The town got chillier by night, but that was sort of expected of an arid sort of place, without humidity in the air to trap the heat. Luckily, they had Vorslav winter coats on. They had enough alcohol to not really worry about the chill in the air. While there were neon lights nearby, it didn't interfere that badly with the stars. Gideon had a plan to do what Galahad suggested and climb up somewhere and camp that way. However, clouds moved in, the high up kind one found in more arid climates, but that didn't dampen Gideon's enthusiasm to sleep out. 

"Barghest Cafe; start your morning with a howl," Gideon deadpanned, in response to the others. The news radio blared on about peace talks this, arrival that. He lent an ear to it without really paying close attention, but it sounded like a slow grind out there. So far, careful use of fire support, avoiding lots of damage. The Vangars wanted their prize intact and were paying a price for the gains they made. The Rassvet Defense Forces were giving, considering a gross imbalance of firepower, a lot, but were always being pushed back. They were giving a couple thousand meters instead of a lot of ground, but they were being pushed back all the same.

WARDEN was expected to make up a lot of the difference here, plugging gaps, covering retreats, mounting forlorn hope assaults at the spearhead.

It still wasn't enough. And it was depressing. [i]The fuckers can't even do a truce while they talk peace,[/i] he thought to himself, instead of burdening his companions with his bleak outlook on the course of this war. He believed in his country, but his gut told him something else. He could tell from other expressions that the radio was quickly killing buzzes. This was supposed to be their only chance at a normal existence, and it would be over soon. Gideon knew his orders and they were for Cockatrice Squad, attached to the 12th Royal Infantry Regiment. He'd be an individual replacement, working in someone else's platoon. A new face, not trusted and resented for taking someone else's place.

And so he engaged into the conversation with more gusto, tuning out the radio until someone mercifully tuned it out.

"We can sling espresso after the war, as a front for arms smuggling," he told them as he took another bottle of beer and popped it open with a multi-tool. They had enough practice in illicit activity at the Citadel, "That is to say, Kat will can run the real operation with minimal technical assistance. The rest of us will be baristas. Our training will make us fully capable of handling any caffeine deprived yuppie, including heavily armed ones that are about to snap."

He was mid-sip when he heard the crunch of boots on the ground. He tamped down the initial reaction down to glancing over, which was pretty muted for a guy that just got out of ten years of military training.

"Good evenin' there, wanted to check up on you young travelers, make sure all was well!" called out a voice from about twenty meters away. Silhouette in the darkness was a fellow in a wide-brimmed hat, but otherwise uniformed like a Rassvet army regular, though the uniform was flat khaki rather than camouflage. There was the sword and the rune, but on a shield. Marshalls.

"Good evening, Marshall," Gideon called out, "What brings you out here by night?"

"Well, there's a war on out here, and orders have it that it's my job to check up on anything unusual. So a bunch of young folks like you looking like you just left the Citadel..." he shrugged, "Well, you know." The fellow was substantial, even beefy, but there was a glint under the hat. The guy was being cautious, out here on his own. Gideon couldn't see any obvious backup, which didn't quite make sense. This one sounded older than that, which is probably why he wasn't stripped off his regional posting...yet.

Gideon nodded, "You need to check papers then?"

"Yeah, sure do. Just one of you will do, I don't see the point of running all y'all if it checks out."

"Not a problem," Gideon told him, as he got up, motioning the others down. As he stepped forward, deliberately and slowly, he caught the rifleman's position, and knew that this guy was brains and balls. He called one over to check them, but played it safe. The guy with the gun at the ready would have been able to lay down the fire if there was trouble. They wouldn’t be able to swarm the guy doing the talking.

He could respect the tactics.

Aware that the situation was not a heightened tension thing, but mindful of the weapon, he was slow to reach into a pocket, just so the man could see the motion. After all, it was wartime, and there was a heightened security tension. He walked over slowly and handed those over from arm's length, so the man could peruse them with a flashlight.

"Says here Third Class, correct? So what's a bunch of WARDEN types doing out here?" In Rassvet, a police state, they were expected to show ID, papers, and endure a check. This fellow, out in the boonies a bit, was at least a little more common sense and friendly in his approach. Around Orestia, these guys acted like they were on the front lines already, and that everyone was a spy.

"Graduation, peace talks and a short leave before we head out. We're set to head out from here and hike. One last tour of the auld sod."

The man grunted and read off the ID number on Gideon's papers, along with a photo ID and description, in some sort of spoken code, got some sort of response in the earpiece, and then handed papers back, "No problem, young man. You check out. Sorry about...things, but we're not a big detachment and we gotta be careful in these parts."

Gideon shrugged, "It's your ass to preserve and protect."

The man laughed out loud, "You're goddamn right about that. Well, look, y'all have a good night now, y'hea..."

And that's when the fire lit up the sky, a glow from above the clouds, flickering through them.