[center][b][color=cadetblue][sup][h1]M A H A R A[/h1][/sup][/color][/b][/center]
[COLOR=cadetblue][INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]S H I R U T A, K H A N D A Q[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][/COLOR][INDENT][INDENT][sup][color=darkgray]January 1[sup]st[/sup], 2052  |  0500 Hours  |  Shiruta, Kahndaq, Egypt, Africa[/color][/sup][/INDENT][/INDENT]

Mahara lay awake in her bed; sun peeked through satin purple curtains. She rolled over. Her helmet lay beside her bed, the rest of her armor in a armory case on the far end of the room. It was drill time yet again, but only with the newest of the duwain. Basic drills. A run across the desert. Ample water abound, she would not let them pass out. It was, after all, their first morning on the job. After their run, she would have them work formations and tactics: pincer, bullhorn, hammer, anvil. Then they could rest. She had preparing of her own to do.

She rose and collected herself. Basic hygeine taken care of, she donned her armor and blade and moved outside to speak to the small gathering of recruits who stood bracing themselves in the cold winter wind. There were a few hundred of them, and beside the general stood her captain, Faruq. Faruq was a lithe young man, some years her junior; black pupils scanned the faces of these men and women with more scorn than Mahara could ever muster. After some dramatic silence, Mahara spoke to the teeth-chattering soldiers who braved these gelid desert sands.

[color=cadetblue]”Welcome to your first day; you will not enjoy it. You will come out of it better soldiers, soldiers [i]worthy[/i] of fighting for your country and your people! [sup]If you don’t die, that is![/sup] the captain to my left is your supervising officer. Any complaints, you take them to him. Any disputes… there will be no disputes; we do not tolerate infighting here, understood? Good.”[/color] she gave a warm smile to them all, [color=cadetblue]“come back in one piece, soldiers, your country needs you.”[/color] she turned, her matte black helmet clutched against her hip.

Back to her quarters, she sat on her bed and discarded the gauntlets of her armor to her side. Both hands ran down her face; she stared up at Kahndaq’s flag which was plastered on the wall next to her bed. She loved her country and her father, and she would go to any length to protect it--it did not mean that she rested well. Each night there was the stress of the future; another task, another assignment. There were the spirits most of all; visions of the tombs she had not visited in years, calling to her. Lucid accompaniments of her body mummified, wrapped in a black sarcophagus. She rose, he paced.

She was too settled. Action always dulled her. A knock on her door; it was one of the many courier girls who ran messages to and fro the King, who was her father, and herself. Her name was Farrah. She was but ten years Mahara’s junior; Mahara listened to the girl’s message,

“Your father wishes to see you, my lady.” Mahara gave the girl a firm nod, playing the social strata as it should be. Some leftover dolma sat wrapped in plastic atop her desk; she gave the girl one of the seran wrapped rolls and with a wave of her hand, she sent the girl away.
[color=cadetblue]”What now?”[/color]

[@MrDidact]