The figure struggled closer, and Victor was filled with worry for her. Was it some camp follower out looking for her man, to see if he had fallen injured behind the advancing line? Or worse, was it a looter? There were those that followed armies in one role or another but whose true purpose was to rob from the dead, their deeds hidden by the fog of war. And should they find an injured man, he would be dead soon enough and riper for the picking. Fearing the latter, Victor scrambled up against the cart as his hand sought out his rifle. Where was it, where was it, where was it?! The only thing his hands could find was stout cane.

Her voice came again, much nearer than he expected, and whirling about he found himself almost face to face with-

"Miss Kijani?!" he cried in confusion. Victor whipped his head around, scanning the orchard rows about them and seeing no sign of the shell pocked landscape or dying men that had been there moments ago. He could still smell the smoldering smoke, his nose telling him that it was simply wood and not the lung choking stench of gunpowder and cordite. The explosions were in the heavens, not falling around them. He felt shamed, embarrassed by his lapse. Looking back at her, Victor grimaced. He was angry, angry at her for bothering to come after him and angry at himself for putting her in danger by dragging her out into what had to be one of the worst storms he'd ever seen. "What the hell are you doing out here?! You're going to-"

The horse whinnied again and floundered. So close were they to the horse the Victor quite clearly heard the snap of the best's one rear leg as it stumbled in the mud and slipped once more. Victor forced back a groan. With a broken leg, the cart horse was useless to him now. The beast was of no use to anyone save as glue and meat, for being a gelding he couldn't even put it out to pasture. What he could do, however, was put it out of its misery. The storm still raged overhead. The lightning and thunder began to slowly die off and fade, yes, but the rains came down all the harder and began to bring hail. Small white balls of ice bounded off of them.

Ignoring the pelting, Victor grimly drew his knife and dragged himself around Kijani. "Stay here!" he shouted, trying to push her into the lea of the wagon. There was no way of knowing if she had ever endured weather like this, and so Victor wanted to make sure his guest was as protected as she could be while he tended to a last mercy. Some sensibility also told him that she would not want to see what he was about to do. Crawling through the mud, he made his way safely to the horse's head from behind. There was no preamble, no warning. Victor murmured an apology to the normally obliging beast before reaching over and expertly slitting its throat. The blood fountained up to spray across the mud of the track. It soaked Victor's one arm, only to be washed away again by the heavy rains. He'd had to put horses down before, and it was never an easy thing for him; it was funny how he'd learn to kill men in battle so efficiently and yet felt such sorrow at the death of a simple beast. Closing his eyes, he murmured a small prayer for the creature before wiping off his knife and sheathing it again.

For several moments, he simply sat there, exposed to the wind, rain, and hail as he leaned against the now deceased horse as tried to regain his senses.