And so it has come unto this, when we are faced headlong with danger in what is sure to be a very bloodied and very chaotic battle. The artic chill in the air has made me bitter to any further cause for concern. Storming the far side of what was once intended to be our means of escape, not a means of entry, I can hardly hear the orders that escape from my own mouth in the midst of the fury that becomes our batallion. All I know is, it is mighty welcoming to see Mr. Nixon's undead compatriots take to the castle's front entrance, clawing away at a metal door with vigorious cause. General Sherman and his troop lend a hand aswell, as they bring about the artillery. His men set up a missle launcher in the grass, and he commands it to be fired. Nixon scatters his forces and we all brace ourselves for what happens next.
The door caves in on itself almost immediately, unable to withstand the force of the blast, whilst signaling our arrival to the enemy beyond. And hopefully, with luck, giving Jackson enough of a distraction to rejoin us for the battle to come.
I remove two seperate hatchets from the holsters strapped to my hips, bringing them in low. Removing my hat from atop my head, I fold it and tuck it away, as the other men prepare themselves in their own ways. Nixon with his conjectures. Kennedy with a hail mary. Sherman with a whispered pledge of allegeance. And me? Why, I've nothing further to say, at this very point. Except to one individual. The man who has led the Rough Riders, and it is with great purpose.
"Mr. Roosevelt, if you'd kindly lead us into battle."
For tonight, we must ride.