A steady drizzle did not wash away the stains of defeat, now soaking itself into Inès with every marching step. The soldier grew more soggy, yet still the sheer residue left by the late [i]Marathon[/i] ingrained itself into every fiber of her clothing, the rain only weighing her down further than any arduous slouch she might gait. It reeked, the saltine, acrid noxiousness of Thomas' blood and sinew now etched into her very skin, from head to toe, permeated thoroughly in some profuse ichor, only growing more bitter with every sinking step. Inès' mood turned all the more sour, the pitter-patter of rain upon her helmet-less head in the early morning reminiscent of her earliest days in practice. Of awakening early and dedicating one's self to the art of [i]savate,[/i] only to find ones canvas thoroughly hideous, and carry naught but the feeling that this ugliness might be one's best effort. She lost track of time. All the memories, all the anguish, every last defeat in her formative years culminated perfectly, in one final opera in which her only choice was, as always, the Darcsen Mantra: [color=4699c2][b][i]Move Forwards, Everlasting.[/i][/b][/color]

It resonated too perfectly. The syncretic combination of toil and study, embroiled in a pedagogy of hardship, all coalesced into the sobering reminder that, in spite of one's knowledge, there are always more lessons to be learned. 

And the best-learned lessons...are those learned the hard way.

When the familiar sight of those sandbags came to, Inès stood with some manner of strength; Not born of triumph or victory, no, but one born of necessity. No doubt, there would be an endless procession of queries and quarrels to come of why the only war hero of that posse...returned lifeless atop a comrade's back. Barely into his twenties, and already considered a veteran...Inès knew the feeling too well. Ghostly well, she dared to think, that inkling of being knowing that, for all she had experienced and taught herself months and years prior, that so instantaneous a decision, so quick a thought could so forcefully change the flow of life. With such a conclusion resoundingly reached, in a single blank stare, Inès wondered when might that time come again. 

Oh, fear not. Inès possessed the certainty of knowing another misfortune would soon come upon her; It is a rare breed of Darcsen who goes through life without peril, and a more exotic ilk to trespass through its many corridors without reprise. Reprisal, yet, was an antagonistic virtue to the Darcsen people, for to wallow in its harrowing passage so long, so inescapable that it envelops itself as a pure staple of life, this alone seemed to touch the very foundations of their humanity. Such horrid acts would never be reciprocated, no matter the intensity of attacks weathered in times past, for like all things on earth, the Darcsen knows there comes a time when all things must wither away, and such antipathies - if we dare to say we have a choice on the grander events of this hallow Earth - should rightfully be the first to pass. 

Thomas' death was...unfortunate.

A...certain type of Darcsen might have said.

Yet as Inès or any other denizen of the Northern [i]Pisque[/i] of Francia might remind one, it is foolish to insist the Darcsens are a unified people. They might share common heritage - if that, on many an account - but to insist they all follow common law or ethic is, as no doubt many a traveler has learned, naught but stereotype. The Darcsens of Ostend were a fortuitous ilk, possessive of an uncommon resolve many would find irregular of a Darcsen elsewhere. And if such stereotypes were to be exclusively applied, Inès shone as the paragon of such lustrous generalizations. As it were...Inès found herself rather blank at the sight, so...accompanied with the sensation that was the loss of a loved one, if Inès felt so strongly to brave that usage. After all, much of him longed for her such that Thomas found it better to attach parts of him upon her. If only until she found a proper bath. 

For moments, she made her slight way back to her tent, if she found herself uncaring as to whether Thomas - at his worst - clung to her for a bit longer. In all honesty, Inès found herself appreciating the company. Such trust placed upon her, such virtue was it for her to receive such parting gifts. Each step came, and as each puddle soaked more through her boots did she slowly feel him soak into her, as if she still bore her in her arms. Her face remained blank, yet with no visible exaggeration came a mental smile, for Inès - in a sense - felt a most peculiar honor; To accept Thomas at his worst, as his most fearful, at his weakest...Inès gazed down blankly...and smiled, for in the realization of such burdens, Inès knew the true meaning of "love".

And so it would be...until that familiar voice rung out. 

That distinct Highlander voice...

That crude voice...

...the one who wished to become Thomas, without knowing Thomas.

And so when he spoke, so violently, so fervently, with such recourse and without such remorse, Inès looked down upon her crimson-soaked chest and felt a heaviness bear upon her, as if with every remark came a certain resolve, like parts of her grew from the experience alone. Such a dilettante demeanor towards heroism, that one, claimant of some testament of vengeance as if it were his destiny. For what Inès knew, he would make his destiny, his mark upon history...even doing so if it meant his name would be one, perhaps, not as fondly remembered. He had a goal and a creed, to not wish to fade away into some manner of void, unthanked and forgotten. 

The upholding of a code is a most righteous thing, indeed. But even stronger is it to challenge it.

[color=4682b4]"You [i]disrespectful [b]son of a bitch![/b][/i]"[/color] 

An ire pervaded the air so thick, the grounds about them became mist, so powerful was her choleric demeanor, it seemed to fry the puddles beneath their feet. A bloodstained Darcsen gave forth her Hell March to the unsuspecting Luke Godfrey, so proud of his demagoguery. 

[color=4682b4]"And just [i]what[/i] do you think you have accomplished?"[/color] Her stern pedagogy shut out even the rings of gunfire about her.

[color=4682b4]"You, of [b]all of us,[/b] have [b]no[/b] reason to say he didn't die in vain! [b]You[/b] were the one [b]to run away![/b] When Thomas laid there begging for help, begging for his life, he looked to me in my eyes and called out for someone to help! And you looked at a man, crying in pain, and [b][i]what[/i][/b] did you do?"[/color] 

The crowd slowly peeked around the tent cover, like the curious conscript peeking over a trench's top, for every veteran of the organization knew better than to possibly draw the fire of the woman producing such a Hellstorm.

[color=4682b4]"You looked him dead in the eye, and you said, [i]"He'd be fine."[/i]"[/color]

[color=4682b4]"You say you wanted to draw away the fire so we would be safe, but you also seem to think that my eyes don't work! You didn't want to leave to protect us! When you ran off to charge after the Fox, you didn't do it with any sense of urgency! You fucked around, you talked him down, you taunted him, you [b]cut his damned ears off[/b], and you plucked your trophies off of his body!"[/color]

[color=4682b4]"So what did you do? While even Jean cowered and stood hopeless? You didn't care about Thomas, or Jean, or me, or any of us. The only thing you cared about was your own ego, and playing Mister Bigshot while you though helping Thomas - [b]one of our own[/b] - to me: You were [i]too good[/i] for it, so you went glory-chasing and left the dirty work [b]to the Darkies.[/b]"[/color]

[color=4682b4]"You had no orders. You had nothing but your own instincts."[/color]

[color=4682b4][b]"And you cannot even do [i]"nothing"[/i] right."[/b][/color]

[color=4682b4]"And you can say that Jean is a cowardly Darcsen, but i'll take him over you any day."[/color] she added, squaring up even more firmly to Luke in front of her. [color=4682b4]"And you're right. He is spineless. He is cowardly. He doesn't know how to do his own job. And I would still take him over you. Jean doesn't pretend he's brave. He doesn't act like he wants glory or like he wants to be respected."[/color]

Her voice maintained its steadfast austerity, yet lowered in volume. In comparison, she hushed like a disappointed mother as Inès slowly paced toward the man.

[color=4682b4]"And when we talked on your birthday, I really thought a bit about you. I just thought you were another dumb guy, wanting to look out for the people close to him. A guy with more guts than brains, but that's alright, because you still have heart."[/color]

[color=4682b4]"But now, I know why you want it. Why you went off to war, and left your family, and why you act the way you do."[/color]

At a hair's length away, Inès halted her march. She glared Luke down, like she might lunge at his neck at any moment and snap it with one quick wrasp. 

[color=4682b4][i]"It's because you're [b]afraid."[/b][/i][/color]