The rain presses down, always. Now it teases and pokes at exposed skin, at sopping clothes, a soft patter with no pattern. Now it falls in solid walls, leaping from the clouds to meet them and carrying away anything too weak to hang on. Their footsteps will stop for a time, and the rain will press down.

Lucky Vasilia can bear it. Tall Vasilia, strong Vasilia, she of the long legs and sure feet, she cuts through mudslide and stream alike without stumbling. The endless rains soak her to the bone, stealing away heat and dry and comfort, but she holds her heart in a grip of iron and will not let go. When she deigns to fuss, her wit is sharp and her timing sharper. When the call to march come, her voice rings loud above the storm. For she is strong, and she can bear it.

Not all are so fortunate. Others stand a head shorter. The waters rush up to their waists, and they nearly fall in exhaustion on the far shore. Others wear coats of merely water [i]resistant[/i] wool. And there is always more water. They may as well walk with pockets full of stones, their wet coats slapping wet against their body with each step. Others cannot remember the sun, nevermind warmth. For these, it takes all of their strength to keep going. While lucky Vasilia has plenty to spare.

When the call for first march comes, she playfully steals from the packs of the weary, and slips their burdens on her own with a wink and a smile. Sometimes she walks in the rear, and the forms of her comrades come flailing through the misting rains where their boots have sunk into the mud. These she pulls free, and pulls forward, marching them back to the safety of the column. Sometimes she walks in the fore, the first to cross the stream. The anchor rope makes a stylish belt about her waist, and at the sound of a cry and a splash she plants her feet firmly, and none are washed away. Sometimes she is a silent companion to the weary, sometimes her marching-song carries them one step ahead of the other. Sometimes, it is only she and he, huddled in a tent. She peels off soaking uniform and slips into her damp jacket, and before he can argue she’s tucked him within and zipped it up, that he may warm himself by her heartbeat.

These then, are the trials of Vasilia of Lakkos, hero to the people, whose glaive strikes for the weary, the downtrodden, the forgotten, the left-behind. Who enjoys victory after victory, and the memory of defeat grows too weak to hang on. The mud carries it away with all that is useless and dirty, and the rain presses down, and Vasilia presses on.