She pondered over the little ruby ring, nearly pawing it like she were a cat toying with its dinner. Luke and her had made some headway with their belated birthday celebrations, yet the gift was an unexpected one. Deserved, yes, she mentally noted, yet planned? No. Luke was guiltier than Max was in that regard. At very least, Max and Inès had history which extended beyond slaps to the face and inflammatory remarks. Luke afforded himself no such luxury, and instead Inès smiled as the glistening of the rose gemstone reminder of the renouncement of Luke's racism for a nice gesture. It had cost her a bottle of rum, of course, yet what was something she hated for a new friend and an expeditiously planned present? Another pass of her thumb strewed across the top of the ring's set-piece, the gilded jewelry firmly illustrating in the fading sunlight of the evening. She'd seldom wear it, of course. It wasn't to her tastes, much like necklaces, bands, and other frivolous accessories. A wrapping of spare cloth concealed the little gift, as she firmly tucked the protective covering between the ring's loop, folding the leftover cloth bolt to form some vaguely circular textile. Her satchel flipped open its sturdy canvas top to reveal the several compartments within. Most occupied themselves with the contents of either necessity or memoir, sometimes a pleasant reminder of better times, others bitter tokens of lessons learned the harsh way. Inès smirked, half borne of nostalgia and the other of dejection. The little lull of time passing, the calmness between the storms, each little memoir within her bag couldn't help but remind her of the time spent in her previous deployment. Rough, it certainly was, yet for all the hell she had gone through, Inès found herself - ironically speaking - missing the misery. [hr] [center][i]May 29th, 1914[/i][/center] Such was the travesty of Squad Seven that finding refuge in a dilapidated Francian estate was more a worry than blessing. Never before had a trench seemed such a sight for sore eyes in that cellar the remnants of the 3rd Platoon and other accompanying survivors than in the sepulchral basement within a manor left abandoned for the better part of years, by this point. The courtyard above blossomed with such carelessness, becoming more a grove than garden by the three odd years since a tender last performed his or her duty. To say nothing of the vineyards east, overgrown was a polite way to describe the veritable jungle which had steadily eroded any sense of agricultural order. Interiors echoed with rotted decor, echoing the footprints of those who entered, like the members of the 17th knew full well they trespassed upon an area otherwise considered haunted. Yet circumstance drew the better of them, and fortune, this once, favored the bold, for as its time as a wartime ruin, it seemed as though none of its brief visitors were brave - or desperate - enough to relieve the old dwelling of its treasures. Its old oak door swung open, even with the residence of the manor in play, the door did release its cloud of dust as though it had not seen use in centuries. Inès, yet accustomed to her new dwelling, signaled for her Lance-Corporal comrade to follow in her footsteps, carrying the front end of what was a large wooden crate, on both sides and its top (incorrectly) labeled, [color=black]"MUNITIONS - DRY, LONG-TERM"[/color]. Even as the trek weighed down on her, the slight soreness of the long hike back from that lucrative raid paid obvious dividends. All the same, Inès spoke her mind. [color=4682b4]"Was that [i]really[/i] necessary?"[/color] Inès questioned, looking back to the one before her, known by many descriptors; Darcsen. Former Gang-Leader. Lance-Corporal. "Violent". Friend. [color=EA8FCA]"Getting soft on me, Lévesque?"[/color] She hollered back. If Inès appeared rough before when Jean first acquainted herself with the [i]maitre[/i], Inès would have appeared to be a blue-haired angel if she stood beside Violette. Nothing about Violette - from the eyepatch so clearly from long ago that she would most gladly tell you she obtained [b]prior[/b] to the start of the war, to how she walked with such savage elegance that the esteemed Francian mannerisms tied with the callousness she exuded like the radiance off of gold, and how in her most vicious state, Violette would make even Victoria White appear saintly - spoke to any sense of fair mannerism. Yet Francian culture bore its mark upon the woman, and for what brash remark she may have had for Inès, even came through so light and flowery an accent that even such a venomous retort seemed innocuous. [color=EA8FCA][i]"We're having Darcsen bitches tonight, boys! This'll be [b]fun![/b]"[/i][/color] Violette half-recited, half-mocked in a vulgar mockery of the Imperial accent, [color=EA8FCA]"Would you have liked for him to go free, mmh~?"[/color] [color=4682b4][i]"Qu'il aille se faire foutre."[/i] ("Fuck him.")[/color] The repulsion in Inès voice spewed pure hatred as she recalled the libel of that debased Imperial. [color=4682b4]"Him, I understand. But, the other ones?"[/color] Violette shrugged, grunting in symphony as the crate thudded to the stone floor below. Rose pink lips came together in slight smirk, just so poised upwards so they gave no uncertain indication she took pride in her work. Once a thief, always a thief, so did the mantra go. Her single visible eye tilted down, indicative of such a smug questionnaire as Violette herself. [color=EA8FCA]"And they were just going to let it happen if they captured us? Please. They knew what they were getting into."[/color] Inès lowered her eyebrows, almost resigning such remarks. Such was the fate of talking to walls, she supposed, yet Inès wished she could find the right words to express her dissent with such opinion. Groupthink to such degrees showed full well their willingness - as Inès knew yet wished was never the case - to simply allow the Imperials their full defilement as some manner of ramification for Squad Seven's audacious attempts at abidement. Even in Ostend, the mentality was the same, and for all the hate Inès had of it, such phrases rung true half of the country south during their time of war; It was them, or us. A sonorous [b]*clunk!*[/b] thundered through the cellar, the supply crate finding residence from one squad, one faction to another, for this one would be put to better use feeding its more desperate occupiers. Both the women rolled their shoulders, creaking their necks as they sighed off the laborious march from camp to dwelling. First did the Private look back at her Lance-Corporal, then abruptly twitching her head back to the cellar's door as the following footsteps of their comrades carried whatever else came of their needful pillage. The faces - familiar and otherwise - bore their own specific burdens, a Vinlandic redhead carrying great/ unmarked white sacks, while two shorter Darcsens, a man and woman, carried a crate not dissimilar to those of Inès and Violette, all clearly struggling from sweat and fatigue born of days labor in the Francian late spring. Just behind, while the companions did labor, a mighty, hewn man, topped with snow-white hair and glistening pale eyes, walked among Squad Seven. From his chevron-printed arm, he extended a finger firmly to his left, just along the wall. [color=848484]"Here."[/color] His voice clearly bore the east accent of the Ruzhians, powerful and commanding, and so similar yet so different from those of the Imperials. What immediately was apparent as the Sergeant did speak was how his accent permeated every aspect of his speech, like the body himself was born into made its mark upon every word he uttered. When he looked, it seemed so distantly focused that a thousand-yard stare snapped instantly as he turned, like he danced so effortlessly between fantasy and reality that such distinction needn't even process. Ruzhians never smiled. Misha seldom smiled. There was very little to smile about, regardless. At the very least, everyone was happy to be back and away from their retrieval mission. With some supply secured, Squad Seven's current occupants tagged around one of the sole "tables" of the basement, itself simply a few stacked empty crates with old boxes serving as impromptu chairs. The surface was flat and smooth enough to suit their needs aplenty however, and in mutual agreement of their job done, Inès and her squad almost naturally took their seats around the table. Without formal declaration, everyone still had their nearly unspoken assigned seating at this sort of "round table". Inès situated herself directly next to Marie on her right, while to her left Misha typically occupied. Across from her sat Violette, and next to her sat in the company of fellow good Darcsens Sévérine and Claude. [color=EA8FCA]"Who's playing?"[/color] asked the snide Darcsen, as if to take command of her compatriots even in consolation. Even with her brash and downright violent demeanor, those among the squad were in unspoken agreement that even one so unhinged as Violette was a more apt substitute for the late Corporal Westing. God rest her soul, of course. [color=A70303]"I'll play!"[/color] The cheerful demeanor of Marie Beaumont spoke with a slurred - some would call "bastard" - accent indicative of Francian tongue, yet of the perky, upbeat character the Vinlandic South was renown for. Such was what was referred to as, "Southern hospitality", wrought of Lafayette's thoroughly unique blend of Europa and Atlantica. [color=A57A25]"Right here."[/color] Antoine waved up. In the dim light illuminated by whatever scant fuel the double lanterns of the cellar provided, it became impossible to discern what marks across his face were his lengthy brown hairs, and what was in truth grime earned from his strenuous work as the single sapper of the present troop. His exhaustion had no such concealment, for his lengthy sighs and hunched-over posture spoke of fatigue only wrestled by his history of arduous working hours. [color=4682b4]"I'm in."[/color] Inès responded promptly. She guessed her squadmates would use their newfound riches as currency for this card game. For once, Inès was incorrect in her predictions, it seemed, for as the chips were divided and cards distributed, there was never a mention of what one stood to lose. In short time, the multi-colored, worn chips of the game threw out their little and big blinds, Violette clearly caring little for the savoir-faire of poker faces. Inès looked over in naturally stern gaze to meet Violette's nearly-instinctive grin, clearly as if to let the entire table know just what cards she had to play. Marie coursed over every one of her two cards extensively, certain to keep her eyes down. On the chance that her light crimson eyes did shyly peek from her hand, Marie chose only to briefly take glances at others, and dared not to give even the slightest of eye contact. Sergeant Dostoyevsky won many hands, and Ruzhian standards of good manners made certain he was difficult to read, for all he had to do was, different from everyone else, act natural. As the first hand made its primary, the creaking of the cellar door turned their heads naturally, and the sight to emerge dictated the game to a halt. Even though his thick, circular glasses, the heavy, blackened marks of sleepless nights branded themselves beneath Lieutenant St-Martin's eyes. He postured himself firmly upright, yet bore few signs of formality, even tilting his head down as the Squad rose instinctively to salute him. The silver-haired leader averted his eyes, almost staring downward like one misstep would cost him his life. Yet, as his gaze did dart away, he knew full well that that was the reality they found themselves entangled with. [color=86C5C5]"At ease."[/color] He commanded calmly, his dropping hand seeming to parry the salutes of the entire room. Slowly, he made his way over to the table, taking a light seat as the head of their game, not caring to make passes at the newfound material of the recent raid. The LT reclines somewhat in his seat, peering slightly down upon the table as if there were something else to read besides its swirling pattern, almost hopeful he'd find answers. [color=86C5C5]"Supplies, Sergeant?"[/color] St-Martin asked calmly, yet firmly, not glancing up toward the Ruzhian Sergeant. [color=848484]"Ve vere triumphant."[/color] he answered, [color=848484]"Ve now have supplies for anoter veek."[/color] His prompt answer earned a sigh of relief from the Lieutenant, yet Inès' steady eyes remained fixated on their leader, knowing full well with the atmosphere that this was far from over. [color=86C5C5]"Good."[/color] the Lieutenant expressed, [color=86c5c5]"Private Fay. Our communications?"[/color] Antoine shook his head. [color=A57A25]"There's a telephone line, but it's out for good, sir."[/color] [color=86c5c5]"Are they rusted?"[/color] [color=A57A25]"No, sir. They've been burned clean. I can't fix them with the tools I have; I couldn't fix it even if I wanted to. The ports are soldered shut, sir."[/color] Antoine's words turned the room bereft, certain the news bore little good for their already grim emplacement. St Martin peered up, only to slowly cast his gaze aside while a long breath exhaled. [color=86c5c5]"Sergeant, what does the local force look like?"[/color] [color=848484]"Ve hid our tracks very well."[/color] he replied confidently. The one stroke of confidence of every last report, it seemed. [color=848484]"Your orders, sir?"[/color] The Lieutenant stared forward blankly. [color=EA8FCA]"...sir?"[/color] His head hung slightly forward, near ashamed; first that he had been responsible for this mess, then that to get out of his own failure, he seemed to be stuck with choosing the best of bad options. The silver-haired officer gradually raised his gaze, unleashing a soft, resigning sigh. [color=86c5c5]"From what we know, we are ten kilometres east from the front lines. We cannot resupply, in occupied territory, outmanned, and even if there is an offensive planned, it will take reinforcements months to get to our position. But...[i]sigh[/i], at least, nobody is specifically looking for [i]us.[/i]"[/color] [color=EA8FCA]"Can't we regroup, sir?"[/color] [color=86c5c5]"With who?"[/color] Just those words forced the room silent as he peered up from his slight slouch. [color=86c5c5]"So, we wait."[/color] he announced conclusively, [color=86c5c5]"Come morning, I want reconnaissance of our surroundings five kilometres north, east, and south of our position, that includes all eyes and ears. In the meantime, I want everyone using captured Imperial arms, if possible; It will make it easier to resupply, and the ammunition casings might make it harder for them to identify us."[/color] [color=86C5C5]"Deal me in."[/color] Inès sighed. They all knew they were going to be here for a while. If the Lieutenant spoke through actions alone, then he spoke clearly; Best to make themselves comfortable. [hr] [color=50c878][h3]"Inès!~ Where are you?!~ I want to speak with you!~"[/h3][/color] The sweetness of her tone so thoroughly prevailed through Senja's cries, it almost made Inès sick to behold. Come as no surprise, almost, that Inès would find so lispy and wet a tone as the nord's to be an usual pluck from otherwise melancholic reminiscence, it mended not necessarily as bittersweet, but almost disjointing, as Inès visibly twisted to the outcry she beheld. She blinked once, twice again, shaking her head slightly at the outburst. It was not as if Inès were a particularly nondescript individual. Could she not find her of her own accord? Yet, Inès slowly closed her eyes and sighed, for such honeyed outbursts were, as she realized, her [i]means[/i] of finding her on her own, and so it was that Inès departed from her memory back among the land of the living. Inès found the crier, so pleased with the sight of the Darcsen her mouth hung agape in beloved relief. Inès, opposite her, was less than thrilled, to say few details of the pouty scowl she so effortlessly bore. [color=4682b4]"What is it?"[/color] She almost scathed, clearly rather irritated by both Senja's booming voice, as well as the unfamiliar face that demanded her immediate attention. [color=50c878]"Aww, there you are!"[/color] the green haired Nord most cheerfully replied, keeping her jaunty expression even in the face of Inès' annoyance, [color=50c878]"You're friends with Franz, right?"[/color] [color=4682b4][i]("...who are you?")[/i][/color] Inès thought. Such inklings were shot down by circumstance, as Inès simply looked forward at Senja. [color=4682b4]"Yes, but-"[/color] she cut herself abrupt with a light puff. Inès knew Franz wasn't doing so hot, and left it to the events that transpired within the past two weeks that he needed some time to himself. Or perhaps that is just what she told herself while she focused on the tasks at hand. They seemed blurry to Inès, those traumatic moments, like for the life of her, Inès could only remember vague bits of so intense an event. Selective memory, she supposed, for such selections seemed best for her health to not recall such needless horrors. [color=50c878]"Well, i'd like you to check in on him. He hasn't been very responsive to me or Anneli, and he hasn't eaten very much. I know you're busy, but could you make some time for him?"[/color] Her face dropped, eyes rounding out as Inès took in the Nord's words. Inès had, in full appearance, showed regret at the Franz's development. All earnesty aside, Inès remained hopeful that Franz would come over the events, but...well, this was something she knew she had neglected for far too long, and such gravity voided apology. A slow sigh came over her, Inès' eyes reopening to meet Senja's. [color=4682b4]"I'll go check on him."[/color] she stated, a thorough calmness in her voice nevermore saturated with the consternation of Senja's sudden appearance. Senja smiled back at her, to which Inès raised eyebrows at with amiability. The mixture of hot and cold, so it seemed, and for that, Inès couldn't help but wonder why someone so cold was the only one who could warm Franz's senses. [color=4682b4]"Franz?"[/color] Inès called out softly from the exterior of his tent, slowly peering her way in through the sole flap which called it an entrance. She met Franz through vision, first, exchanging something of a relieving sigh, then slowly made her way to sit alongside Franz. One leg crossed over the other, Inès resting her hands in her lap while she softly looked down a bit. [color=4682b4][i]("Dammit...")[/i][/color] she thought, regretting not coming to see Franz earlier. [color=4682b4]"How have you been?"[/color] she asked soothingly, looking at her fellow Darcsen, [color=4682b4]"Did...you want to talk?"[/color] After all, Inès had handled one mental breakdown before. What was one more?