had a task to get going.

"Sergeant Talas?" He pressed the lid of his flask against his lips and sipped dry the cold watercan. Then, he eyed around the dugout, noticing no shift in his expected subordinate. "Sergeant Talas!"

"Here, sir!" The NCO waltzed in, half-arsed, before he met the busied Captain on the prowl. He watched as his superior sauntered over with bags beneath his eyes, and a freshened drizzle of water still soaked on his lips.

"We have our job. I'll need you to gather these soldiers and to take them to the assault trench." From the table, he had drawn out a handheld letter. On it read the names of several soldiers all within the same platoon, all under his own command. They read: Corporal Sokołowšky, Private Grumman, Private Mehetabel, Lance Corporal White, Private Roe, Sergeant Schafer, Private Furst, Private Morvan, Private Blanc, Private Levesque + Private Daunte. "When acceptable, within two hours I want you to send them out for a raid on the opposing observation posts and, if they remain covert, perhaps the Imperial frontline trench, in the exposed regions. I've already sent that bloody Delfziji lad to gather some so you may knock into him along the way."

"Collateral, Sir?"

"No, no," he peered outside into the frosted trench, "snatch and grab - take at least two Imperial soldiers as prisoners. If possible, though unlikely, get them to grab an NCO. If not, just grab any Imperial stood in their strike zone. As soon as they have someone, and provided casualties are low, then they are to retreat immediately back to our lines. I need information, Sergeant, so make sure they know not to fuck up."

"Very good, sir. Anything else?"

"Yes - send someone around the trench. Give them this letter and get them to find these soldiers."

From the same table, he drew yet another piece of paper, two in fact - one for himself and one for the Sergeant to hand down - which read out the other list of names: Corporal Robin-Charpentier, Private Cienie, Corporal Romijnsen, Lance Corporal Black, Private Hagen, Private Vastergoth, Private Farris + Private Penttilä. Around Lucia's name were several ink splodges, as if he'd contemplated whether or not to cross off her name. There was a slight twitch in his eye as he looked back at the name, a few times over, will a little stain of reluctance hanging from his tongue. He watched as the Sergeant snatched up his spare list and he looked back up to the Captain nonchalantly for additional information.

"Tell them to meet me in the supply trench. Get the boys there to wind up some wire-racks. I'll brief them in proper when we get there myself, but you can let them know that I'll have them on laying-duty. Half cover, half setting it up." The two looked at each other for a while whilst Alexander reached into the Sergeant's pocket and took out his own flask, before downing the contents. He creased at the bitterness, instead tasting alcohol over water. There, he spat it to the floor and tutted at him. He handed it back and, before heading out into the wilds of the trench to meet his people at the supply trench in the support line, he grimly bellowed back at the Sergeant. "And fix your liquid formality, you drunken bastard!"

---

The observation post was then handed to two replacement soldiers, as the three returned to the rear line to get themselves some rest. And by rest it's more like boredom. Such is trench life. There's no running, jumping, hopping around, nor was there books to read or games to play. Everything is just so limited. As a result, all what Michael did were mostly just having a bit of cleanup in Trebin village and then just wandered around the village ground admiring the snow. For all he knew, it was rare seeing snow in Tyrella, despite how cold it was during this time of the year. If not at all, it would be a few days of light snow, so seeing how much of it today does tickle his curiosity. But it didn't take long until he was summoned by a Sergeant, not that he needed to go anywhere anyway.

Before he thought of what he was summoned for, the quick briefing indicated a mission. A trench raid. And apparently he and his group were supposed to capture at least 2 people for some interrogation. All the moral worries about what would they do to those two or even the danger of going into enemy trenches asides, how was he going to even do this? It was easy to kill someone intentionally. It was easy to spare someone intentionally. But it wasn't easy to knock someone out to drag them back intentionally.

The mission would start in 2 hours. Michael would spend most of its time in the village inn, figuring out what he needed to bring for this. Aside from his gun for ranged combat, his hatchet for close quarter and some grenades, he wasn't sure what else. He probably would want his spade, even though he wasn't going to dig things, since in case of someone screwing up, he could dig himself a hidy hole in the midst of No Man's Land. It wouldn't be a good solution for that matter, but it was the best. But other than that, what was he going to bring? Satchel charges were probably impossible to get, so that's out of the equation.

"I don't know what to bring..." He rubbed his temples as his equipment is laid out on the table in front of him. "What do you people bring anyway?"

He said to those few people nearby from his task group, whether they be just chilling out or were also preparing themselves for the mission.

Oh joy, trench clearing duty. The shitty job that the piece-of-shit-Captain assigned to those stupid, disposable or psychotic enough to be good at it. Victoria wasn't surprised that this sort of work fell on her shoulders, she had done her best to prove herself as overburdened with those qualities and with her having found those battleplans, well...someone must have taken note of her dutiful can-do attitude. Wow, she was so proud she could just fucking puke.

The Oceanic was passing the time before the raid with art, scribbling on the torn off piece of paper that had been her focus for the past little bit. An amorphous blob of a blanket with an unshaven face peering out, a stupid little helmet perched atop and a few motion lines to denote shivering and she had a fairly accurate picture of Jean the Coward. In the interest of fairness she matched it with a caricature of herself, all sharp teeth and crazy eyes with gnarled claws for fingers. Victoria the Mad Rat and Jean the Frightened Mouse, a comedy duo worthy of vaudeville.

The Midget spoke and reminded her that she was among other poor bastards, Victoria setting down her well-chewed pencil to begin going through her kit. "Carbine, pistol, knife, shovel..." She laid them out one by one on the table, well-worn instruments ready and waiting to be put to use. "My armor and ammo obviously and something I like to cook up myself."

She finished the rest of her bottle in one quick gulp, cheap wine that she had been nursing the past two days. Out from her pack came the greasy jam tin filled with lamp oil and turpentine, the mixture freehand poured into the bottle with nary a drop spilled. Soap was next, a greyish lump produced from a pocket and shaved until a small pile of slivers formed.

"Burns 'em right out."

Was she looking forward to seeing it in action as much as her manic grin would suggest? No. Yes. Maybe? It was hard to tell how much of her thirst for violence was acting and how much was genuine, her mind cracking in too many places to keep track. Just keep playing the gangster turned soldier, the woman who belonged on the battlefield and hope no one called her out as the frightened child she was, that was her mission.



In an example of the infinite wisdom bestowed upon the upper echelons someone had assigned a sniper to a trench raid in the evening. Alex was a good shot, a damn good shot, but even he would be limited by both dusk and the constraints of space. Trying to take potshots from across No Man's Land with the sun down would result in friendly fire as often it did an enemy killed and it wasn't like his scoped rifle was designed with close-quarters combat in mind.

So what did that leave him with? The Turner-Cable, a gift from his father that had been more symbolic than anything. His saber, a straight pattern made for stabbing and so infinitely more useful in tight trenches than the Europan models that necessitated wide swings. And Valkur, a hulking brute with sharp teeth and hatred for mankind restrained by nothing more than Alex's force of will. Absolute barbarism personified in the form of three items, the industrial scale slaughter of the conflict embodied by beast, blade and bullet.

"Valkur can handle whatever the Imps can throw at him, I'm just going to follow behind and put the stragglers out of their misery." He smiled at his own bravado, amusing himself at the thought of the enemy fleeing for the hills chased by his monstrous hound. "But seriously, usually I'd be providing you overwatch but I doubt that's feasible under the circumstances."

He could feel his grin becoming bitter, the consummate professional allowing himself the slightest curl of his lip before removing the expression entirely like a good little tin soldier. "We'll make it work." It was his duty to be an example for his juniors, no bellyaching could be heard coming out of his mouth. "The raid itself doesn't worry me too much, the real trouble's going to be getting back to our lines with a couple prisoners in tow."

Alex's only show of nervousness was lighting up a cigar, sweetly addictive smoke sucked into his lungs like some kind of improper savage. Little violations of decorum like that were how he stayed sane, the weight of the smoke brought deep into his body where it would hopefully be absorbed faster.