Greig finally had enough of wallowing in self-isolation, taking one last swig of fiery alcohol before turning back toward his surviving squad mates and the small fire they had managed to get going; it was more than enough to illuminate the scraggily lot of them, yet small enough to not be noticed as one of the larger fires going.

"Richt then lads, let's stoap pitying ourselves 'n' git some entertainment gaun, aye?" Asked and proclaimed the sergeant as cheerily as he could, rummaging momentarily in his huge rucksack - a distinctive piece of Finreht equipment - to produce a slender shimmering instrument that he gave an experimental whistle, the high-pitched noise piercing the air around them.

"Dae ye hae yer fiddle, Neacel? 'N' yer drum, Tadhag?"

Two of the six found their own instruments, lifting them out and giving one another a smile. Then came the last.

Grinning Wee Lachlan, now minus his vox set - it having been blown asunder some time between their last charge and the present moment - produced what appeared to be a tartan-dressed octupus from his bag and, after placing it beneath one arm, gave a few sorrowful drones.

"A'richt then! We'll stairt wi' a short dance, 'n' then git oan tae a tae o' jigs. As yer superior, ah will tak' th' foremaist dance. Lay oot th' guns."

Two lasguns were lain on the ground in a cross, Greig taking his position in the bottom right corner of the makeshift square, and a nod to Private Tadhag got a drum beat going, soon with a squirling tune courtesy of Wee Lachlan.

A small bow to no-one in particular and Greig was off, his kilt swirling about his knees as he leapt over the guns, keeping within the square and twisting this way and that as he did so.

No doubt it would attract some form of attention from others, even with the Finrehters placed within their own little corner, but whether it was the right sort or wrong sort of attention they would soon find out.