[color=CD5555][b]ELLIOT HOLDT[/b][/color] - Fort Braemur[hr]
He cut himself shaving this morning.

It was a nick just under his left ear. The guys beside him had a good chuckle about it while he grumbled and felt around for his towel. It was as insignificant as it could be, nothing compared to the cuts and bruises and taunting he traded at sparring on a daily basis. Still stongeing stung though.

He was to be better than this. He was a Captain – no, more than a Captain now! He needed to keep his composure in the days (years?) to come. If a mere summons was enough to rattle him, then an actual battlefield would…

Elliot gulped.

What would Henrik have done in his place? Charged forward with a grin, ready to lay down his life for his House? He should have been the one striding towards B204. Elliot was no warrior. He found no delight in dominance, no ecstasy in bloodshed. They wanted him to be a leader, but he lacked the boldness it took to thrive in war. 

Ah. War.

[color=CD5555]“Oh tomes, this is really happening,”[/color] he moaned and crumpled against the wall of the hallway. A pair of officers regarded him as they passed by. He could feel his complexion beginning to match his hair.

He just wanted to do right by his people. He wanted to hug his mother. He wanted to hold Ilya in his arms again. Mere letters weren’t enough, had never been enough. 

A good lot of the garrison would deem him selfish. There were many better suited for this position. Decent men who’d give their right hand for it. Personally, Elliot didn’t give a crap about the House or the South. All he needed was for Redline, his family that resided in it, to be in one piece on the day he finally gets discharged.

Strength was returning to his legs.

Yes. He may lack the spine of a Captain but he still had a reason to be one.

He breathed deeply. He straightened his dress uniform. He smoothed a thumb over the bandaid on his cheek. And he entered the room.

[color=CD5555]“A-Armored Captain Holdt, present and ready to serve. Sir!”[/color]