[IC] [♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

[Rockette]

^{【whispers of an end.】}

This is a pain like which she has never known.

It’s different from flayed flesh and broken bone, it’s different from blood malformed and veins twisted, leagues apart from the esoteric horror squirming in eldritch deformities betwixt heart and soul. It’s a keening wail, a baying echo of dread that shatters through membrane and embeds deeper and deeper still yonder realms of quivering ebon and blue. Her blades are sunken in deep, twitching, flexing, burrowing further inward with a slick sound that pings foreign on her ears, oblique lashes shield that gaze of terror that glimmers pale, white, and shimmering within shadow and the invasions of darkness that crack and conform; obsidian claws they are. She’s kneeling in the dirt next, pebbles unforgiving in her skin, she can feel them slice deeper still as her blades fall, plummeting towards a netherworld of muck and taint. The helpless dredge descends, and the sky is weeping, cloaking bodies conformed and lain within the thickness of life and death; it’s the colour of black, brown, and red. Twisted and blended, beautiful and sadistic in every warp of hue and tone.

And then, she screams.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

_{S O L D I E R. . .E N C A M P M E N T / / Z A L E R A. . . T U N D R A.}

---

The tundra’s of Zalera were slight, maintained through routine climate control, employed by the Govern through the massive units found within the spires of the Esper Ridge; reactors that yielded intense power and siphoned the caps until left desolate and barren. But such result was conceived and convinced as necessary to ensure the equal length of yearly seasons for means of comfort and luxury. The insurance afforded only to those within the central continent with the Dalmastice officials employing various from Palamecia to commission the reactors for a multitude of justified reasons and purposes authenticated by their sanction and delivery.

However, when the sun descended yonder Esper Ridge peaks and slopes, the swirling winds conformed and intensified, the ever unpredictable gale riding across the waves of the canal betwixt Galbadia and Archadia’s closest masses where naval Shyps parted upon exchange of imported luxury and necessities. The Zalera plains gradually darkened, eclipsed in shadows of sapphire with feathering darkness and ebon delicacy and the soft rays of a reclining hell fire that bloomed through increasing tosses of mistral devices that appeared like a winter wreathed monsoon. The winds only increased slight and sharp when the steelish veneer of a fanged temptress founded on wiles of pain and war stood poised with arms laced at her ebon clothed breast and boots impaled deep within frigid soils that yielded beneath the stiletto with ease. By the gleam of her figure, and the platoon scattered across the plain, it was a clear phalanx of military impart with the dressings of further leagues and power.

It could only be SOLDIER.

The haunted rumour of such weaponry and force, gilded within human flesh and esoteric bedlams of fortification, and given only a slight reign of freedom by the impart and order of their pomp addled and risen masters. There may not have been a leashed woven thrice around her clothed throat visibly, but the conceptual lead still manifested in the brigade ringing the circumference of the temporary shelter and constant wealth of eyes and observations to her person as she stoically - by initial glimpses - awaited the further arrival of many others.

The Govern had relinquished the universal cage, yawning forth the gates to permit SOLDIER to arise to further obligations and capability, under browse and sanction of other masters and bearers. However, it was an improvement compared to being delegated and ordered to remain within units meant to contain and control, permitted only to yearn and desire for something they all universally lacked. But, the call had come, the orders had been sent.

The first SOLDIERS were being deployed.

Carmen Auset, garbed in traditional obsidian threads of fortified mesh; nylons and steel threaded uniforms that appealed to the clefts of her body yonder the padded exterior with slight pauldrons and a high collar that framed and caressed the line of jaw where blonde swept alive in the breeze, was the first one having arrived to the encampment. The debriefing had been quick and efficient, find way into Archadia and infiltrate the Grounds. It was simplistic in theory, but the execution was to be more complex, further complicated by the forbidden entry the northern continents had publicly announced under terror by further threat. The creatures described had been beyond reason and conception, much to the critical scrutiny of the Commander as she’d gleaned over every parcel of azure glows and text. She would’ve been accepting of a solo deploy, one SOLDIER would’ve been enough to gain access to the critical destination, but those delivered to the point of Zalera with her - her keepers, she calls them - had informed in clipped intonations [it's fear, she thinks, with a wild simper of poison promise and wishes] that more SOLDIERS would be deployed along with her, the first of their kind to be given public sanction and reason.

It was to be a varied platoon, a supposed unit of support and power under the reasoning of insuring success and to - she laughed - not lose control and avoid contact with the denizens of Faelan. SOLDIER wasn’t meant for the public, given the strain of political pull and reign, the continents under banner and pressure attempting to dislocate from the dominant Govern. The initial report and order had been given an entire span of three weeks ago, combined with the evidence that the encampment had been stationed for nearly a week, awaiting the arrival for the rest of the contingent. They were to divide and infiltrate, and she was literally thrumming with the anticipation as the squall intensified with sheaves of ebon wraiths and whorls expanding outward. She inhaled, the sun descending lower by slow, crawling increments as time fell and darkness gradually heralded the leash of nightly wonders and glittering crusts of tarnished winters and sludge that spread and swelled with each footfall of the designated sentry. Carmen had proffered her gradual assistance, by the rights of her power, she could delegate the brigade under sheer glances and intimidation alone, but they wielded peculiar controls and weaponry that sung and sparked and threatened her notions of betrayal and defection. It was a demented waiting game, every side and border gilded with their pieces, the deformed ordinance malformed under orders of a Govern that advocated for any league of control and power and imparted weapons of her origin and crippling state of mind and violent notions.

Gloves cinched tight and muscles swelled, intensifying the gale as her eyes expanded, glimmered, and formed into pools of crystalline malice that bespoke of reclining patience and increasing expectancy of a euphoric void that carved deep, wide fissures of festering need betwixt reason and sanity. Carmen purred against the winds, and within her mortal shell the unfurling wrath of her King yawned and reaped forth, fracturing the conceptual shell of her quintessence and pouring outward within a quiver of malice and malcontent; teasing and baiting her stoic sentry as she awaited the arrival of her fellow SOLDIERS. She was mad and manic with power, the sky suddenly breaking and the winds imparting as aerial Shyps descended and Carmen's simper broke leagues of welcome and warmth; it shimmered cold, leaking a wealth of tempting wiles and felidae grace and just as unpredictable.

They were finally arriving.

[The Survivor]

Bruce brought the cigar he had pulled out of his vest to his mouth, shivering slightly in the whistling tundra winds. The former police lieutenant was adorned in an arctic camouflage combat gear, a mixture of police SOG and infantry. He snapped his fingers in front of the cigar, a spark arcing between his thumb and index finger, lighting the cigar. He sighed and gave it a few puffs as a coy voiced echoed "Isn't that using your power irresponsibly?". Bruce rolled his eyes and stroked at his beard, brushing away the ice crystals that had begun to form. He knew the cigar would keep Fenri quiet, it liked the fumes as much as Bruce. A heavily modified assault rifle hung from a strap that's wrapped around Bruce. It had several options for sightings, including short to long distance with a grenade launcher hooked onto the underside railing. On his thigh was strapped an equally heavily modified sidearm. Attached to his lower back was a customized machete. All along his vest was ammo magazines, silencers for both of his weapons and grenades of the smoke and flash variety.

Bruce looked around the formation as they waited, taking hold of his rifle. He was easily the oldest one here aside from one other SOLDIER who could have come close. Children he thought to himself bitterly. I am stuck with a bunch of children. Bruce thought back to the moment he was captured with a scowl...No, he has to keep his head clear. The only way he could get out of this is too get on the brass's good side and get them off guard. "Oooh, isn't that conspiracy to commit treason?". Bruce simply shrugged his shoulders, turning his eye to the sky, scanning it for the shyps that were supposed to arrive soon. The mission was to infiltrate Archadia, which was politically sensitive and obviously highly classified. Bruce wondered if the same people that committed him to this was behind this very mission. Pricks. He looked again to his comrades. The boss was a woman who looked like trouble in a pretty case. Bruce pondered if she signed up for this or if she was conscripted like him. Probably the former, she seems like type. He looked to the sky as he heard the hum of their transport. Finally.

[FantasyChic]

---

_{S O L D I E R. . .E N C A M P M E N T / / Z A L E R A. . . T U N D R A.}

---

Adapt and Thrive.

Those words echoed inside her head like an empty cavern. The bitter cold she felt didn't phase her. After all, when one could control water and ice, why worry about the cold? Why worry about anything really? Worry left you open and being open meant others had the upper hand. It was always best to be the one with the deck stacked in your favor. That's why she walked out of the ship without a word.

London, a newly formed SOLDIER, stepped out into the Zelera Tundra. Her long, blonde hair lifted in the breeze. Her face, despite the cold, bore a stone cold expression, almost like she was bored. Since she wasn't shooting anything, she technically was bored. She wore her sunglasses over her eyes, despite the lack of a harsh sun. Her armor dipped in light blue and cold black fitted around her body. Her sniper rifle tucked safely away on her back above her hip. It gave her a sense of comfort, really. An odd thing for a gun to do.

She was not the first here, it seemed, and she arrived with others. She didn't know many of them, save for a few she knew from reputation and rumor alone. She wasn't jumping for joy at the prospect of working with a team, let alone a team she knew nothing about, but she wasn't about to let this opportunity get away from her. So here she was, in freezing temperature about to embark on a mission that could very well be dangerous, deadly, and her last.

She actually managed a small smile as she stepped toward the encampment.

[Raijinslayer]

James Camron

---

SOLDIER Camp, Zalera Tundra

---

Mysterious.

Intimidating.

Cool.

Dangerous.

As the SOLDIER's walked into the encampment, many of the regular troops around would feel as if they somewhat embodied these characteristics to the T, seeming more like a pack of wolves amongst sheep in their sleek armor, the shine of their varied weapons gleaming in the faint light of the Zalvera moon. However, unbeknownst to them, this illusion would soon be broken in an extremely undignified way.

_{"Outtathewayouttathewayouttatheway}OUTOFTHEFUCKIN'WAY!!!" A figure bolted out of the depths of the transport Shyp like a bat out of hell, holding both his stomach and his mouth as he made his way into the chilled air, only to trip near the bottom, doing a slight roll along the ground before landing facedown in the dirt. As they tried to rise from the ground, a faint choking sound could be heard, followed by the unpleasant sight of them unloading the contents of their stomach onto the ground in front of them, the mess of sick steaming and bubbling as it settled into the dirt, giving off a somewhat offensive odor.

Feeling a tad bit better, James rolled off to the side, making sure not to have any of his dreads fall into the pile of his vomit as he laid on the ground, letting out a low, miserable groan. "I. Fucking. Hate. Shyps." He muttered before taking one more roll to the side, getting up shakily to his feet and brushing the dirt and light snow of himself. As the probably many eyes looked him over, they'd notice a few things about the James. First being that he was young, barely out of his teen years and with little to show for it in terms of body size. He was thin, lean, and while some musculature could be seen through the layer of black under-armor that he wore beneath his light over-armor, it wasn't anything to write home about. Next would be his armor that, despite being made exactly for him, still looked a bit big on the young man, as if he'd taken his father's suit and gotten chosen instead of his old man to go on the mission by mistake. It wasn't much, just a sturdy under-armor covered by durable armored metal plates over his key areas, keeping him well protected, but still maintaining a majority of his maneuverability. The final two thing they'd notice, however, was that it didn't feel cold anymore, and that any aches, pains, or discomforts had seemingly been forgotten, replaced by a low undercurrent of energy that seemed to get stronger and more vibrant as one got closer to the young SOLDIER.

Back to James, he was taking a moment to make sure his stomach had finally settled before getting back-up, cursing Raganavic in his head. I knew this would happen, dammit, I told you that this would happen if I ate before we left on the mission. Yet you had to make me eat five servings of spaghetti, a tuna fish sandwich, and three bowls of soup. God, and now where is it, huh? It's in the ground over there in a foul smelling mess. Raganavic response was merely the feeling of satisfaction and phantom pangs of hunger echoing through James' stomach. There isn't going to be time for that, you dumb lizard. We're here on a mission, doing work, my first real job since joining this thing. Forget about your stomach for just two minutes. James' frown only deepened as he felt that same sense of satisfaction, only this time he could taste the spaghetti on the tip of his tongue, the pangs of hunger creeping up from his core not being so imaginary this time

_{"Ugh. . . I wish I could trade you sometimes, I really do."} James muttered under his breath, taking a moment to readjust his bow, check his knife, and look his pistol over before making his way into the camp, knowing that all eyes were on him but acting as if it didn't bother him.

[Hexaflexagon]

^{S O L D I E R E N C A M P M E N T - Z A L E R A T U N D R A}

---

Boots squelched on formless slush entombed somewhere between free-flowing liquid and rigid solid. The steps followed a steady procession each impact regulated and precise. They froze as the man that the feet belonged to adjusted the load that was bearing down on his shoulders. The shifting of shoulders sent soundless drops of blood falling to the greedy earth. The outward breath a white plume as water vapor condensed in the air. Then the footsteps renewed themselves cutting a path through the encampment. Finally stopping at a tent of geodesic form made to counter the winds of the tundra.

With a low grunt Corr deposited the load. The hulking lifeless form of an elk flopping to the ground. The Govern had provided the encampment with standard military supply yet Corr refused. A simple underlying indentation in his brain from youth. Food was not given to you, food was earned. He gave a final prayer over the carcass compelling its spirit to find some measure of rest before he set to work. Beginning the methodical process of pulling away flesh and separating meat from bone. Time seemed to accelerated forward at a hastened pace and when he finally looked up the sun had bled away into encroaching darkness.

He wiped the blood from his hands with a rag as he watched the sky. The expanding darkness a comforting sight after what felt like years trapped inside. It reminded him of home, of simpler times. Sleek forms of Shyps broke across his vision as they came in for a landing on the perimeter of the encampment. The awaited arrival. The movement arose short sparks of activity among the scattered denizens of the camp. Corr finished storing the meat at a careful pace as if afraid of tipping some unseen scale. Using the same rag from earlier he went about cleaning his knife as he listened to the scurry of activity.

These Shyps would be containing the last of the SOLDIERS. Corr himself had arrived a little over a week ago settling himself with little pomp. In that time what information Corr had learned of the upcoming mission did not do much to quell any unease. Having gone over the simple three page mission briefing over and over again for any scrap of detail. At its heart it was a simple smash and grab, nothing that the regular military couldn't handle. They claimed it was for secrecy but special operations and emergency response were trained for things like this. Yet the Govern had deemed it necessary to play their proverbial ace in the sleeve. For all intents and purposes Corr knew it for what it was a test run, and test runs didn't come without surprises.

He wasn't on duty but never the less made his way towards the landing area, keeping up appearances and all. He stood in direct juxtaposition to the camp he traversed to meet the coming Shyps. Dressed in what the kindest of souls would describe as an ensemble of rags and tattered furs. He looked more at home roughing it in the wilderness than he did a military excursion. Death as it were not avoided with metal defenses but rather welcomed to try. Personnel moved frantically - the simultaneous release and build up of the tension within the camp. The shyps setting forth the next stage of a task three weeks in the making .

As he approached the perimeter there was a sound akin to a slow-moving rockslide. The others around him didn't seem to react, for the sound itself was internal in origin, trapped. Corr sighed as he halted his movements and scanned the horizon ahead. He sighed as he caught the origin of the discontent. Underneath his breath he whispered. "Yeah I get it you don't like em. Too bad."

A stretch of silence was the only response.

The subjects in question were two of his companions clustered ahead of him, Bruce and Carmen. As opposed to his stalwart companion Corr was not a particular fan of judging on impression. The Fayth teaching understanding more often than it did discrimination. Yet he would be lying if he said he did not feel the looming sense of unease. When he was younger he would watch the storms approach from the belfry, it was a similar feeling of impending conflict. Yet partly he knew that was of his 'friend's' influence as it was not the most sociable of creatures. The mere presence of its own kind generating a level of unappreciated unease. Despite this he walked forward and made no attempts to hide his approach.

He positioned himself between the two with a respectful distance between each. Undeterred by the flurry of wind and slush that seemed to circle around Carman. Upon closer inspection his veins pulsed with a green glow achieving heightened homeostasis to combat the increased chill. He fixed the wrappings on his hands as they awaited for the lowering of landing ramps.

"You know, you two are intimidating enough without your constant glower and your wind." He mused only loud enough for them to hear. It was less of a jab as it were more of a half-hearted truth. Though Corr knew its purpose, he himself didn't see much merit in the alpha dog routine. Respect was earned not forced through fear or gesticulation.

Finally in quick succession the ramps of the Shyps dropped and out walked their cargo. Corr pivoted his body as a blurr moved past him before progressing into a pool of anger and vomit. Despite himself Corr give a muted laugh though he did note that he was going to have to keep an eye out for that one. He titled his head backwards towards the display as if to further demonstrate his earlier point.

He fell back into a comfortable silence giving a small wave to the approaching SOLDIERS. A peculiar center of warmth amongst building unease.

[icmasticc]

^{| An Omen Yet Defined |}

_{I S L E O F I V A L I C E / / M A N Y Y E A R S P R I O R}

---

Her eyes cried out as her voice, laden with awe and fear, sunk deeper into her bloody esophagus.

Amidst the competing sounds of clashing metal, shrieks, and armored feet stampeding against the broken earth, the young soldier could only gaze in horror at the sight before him, stumbling backwards and allowing the heft of his golden armor to yank his back to the ground. A multitude of thoughts wracked his brain and he choked on a gaggle of jumbled words as he frantically heaved breaths and struggled to return to his feet. The body before him finally fell to its knees and its head slumped to the side, an eyes-wide visage permanently claiming residence. Fresh blood poured down the neck and stained golden armor as it continued to make its ground-ward descent, quickly escaping from the wound created by a long, shining blade lodged straight through the throat. The terrified young solider squealed and slid backwards before finally finding the momentum to rise to his feet. Shimmering blue eyes of the now deceased bore into him under the light of a setting sun just as a taller and much bulkier armored figure approached the boy. He stopped just beside him and closed his eyes briefly before turning to face his horrified charge.

"It's not your fault, Corbyn," a deep voice almost bellowed over the sounds of battle. "This is war, my boy. She knew what she signed up for, same as you."

Corbyn's fear slowly subsided and twisted itself into a whorl of anger as the bigger man spoke. Pools of darkened ocher soaked up the image of the armored woman on her knees before liquid overflowed and dripped down from the corners of each pool. In spite of this, his countenance remained steadfast. A large hand gripped the young soldier's shoulder and the equally large body attached turned to face Corbyn fully. "I know this is war... " he said without breaking his gaze "You don't have to console me, Brigand. I understand perfectly."

Brigand removed his hand and unsheathed his sword. It was tall and slim, a weapon that at first would seem too dainty for a larger man, but those that knew the man who wielded it also knew just how deadly it could be in his hands. "Good. Even if you are only eighteen years old, a man should be able to compartmentalize loss in the heat of battle. It's the only way we survive in times like these." Removing the tower shield from his back, the hulking knight motioned toward the horizon and took off at a jog, blending in with the other golden-clad soldiers heading off in the same direction. Corbyn continued to gaze at the armored woman.

Her brown locks were still tied back in a ponytail, the few rogue strands swaying in the gentle breeze as her lifeless head hung to the side. She was petite even in the somewhat form-fitting armor and one hand tightly clutched a blade sized perfectly for its owner. "At least you died in defense," Corbyn muttered as he slowly bent down to pick up the sword sprawled near his feet. He glanced at the shield on his back before wrapping his free hand around the hilt of the sword as well - his resolve was clear. "I'm sorry... " He said as he rushed off after Brigand and the rest of his fellow company.

_{S O L D I E R E N C A M P M E N T / / Z A L E R A T U N D R A}

---

For a man of the abilities of Corbyn Vesper, the commander was surprisingly less than fond of flying. Fear played no part in his objection, rather he felt the most vulnerable while traversing the skies in some iron behemoth. He had elected to take a seat with the rest of the various SOLDIER personnel in the back of the Shyp, in spite of his ranking, simply on the hope that it might bring some additional comfort. As the others made conversation amongst themselves, Corbyn rested against the back of his seat, arms folded and eyes closed. In stark contrast to the rest of the armored individuals, the commander chose to wear the uniform most associated with his personal comfort at Fort Lullin - a form-fitting carbon weave top of navy blue fibers disappearing into ebony bottoms of the tactical variety and combat boots. A single shoulder pauldron adorned the left shoulder, its chest and back strap also home to a presently empty holster. Armor was just too troublesome for the man, so he had made the decision months earlier that he would never wear it on active duty. His resting mind cleared suddenly and an inaudible groan escaped in the same moment. She was awake.

"You're sure this isn't a simulation, right?" the voice of a mature woman echoed.

"I told you already, we've been deployed. And why in the hell are you still talking like that? I thought it was an experiment?" Corbyn replied within his mental space. Asteria, the Aeon forcibly bonded to his DNA, almost never spoke beyond the mind of her host.

"I've come to enjoy the broken speech of humans. It's amusing," She echoed with glee. "Do you still plan on ignoring my offer?"

Corbyn audibly sighed. "Obviously. I'm capable enough without your devil's deal. I'll manage."

"Deployed means going into battle, does it not? Are you sure you'll manage?"

"It's not like they're sending me alone. I'll be with a team and besides, our team's role in the mission is infiltration. I know you don't understand us completely, but that word usually means stealth. Avoiding a fight if possible."

"Sounds pretty cowardly to me."

"Who the hell asked you anyway?"

"If I'm forced to come along, I'd rather do something than watch you and others sneak around."

"No one's forcing you to do shit. Go back to sleep or dormancy, as you call it."

"The moment you borrow my power I'll be reawakened anyway. Or did you forget that it's my power?"

Corbyn's body shook roughly as the Shyp made its landing. The pilot over the loudspeaker apologized for the roughness as the commander rolled his eyes and grabbed the large, double-headed lance leaning against the wall next to him, placing it into the holster on his back. "I don't have time for this pointless argument, I have to meet the others," Corbyn relayed in his mind as he rubbed his forehead.

As expected, the air was frigid in the Tundra. Corbyn briskly strolled down the ramp of the Shyp and crunched down on the collection of brush and cold underneath with each step as he made a beeline for the main tent. The encampment was not necessarily large, though it was exactly as the lancer expected. Various SOLDIER personnel scurried from point to point and the general atmosphere of the area was heavy with preparation and rush. Just ahead near the tent, the commander could easily make out the figures of those he would be working with, chief among them the giant known as Corr and a fellow associate, Carmen Auset. The air grew colder and sharper as he neared the group and white breath soared into the skies in the form of wisps as an exaggerated sigh escaped. Auset was doing her thing again. As Corbyn approached the group, he slowed his walk and offered a risen hand as a form of general greeting to all.

"Please, please tell me you've got some decent food," He said to Corr, his eyes pleading with hunger. The travel by Shyp was bad enough due to flight, but the worse sin was the god awful crap they tried to pass off as food. Even SOLDIER could not have the luxury of high-quality cooking.

[Insatiable]

N I C H O L A U S E L D R I C.

---

_{SOLDIER Encampment | Zalera Tundra}

Tedious was what the flight seemed to be, yet sleep barely had any place in Nic's unmanageable sense of comfort. Forcing his eyes shut was the last thing he tried to do, leaning towards the hope of finally putting himself to rest even when he knew that it was only going to last for a short while before the assignment could commence. Unfortunate that it wasn't of any help. He slouched heavily against his seat while feeling the slump on his shoulders. A long, defeated sigh followed with his eyes - yet again - closing shut not for another attempt of sleeping, but because he had given up. Oversleeping the day before yesterday showed its consequence and Nic now understood why most didn't see it as an acceptable ... feat. Fastening the loosed buckle of his seat, Nic shifted a side of his head and laid it against his left arm. His other arm fumbled on the holster strapped onto his waist, making sure that Selena wasn't slung awkwardly.

A trembling stir caught Nic by surprise. With little-to-no interaction from the other elected SOLDIERs, he could hardly tell if the craft had any troubles with its engines, or if they've finally reached their point of arrival. With the ramp lowered, it gave him the idea of the latter. He could've thought otherwise if that didn't happen. Unfastening his seat, Nic did a quick stretch to check if his torso was restrained by the bullet-proof vest he wore. What an ugly thing it was, and certainly wasn't the most comfortable type of protection to be dressed in, or at least so since Nic didn't see it as a match to the leather trench coat he donned. Putting his hat on, he marched outside of the Shyp. His sights were then met by a stark landscape, with the sun descending from a distant horizon. It was cold, but the view from afar felt hauntingly surreal.

His drowsiness spoiled the juncture however, with the apparent reminder of the sleepless night he had. The infringing darkness gave an unpleasant sign despite the fascination Nic mustered with the cold, barren mountains and the frigid territory skirting the land's vast vegetation. Ravenous cries started to build up in his mind, slowly interrupting the range of his perception. With sheer resistance, the unsettling shrieks quickly subsided. Nic immediately fished for his box of cigar that rested in his coat's pocket, pulling a single stick and a lighter.

I'm tired. I haven't slept, please don't make this difficult.

The response given sounded no more than a raven cawing in satisfaction. Nic obviously knew what it meant as he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Continuing to tread outside and before he could even flick the lighter to light up his cigar, Nic was overtaken by a young man hurrying to get himself outside for reasons he apparently did not know. Until the dreadful spew of liquid created a putrid mess by the man who came tumbling down from his rushed movements. Its poor sight gave nothing but grimace towards Nic, but looking at the guy had cursed him with the urge to do something about it.

"Need a hand there buddy?" Nic expressed in a calm, soothing voice, risking to reach out his hand while being prepared to change his grimaced look.

[Damiann47]

(Arin's banner goes here once it is ready. Mostly a note for myself.)

[Arin Stone | Zalera Tundra]

---

The wait was probably the worse part, ever since she was told about the deployment in the near future, Arin had been both excited yet dreading this moment. Sure the opportunity to see some action was great, she truly looked forward to stepping foot on whatever battlefield needed her but... a few months ago she expected to be doing this as a human. Even while sitting there, strapped into her seat, she could feel Entrasi poking at the farthest reaches of her psyche, waiting for his next chance to overwhelm her. For the moment she had him locked away, but frankly Arin had no idea when he'll break free from this mental prison. She will need to remain vigilant, yet that was a lot easier said than done.

Equipped in a set of stripped-down arctic gear, where she removed extra weight from her kit such as extra ammo or other superfluous items. It wasn't like she expected to be trekking across frozen wastelands for weeks at a time, so she reasoned it was probably safe to leave behind extra supplies in favor for traveling light. Then resting against her leg, barrel side down, was good old Doorknocker. Perhaps it had a somewhat cliche name, a very cliche name actually, yet she had become quite attached to the shotgun. Without a doubt she knew it would serve her faithfully in the coming months, she would never have it any different.

Arin was abruptly taken out of her daydreaming when their transport had finally touched down, and the ramp extended forth. Quickly she unstrapped herself, then with Doorknocker slung over her back was about to disembark. That was until another SOLDIER shouldered past her with a surprising sense of urgency. For a moment Arin found herself quite confused as to what was happening then she heard the unmistakable sound of the guy throwing up his insides. While she should have been concerned over his health, she was a lot more thankful that he managed to hold it while everyone was still packed within the Shyp. To be covered in vomit on her first day would not have been a good way to kick off the deployment

Frankly she was going to leave the man to his own devices until yet again another SOLDIER approached their sick comrade. At the sight of this Arin sighed to herself, perhaps it was a better idea to check up on the guy instead, maybe see if he needed to be carried to the infirmary.

She walked towards the two then stopped while still a good few feet away. "Is he looking alright? Doesn't need to see a medic or anything?" Arin asked both of them, but obviously meaning to address the much more composed looking SOLDIER.

[AmongHeroes]

S A M M A E L K ö N I G

---

The rasp of metal sliding across metal fell dully against the thick technical-canvas of Samm’s tent. Outside the breathing winds of the tundra hissed, howled, and sighed, adding an ethereal quality to the sound of the sword gliding over the sharpening stone. Sitting cross legged, his elbows perched upon the hinge of his knees, Samm aimed a keen ice-blue eye down the length of the sword’s edge. Even in the relatively low light of the tent, the blade seemed sharp enough to make the air around it somehow more crisp and hard.

Or perhaps that was just the cold?

Samm smirked silently at the thought. The camp was indeed a cold and harsh place. Yet, since arriving two days previous, Samm had found it to remind him of home more than he had anticipated. The state of Aster was not such a barren place as Zalera—or at least it was not so in the coastal lowland areas of Samm’s youth. But the cold was the same, and the brisk fragility that came with it brought aromas that kept his mind whimsically aware of his past.

The unmistakable sounds of Shyps on final approach brought Samm back from far away, and once more into the space of the now. Enveloping the blade of his sword in a soft cloth, he gave the honed metal a final cleansing swipe. In one fluid motion, Samm came to his knees, and brought the sword across his body before gently diving the weapon into its sheath. The glide of the blade into the scabbard felt as smooth as silk, and as the hilt came to stop against the machined cusp, a faint and satisfying snick punctuated the movement. Taking the stowed sword, Samm brought the weapon to his left hip. Small, automatic servos took hold of the scabbard, and affixed it securely to his armor’s load-bearing belt.

Standing halfway up inside of the low tent, Samm turned to grab a large carafe that had been heating over a small jet stove. As he lifted the vacuum insulated container, a waft of fresh coffee lifted upon a wisp of steam, and into Samm’s nose. His satisfied smile was automatic. This brew was no regulation SOLDIER insta-shit drivel, but a blend from Samm’s own private stash. Tasteless food, days without sleep, and grueling conditions Samm could tolerate, but bad coffee? A man could only abide so much.

Encased in the dark matte-black layers of his armor, Samm pulled aside the tent’s entry flap, and made his way into the pulling winds. He forwent the dehumanizing cover of his integrated helmet and face piece, instead wanting to greet the arrival of his new comrades with the courtesy of a smile and a genuine look in the eyes. With the carafe and a stack of cups in his right hand, Samm allowed his left to rest easily upon the hilt of his sword.

As his booted feet crunched over the hardened ground, making his way to where the other members of the “unit” were gathering, Samm tried his best to take stock of the new arrivals. He had already met a couple of the other SOLDIERS that had arrived at the encampment early, and in a general sense he gathered that they were formidable individuals. This was perhaps an obvious assumption, given that every one of the company was honed to be a living weapon. Nonetheless, from the little interaction he had had with them, Samm had little doubt in their martial prowess. From the looks of things, his first impressions of the newest arrivals did nothing to change his assumptions—save for perhaps the man who looked as if motion sickness had gotten the better of him.

Arriving within the loose cluster of SOLDIERS, Samm offered a nod and a smile to each when the moment allowed. One of the men spoke to Corr regarding a wish for quality food, and Samm made a look of knowing agreement.

“I hear that,” Samm said. “The Govern must not put a lot of stock in increased moral, because the chow situation could bring even the happiest sonofabitch into a bout of depression.”

Lifting up the carafe and the cups, Samm spoke not only to the man who had addressed Corr, but the entire group. “I can’t help with chow, but I can offer some genuine and fresh coffee if anyone’s interested?”

As if to punctuate his offering, Samm poured a cup of the steaming, aromatic liquid, and lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

[Noxious]

_{∙• but I don't want to go among mad people •∙}

S O L D I E R E ɴ ᴄ ᴀ ᴍ ᴘ ᴍ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ // Z ᴀ ʟ ᴇ ʀ ɪ ᴀ T ᴜ ɴ ᴅ ʀ ᴀ

There had been a meditating elation tingling beneath her moon kissed flesh for weeks. It was a rarity that they allowed the deranged heir out and about, and not just upon the ground, but in the sky! She hadn’t laid foot on a real shyp for so long the experience of such had been revoked from her, even as she attempted to pry into that recess. Much to the goon lackey’s dismay [they’d pissed someone off to get stuck traipsing around with this one.] she had ignored their request to remain stagnant and seated with the others in favor of frolicking about the unrestricted areas. They trudged behind her, exhaustion marring their features, haggard from nightmares in which arachnids of fantastical form and chromatic aberration crawled about their no longer sacred sleep. And how would the deviant know that? She would be glad to rid her shadow of the pair; their inability to make eye contact stirred something vicious just beneath her lackadaisical surface and control had yet to come to her forefront of traits.

And now, after uncountable days and trials, she had been promised playmates, real ones, not the un-deified shells that treated her as a contagion. Of course, she could have been with them, they lingered just below the deck that her barefeet now skipped across, but confinement had left its taint upon her and her aeon so that open air was a siren’s call she dare not mute. As the shyp began to drift from the clouds, and lower still, she followed suit, descending into the bowels of the beast. She grabbed offered shoes, laces tied so that they dangled about a slender neck and shattered the reflective nature of her lightweight armored jacket.

As the SOLDIERS began their exit she hung back, light caresses pretending to inventory her weaponry one last time while her oculars and aeon scanned instinctively for flaws and fears, a habit really, always judging, but never playing jury. If her mood wavered, it failed to register upon the idiotically sweet smile she possessed. She stretched once more, a predatory gesticulation that seemed at odds with her lithe frame, movement raising her jacket sleeves to reveal a splattering of thin lined scars; products of blessing the bo-shuriken, one of which was now being tucked into her messy locks. Then she fell into line, barefeet fluttering across the hard metal and then finding solace in the frigid form of earth. The ground was forgotten as soon as she stepped from the gaping maw of the shyp and attention fell on the open landscape. An entrancement took her features; eyes expanded and reflected a thrill that seemed to barely hide the thought of going AWOL, if only for a week or so. It was almost as if she’d forgotten how extensive the world really was.

They’d find you, and then they may not let you out again.

The faraway look that had begun to consume from the precipice of her iris’ inward, darting about the miasma within and tempting focus, was recalled as quickly as slight fingers retrieved a necklace previously coveted against her bare chest. She placed the thin vial almost imperceptibly against her nose and inhaled. If the action had been sly the result was less than. Lashes fluttered a few moments and eyes refocused so that the easy joviality became tinged with something more apathetic and hungry. Well, now you at least fit in. That’s something. The ferocity didn’t last long, though likely it was simply brushed from her expression and placed just below. When she met the gaze of the SOLDIERs, those offered, she had once again found a countenance of dripping nectar, made more elaborate by the raising of curling and wiggling fingers that came out like the wave of a beloved admirer.

She’d never been accused of being shy so when the aroma of coffee touched her senses she skipped forward, boots clicking around her neck. Graceful digits slipped around the cup offered by the, she tilted her head in an attempt to gauge the man, she was going to go for fear of loss and inability to hold liquor, but of course it was just a mental betting game she and the aeon played. She hadn’t actually leaked into him, they told her that was disrespectful, and likely it wouldn’t go unnoticed as it often did with the goons. She didn’t want to get caught being rude on her first day. Her aeon could be quite a judgmental bitch, and she did nothing to forestall this attribute within herself. She had yet to speak-- she was a little self conscious about interaction-- but she was again reminded about impressions. Instead of saying something out of place [did normal people comment on the weaving fates skittering about them?] she offered a glittering intonation to her already smiling features.

[The Survivor]

SOLIDER Encampment// Zalera Tundra
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bruce took a long drag of his cigar as he looked back at Corr's comments, allowing himself a small smile "It's a technique I've spent years perfecting." The shyps were landing and Bruce barely blinked when a flash of flesh raced past him and began to puke. Bruce looked at the young man for a moment, doubting the competence of his forming team. "Yeah, no kidding, hope that guy doesn't get you killed." Fenri said with vague amusement. Me too, Bruce thought, looking to the other shyp arrivals and the other soldiers that were forming up. He knew them all of course, either by reading their file or simply talking to them. He made it his business to know as much as possible. He saw two SOLDIERS trying to help the puking one, one of them as a young woman, the other looked like a man closer to Bruce's own age. Must be Stone and Eldric, he thought, mentally going over what case file he as authorized to view. He called out to them "Let him puke, we need him clear of any sickness for the Op."

Bruce turned towards Corbyn Vesper, the defacto second in command. "Speaking of which, when can we expect to hit the skies and get boot on the ground in Arcadia, Commander? As much as I love freezing my ass off here, I'm ready to go." He tapped his cigar ashes onto the cold tundra floor, the iciness taking away what little spark they had. Corbyn Vesper was the model of a soldier, a military man through and through. young, but not too young that he was a greenhorn. Bruce felt more comfortable with him than he did with some of the more...off, SOLDIERS, like Amentia Ɵ B C Ʌ Ṣ U Ṡ. Of course he would never let it show on his face, she gave Bruce a bad feeling. Sure, he may talk to a voice in his head, but he was pretty sure every SOLDIER did. She was different. Bruce took another drag on his cigar, awaiting a response from the SiC.

[FantasyChic]

---

_{S O L D I E R. . .E N C A M P M E N T / / Z A L E R A. . . T U N D R A.}

---

London left the sounds of vomiting behind her. Others were following her towards the camp, but she paid them no mind. Having been at rest for a long period of time, she wanted something to do. Perhaps she could go hunt for food?

No, as it turned out. Food was already being prepared as she made her way. She eyed the others in the camp. She had to admit, they had a unique vibe to them. She heard the distinct voice of her Aeon sounding, or more like reverberating in her head. "Remember not to trust them. They may be your fellow SOLDIERs, but I detect the power behind their facade. Their respective Aeons are..powerful. Some are frightening. Be on your guard." She rolled her eyes, she didn't need him watching over her. She was more than capable of handling herself. She mentally waved him away and continued forward.

She noticed that, though it was cold, it wasn't as cold near the camp. She could chalk it up to the campfire, but she felt in her gut it there was more to it than that. She nodded her greeting to those that offered such, but she kept quiet. However, a man stepped forward and offered coffee.

Coffee.

It was one of few pleasures that London indulged in. She would kill for a good cup of it, but she imagined that, this being a camp site, the coffee was probably not great. Beggars couldn't be choosers though. She walked over to the man and pointed at the cup. "Coffee?" It wasn't a demand...or rather she tried her best not to make it sound like a demand, but she wanted a cup and yet, she didn't want to be vocal about it. She wasn't sure if she should provide her own vessel for the lovely liquid or if he would provide one, so she waited for further instructions.

She needed that damn cup if she was to get through all of this.

[Raijinslayer]

James Camron

Nic's question and wandering hand weren't acknowledge immediately, as James kept on walking as if he hadn't heard him for a few steps before stopping. Slowly, the young man turned around, looking from side to side before focusing on the older man with a shocked look. He pointed to himself questioningly as he walked back to where the older man was, seeming somewhat wary of him and the girl who had also been drawn by his misfortunes.

"Uh, ye-yeah, I'm fine. Just had a bit too much to eat is all, ya know, before we took off. That and, well, I'm not good with vehicles for the most part. Just get worse after I eat. . . and especially when I have to hold the heat in." James let out a sigh, the area around him getting even warmer for a moment, causing the snow around him to slush and melt away, green grass pushing it's way up slowly but surely from the earth, invigorated by his presence. However, the heat suddenly died down as james suddenly took the breath back in, eyes widening slightly as he realized something. "Oh, the heat isn't bothering you is it? I mean, it's cold so you might like it, but you're also wearing heavy winter clothes so it might be bothersome and I'd hate to be bothersome and. . . I'm s-sorry, I'm rambling. My names James, J-James Camron and it's, um, a pleasure to meet you. _{That's what you're supposed to say, right?"}

As James awaited the man's response, he couldn't help but not the tired look in his eyes, one that James knew well. Ugh, he look like he's in need of some sleep, or maybe just some rest. SHould I help him? I mean, it'll be a bit wierd to that now, but it might be seen as a good gesture, but then it also might-gah! James' thought process was halted by Raganavic bombarding his mind with feelings of irritation and frustration, along with an intense urge to reach out and take the man's hand, whether it was still outstretched or not. Unable to resist the urge, Nic would find his hand suddenly held in James', a soft warmth flooding into the appendage and up his arm, as well as emanating from James' body and out a bit of a ways away. Nic, and those nearby, would feel a invigorating pulse spread through them, shaking away any numbing cold and leaving them all with a feeling of comfortability in the harsh tundra weather. James, meanwhile, was struck with some embarrassment as he quickly let of of Nic's, face reddening as he cursed Raganavic a thousand times over in his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that, I just noticed you looked tired and thought I could help, but then I got nervous and my Aeon hates it when I get nervous so he kinda made me go through with it and I could help myself and uh, . . . I'm sorry." james looked down, face still somewhat glowing as he felt like he'd made an absolute fool of himself. Ugh, What am I doing? We're here on a mission, yet here I am goofing around. Gah, I'm so nervous about this, what am I going to do out there, what is even going to be out there?!?! *sigh* Why does my Aeon have to be so pushy . . .

[DJAtomika]

Natalya Kortensky

Zalera Tundra Base

---

The air was cold. Bracing and fortifying. It cut straight through the chinks in her armour and penetrated her very core, even with the in-built warmers keeping her pleasantly toasty. Then again, she was no stranger to the cold.

Natalya stepped off the Shyp transport that had brought her to Zalera and pulled her thick coat around herself. As bulky and as warm as her armour was, it only went so far to protect her from the chill. The ride had been uneventful, as far as she was concerned. Horrible food and even worse jostling notwithstanding, the trip was fine. According to the mission brief, they were to infiltrate Archadia, which was where she'd been brought up near. Nibelheim, Faelan's crown jewel of medical engineering, was her home, even though she was of Galbadian birth. Her name, her whole life, had been in Archadian culture. It was her upbringing. And now...now she was to treat her home as an enemy. Funny, how fate dealt its cards.

The briefing for this leg was simple enough: meet up with the other soldiers in camp. That was it. Their transports were the aforementioned Shyps, and frankly she didn't admire them. Unstabilised though reliable, the huge boats were little more than that: boats. Floating army transports, with the horrible food to match. Even now, as she gathered her duffel bag and cases into her hands, she bore witness to the results of such a trip. A fellow SOLDIER, one she didn't recognise, was on hands and knees in the snow, puking his guts out. With a brief chuckle at his expense, she strode forward. Her hands dove into her duffel bag as another SOLDIER, presumably one of her many teammates, helped the stricken man up to his feet. A third young lady made her way towards them but stopped just a few feet away. She walked around her as she approached.

The heat that emanated from him, and the snow around him turning to slush and then melting entirely, only confirmed her suspicions. Her hands left her bag with a strip of tablets that she contemplated as she approached.

Her bootfalls would be loud and noisy in the snow as she approached James and Nic, and she held the pills out to the former as she gave them a brisk smile. Just a moment ago, she'd heard James introducing himself, and noted his name.

"Take this, detenysh. For the sea sickness. I'd hate to see you make another mess, comrade Camron."

She gave the two men a brief but sharp salute as a greeting.

"Doctor Natalya Kortensky. I assume you are SOLDIER comrades also on mission today?"

On the Shyp ride, she'd busied herself with reading personnel dockets of the other SOLDIERs on mission with her. And although she didn't know the lady or the man by face, she remembered brief details about James Camron after she'd skimmed his file.

Back line battlefield cover. Fights with a pistol and a compound bow. His aeon matches mine in temperance, the only difference being its propensity for violence. A new soldier, with little time to adjust to the bond with his aeon. Someone to keep an eye on.

Hopefully she'd get to know the others once they'd all convened in camp. For now, she was content to fill in faces where she knew only names.

[AmongHeroes]

S A M M A E L K ö N I G

---

With eyes bright and amused, Samm smiled at the be-freckled woman with the bob of obsidian locks. As she plucked the coffee from his hands, Samm allowed his lips to part in the barest of chuckles. He appreciated a person who was not too drawn within themselves to seek and take what they wanted. Her pixey like smile, and the continued silence, gave her a bent of intrigue that Samm took more as a curiosity, rather than discourteousness.

“Drink up,” he said to the woman. His eyes flitted down for an instant to her bare feet. “Au Naturel footwear, I see? I hear that brand has gotten great reviews, though my pair have always been too snug.”

Smiling, Samm continued. “I’m Sammael. It’s good to meet you…”

His ears perked, and Samm transitioned the frank levity upon his cheeks to a pretty face whom had just intoned the simple question of, “Coffee?”

“Coffee, indeed!”

Pulling a cup from the stack in his fingers, Samm poured a generous helping of the stuff. Steam roiled from the scalding liquid, dancing into the frigid air as if in defiance of it. Holding the full cup out to the blond, he spoke when she took it from him.

“I’m Samm. It’s good we have a few people on the team who appreciate the qualities of a great cup of joe. Bodes well for when the shit hits the fan.”

Pointing with the forefingers of both his hands, Samm indicated both the shorter girl with the jet bob, and the blond who had just taken his offered cup. “What about you two? Have you both met, or perhaps worked together before? Personally, I’m curious about the high command forming up such a large group of SOLDIERS who seemingly have had very little in the way of contact with one another.”

Though Samm kept his face neutrally bemused, his concern was a genuine one. All of the SOLDIERS at the encampment had advanced into the three major tiered classes, and were thus powerful individuals. The processes, discipline, and training required to access and utilize the power of the bonded Aeon was no small feat. As such, the cadre of SOLDIERS was a small community in relation to the rest of the Governs martial arm. Fort Lullin was an intimately hard and terrifying furnace for the enhanced beings known as SOLDIERS, and it bred a certain familiarity to those who survived it. It was strange to Samm that he knew of these gathered individuals by nothing more than reputation alone.

Samm let his introductions and question hang in the frosty air as he poured himself coffee of his own.

[Ambiguity]

Athena Volkov

---

Nine years prior to present. Raider settlement forty miles from Trost, Archadia.
Theme

---

The militia were efficient. They had to be this far up north.

Advancing with the rest of her squad, Athena peered out of her mask. It covered her face to fend off the frost. Father Winter, however, wasn't pleased today. Billowing clouds of snow made it near impossible to see far with the naked eye. If it weren't for the aid of the mask, the militia members would've been blind. Though their uniforms and tactical wear were catered to the extreme temperature, nothing could keep Father Winter from reminding one how pitiful they were before his might. They couldn't stay out here for long lest they succumb to frozen sleep.

Her feet crunching in the snow, Athena clutched her rifle close to her. This wasn't her first time assaulting a raider stronghold. Near the fringes of Archadia, the unruly thought they had free reign. Take what you want. Kill what you want. It was the unspoken decorum for the wicked while the fear for villages like Trost. Though the militia tried to keep the raiders away from civilized folk, they could only extend so much. Athena was thankful that a garrison was near her village. Trost, for the most part, was left untouched from wicked hearts.

But she wasn't near Trost. Not not. Venturing out with a whole cohort of militia, a raider settlement was the target. They were to exterminate them. Taking prisoners was secondary, done only if the raiders did surrender. However, they never had a chance to surrender this time. They didn't have a chance to. Athena knew exactly why. Her comrades did too, but none of them - even her - was prepared for what they'd find in the mope up.

There were bodies everywhere. Some in the process of dying while others would eventually return to the hard cold ice. No burial of anyone left to remember them. A genocide. That's what it was though command saw it as duty. But was it truly duty to render onto humans such cruel death?

Gunshots rung out as militia members took care of those not yet dead. Boils and fever was the main symptom of Athena's creation. She saw minor hemorrhaging, an effect she never anticipated. But how could she? The poisons used from native growth, rare as they may be, were never meant to be weaponized. They were meant to be cautioned against, to view their beauty from afar. Father would've been disappointed. If he knew what she did, Athena was certain he would've guarded his knowledge better.

Her eyes moistened. She forced herself to look at the fruits of her labor.

Before she could take another step, a door opened from a nearby shelter. Raising her rifle, she lowered it. A woman tumbled out with a small figure guarded in her arms. The look of plague had taken her once unblemished skin. Though her body slowly died, the hatred in her eyes were absolute. Athena saw it clearly. The oath muttered to whatever god to ravage whoever unleashed such a terrible death.

Athena pushed a militia man out of the way. She looked down at the woman, no doubt a frightful vision with her armor on. "... I'm sorry."

Her apology was answered with a pained wail. She granted the woman a quick death. Bending down, Athena unfolded the woman's arms. She looked at the young one. Since she joined the fight to protect her people, she never thought for a second the raiders would have families. She thought of them as men and women taking and stealing. Masquerading about as they indulged in decadence and hedonism. The archetypal bad guy. But nothing was ever so simple. They and the villages of Trost were alike with lifestyles being the main difference.

Her hands shook as she took out her sidearm. It shook so bad that she feared her shot would go wide. She felt the eyes of the others trained on her, wondering if she was going to grant mercy herself.

"Sleep my dear," she said as she met blue eyes staring at her. Not wanting to prolong cruel purgatory, Athena finally found the strength to free the victim from the world.

Dropping her gun, Athena felt her shoulders tremble. She wrapped the young one in her arms as she wept, her silent wail lost in the roar of Father Winter.

---

Present day. Zaleria Tundra. SOLDIER Encampment.

The journey within the shyp was tolerable enough.

Athena stretched her limbs while accounting for her gear. It was rare for her to see the outside of Fort Lullin, let alone an operation that assembled such a heavy presence of SOLDIER. As far as she knew, the program and those associated with it was a tightly guarded secret. While they had freedoms within the fort, they were expunged from the outside world. It was as if they were dead, but it was worse than that. Any traces of them existing, except with their families, was gone. They were phantoms to this world with only other SOLDIERs to keep them company.

Walking out towards the encampment, Athena was nearly bulldozed over as a SOLDIER sprinted out the entrance. She rose an eyebrow as she continued on her way. About to ask if the man was okay, she stopped where she was when the SOLDIER emptied whatever he ate onto the dirt. Some of the other SOLDIERs spoke while some inched away, but she wasn't fazed by it. This was child's play to what she'd seen.

Others had already moved forward, a man, a doctor, and various others. Moving her hand away from a pouch on her armor, she noted the doctor's accent.

The human will get over it. Your kind are are fascinating creatures. Sickness takes you. Sickness flees from you. Some near death's touch while others skirt away. Which of the two does this one belong to? I wonder.

Athena frowned at Ascephea's words. Sometimes a chance is all someone needs.

I have seen your memories, child. Did you believe that nine years ago?

She didn't respond.

Tuning back into the conversation between the Dr. Kortensky, James, the puker, and another man. Older. "Seems like you're in good hands," Athene said in her thick Archadian accent. "Next time box breathe. It helped militia members who had motion sickness. Five counts in. Five counts out. Something to try until the doc can fix you up." She scratched her chin and moved her rebreather mask out of the way. "Athena Volkov. I was a ... what's the word? A healer, a combat medic with the Archadian militia. Nothing like the good doctor," she said nodding to Natalya. "It was Nic and James, yes?"

[Rockette]

_{S O L D I E R. . .E N C A M P M E N T / / Z A L E R A. . . T U N D R A.}

---

Carmen Auset was a multi-faceted creature of omnifarious dependencies; variants of psychical and psychological legions of crippling pitches of void and nefarious wraiths that bayed wildly like sickened, deluged creatures of sable origin and ebon fusions of devouring ambition. Every SOLDIER that came in breadth of her tempestuous mistral of black and the winter monsoon correlating with the descending Celsius gave her a temporary salve to the writhing King beneath the extremities of his host: the Queen that was heralded on notions of pain, and selfish qualms that burdened her psychosis to a machine of calculating power that thrived for a variation of omnipotence. Carmen inhaled, nasal passages blooming, her dual softeners of coral likeness expanding and gaping wide with a sigh that bordered euphoric in breath and heat. Each of the SOLDIERS delivered bore a peculiar scent to their bearing; a spark of mauve light, that tasted like the air after an electric storm, the blossom of scarlet tones that bore sediments of salt, and a deluged perception of grey that reminded her of soot and ashen feathers on a breeze of cold.

There was white, a pure colour, but the edges were tainted black with blood that bled from aphotic borders and went rouge with blush. Demented lilacs and periwinkle oozed and festered beneath a film of faux steel and powder intermingled to a crumbling facade. Heat that pounded infuriating stone and grass that simmered and cried under a sun blotted sky. A snarl erupted from within, lips of fracturing ebon and gold peeling back over teeth that wept and eyes that bled and pulsated mad with a deeply seeded necrosis; a lethal summoning, a dissolution of self as bruises suddenly blossomed across opal dusted skin and bled into the golden undertones there. She hissed; slicing past grinding fangs and flesh.

She knew their scents now, tasted them on the palette of her tongue, and the King relished within his Queen from it all and granted her sweet agony.

Carmen pirouetted on the stiletto of her boot as they passed and mingled, the tundra quieting, her winds gradually dispersing into lax breezes until suddenly still and calm. There was blood, coffee, and meat; as if this was a jovial camp, a potluck of demented powers and origins amassing under the orders of their whims instead of embellished masters. Her simper elevated, expanding wide, teeth and all. She barked, a laughter that spun from her mouth under harsh bells that were tarnished and cracked from the young SOLDIER that they gathered around with pretenses of care and infant camaraderie. Good though, she thinks, because he's just a child, and they often die first - swift, and usually bathed in taint from the world. She doesn't tune into their banter, she doesn't know his name [or any of them, aside from the old goat who's a thorn in her side and twitch in her eye] and doesn't care to learn as she observes with thinly veiled curiosity and something akin to hunger.

She hasn't eaten in a while, and that's going to be a problem.

"The Shyps are scheduled to embark in the morning; you'd be flying blind in this weather." She purrs, lips twisted, oculi bright and the transition from former appetance that was locked within her sensuous glance now languid and probing. She thumbs over her pauldron, shoulder propped and eyes oblique over the span of twisted steel and black cloth. "Well, more blind for you, I guess."

The provided brigade began to fan outward, teasing the tarpaulin of tents, she smelled their wariness, it's seasoned pepper and freshened salt, kind of bitter as it translates to her senses and lands on the breadth of the uncoiling mass of a scaled creature beyond fathom, but it's leashed, barbed, and in pieces. A crown that is incomplete. There are too many SOLDIERS milling about, they lack their cages and the conceptual leashes can only go so far, Carmen looms closer as they banter with exchanged brew and homey exchanges, it's a queer misplacement in the tundra where chaos threatens and looms yonder sea and northern gates. She brushed against fair skin and icy blues; he smelled crisp, his mirth broad and reminded her of snowy mountains and waterfalls. His scent is heavily carved into her mind, as are others, those have been in the camp nearly as long as she has.

"This is all very... Charming." She struggled for the words, for within her mind beyond wayward tresses, there's a crescendo of baying hunger, and need. "But our Keepers seem a bit troubled. I suggest we move to our main tent, there are theorists and navigators awaiting with our stratagem."

Her mouth was agape then, there's a tantalizing notion to install her status and power, the old bourne habit that was sired under lock and key in her former imprisonment, her life has been one cage and unto another, and to survive, she knows she must be the ruler. Back in the Paddock, the upper crest of fortitude and madness dictated over all, she had established her ranking swift and easily, and was lauded over with a muzzle festooned over her countenance and her arms strapped impossibly tight. The cuffs left scars, and she wears them like glittering bracelets. Carmen willed herself to disband then, to backtrack, boots sliding within the snow and quickly sealed her gloved fist over her expanding teeth, carefully masking her orifice under the slight break of a wet cough.

"The tundra nights are long, we've plenty of time yet though. Maybe we should allow them to squirm. How about we feast instead, mm?" Her inquiry is broad, lashed out, and twinged with laughter manic and harsh. Her eyes flash under lashes spiked and long, landing on fur and cloth, she smiles at Corr [he always smells the best, he's her favourite] and nods slight and inviting. "I don't know about you, but coffee won't be enough. I'm famished."

[Hexaflexagon]

^{S O L D I E R E N C A M P M E N T - Z A L E R A T U N D R A}

---

"The practice shows. Truly, I admire the dedication to your craft." Corr quipped back to Bruce as he rolled his shoulders, straightening his back

Corr felt them. Not in the natural sense of touch of hand to flesh but on a more abstract sense. Attuned as he was to the calls of the Giant merged to his flesh, he sensed as it sensed, eternal and without restraint. It was to this degree that his role as 'protector' achieved its apex, being able to sense subtle shifts of presence. To this degree he could intercept and bring order where disorder brew. A deep and primal empathy towards pain and suffering. The Giant attuned to the natural procession of order and deterred by its disruption. In strife this was a tool, an asset harnessed to its fullest. In the day to day it was another burden, the struggles of a false omniscience. Fleeting flashes of Self passing by in ephemeral flashes. Reflected in the flicking sparks of energy within the iris of ember. To his credit he had learned partly to dull the sensation to a low thrum and yet even then some still cut through.

As the rest of the SOLDIERS began their procession he could feel the Giant's unrest. It was a curious thing its deliberate aversion to what Corr could only assume to be its own kind. An animalistic aversion towards the unknown and ethereal. These 'foreigners' were a disruption, their eldritch pulses interfering with life held dear. Yet the instinct to crush chaos with force was without form as these sparks of chaos were as trapped as it. To this level Giant and man stood at ideological embankments. Corr taught of redemption and harmony saw these approaching souls not as inherent evils but the very life that the Giant meant to flourish.

As the embers of association flared, Corr couldn't help but feel amused. Life in the Fort and its various satellite facilitates was one of isolation. Lonely rooms more devoid of life than the monastic cells of his childhood. Physical contact with others limited to brief fleeting touches. Most voices coming formless through hidden speakers, presence without a face to connect. The outside world always viewed through the lens of digital reconstruction. Yet here there was voices and the sounds of merriment and companionship. It would of been almost humbling if not for the context of their arrival. Somewhere across the strait black as the storms that had a habit of raging across them lay Death. Befitting Corr supposed for creatures bred for war to bond within its boundaries.

A smile broke across his face as he saw Corbyn approach him. Those brief moments of physical contact came in the form of similar ilk, Commanders. (Corr never liked that term. He never saw himself as a leader or commander of much of anything.) The general thinking of the higher ups being that a degree of familiarity would benefit organization and cooperation. As he drew in he clasped the other man's arm, gargantuan hands almost swallowing the forearm. From what he knew of the mission at hand Corbyn would be the one leading the infiltration team. Something that Corr was thankful for, for he and sneaking did not cohabitate.

Pointing with a look of mock sternness towards Samm. "Are those whispers of sedition I hear? Disagreement with the Govern's glorious food policies is punishable by death."

"But since blocks of chalk passing as food are not good enough for you socialites," Corr replied. "I've managed to gather enough material to make a meal worthy of your delicate palates. Hope you enjoy dead things....."

He could feel her before he saw her. Whatever bubbling sense of warmth that was building in his body shriveled and died. He pivoted his body stopping as heterochromia met desolate blue, impossibly cold. There was an old parable about a wayward traveler and her continued dalliances with a demon. A warning of the urges of temptation and compelling them to find courage in the face of evil. As of recently Corr had begun to find a newfound appreciation in the words of the story. Corr himself much like the traveler always had a habit of finding trouble. As a young child he was guilty of searching it out, never learning to let sleeping beasts lay. And what was Carmen but trouble animated by the breath of life. Akin to looking into the void at which all things were born from and destined to return. Intriguing in the all consuming fatalistic sense that made the great philosophers go mad.

"You are," His eyebrows furrowed as he pondered his word choice. Despite the shaking of his head, approval tinged the inflections of his speech. "so unsettling sometimes you know that?"

"But yes the idea of satiation has its merits. We can't all go rush to our deaths on empty stomachs now can we?" He turned away from her cupping his mouth in his hands and projecting his voice. It boomed over the surrounding area cutting through whatever discussion was commencing.

"Oi! As much as I love standing in vomit stained snow, it's time to eat!" He turned back around as he gave a mock bow towards Carmen, arm outstretched allowing her to lead the way.

[Hellis]

K A I N B R A D W E L L

_________________________________x-x-x-x________________________________________

Several years ago, Slums, Merc Territory, Alleyways.

“Wit… Hey Wit! Look at me!” Kains voice cracked as he stared at the pale faced young man. "Look at me Dammit!" Wits eyes were glazed over and the blood would not stop flowing from the head wound. He was growing entirely limp in Kains hands, cradled against the largers man chest. Kain found that he tried to keep the blood out of those hazel brown eyes. Crimson rivers ran down a face that Kain was used to see make funny faces and down over those sweet lips that Kain had kissed so many times. Kain bellowed out his impotent rage, he screamed curses at Merc and his entire so called ‘family’. Snot ran down from his nose, mixing with salty tears, his voice cracked painfully as he screamed his throat raw.

“Wit. Please Wit.” He pushed his forehead to that of Wits, Wits blood messing kains long hair up, plastering it to Wits pale face. “C’mon wit. Crack a joke. You are better then this. You are everything I have. Please. Please Wit? Please. Please.” He repeated the word like a mantra, his massive frame shaking with the loud sobbing. “Please” He couldn’t stop begging for it to not be true. He refused to accept it. He cradled that head, despite the nasty head wound. And no matter how he tried, he could not stop crying. That’s when he felt a weak hand against his chin.

“You big… idiot.. Why are you.. here” Wit croaked out. There was no humour in his voice, just a bone chilling exhaustion.

“Y-you’re Alive?!” Kain felt a brief flame of hope in his large chest. But one look into Wits dimming, but for now once more sharp eyes, told him Wit didn’t think he’d make it.

“...Almost.. But you shouldn’t be here.. I made a deal to protect you.. Kain… I told him you had nothing to do with it.” Wit had to press out the words. His hand was sticky blood and it smeared across Kains cheek. Kain held it to him none the less. Sobbing and probably getting snot all over Wit.

“You’re gonna be allright. I’ll get a doctor” Kain mumbled incoherently, strying to get up to his feet and carry Wit out the alley.

“N-no. I won’t. None of the clinics here will treat me… besides.. I can’t feel my body past one arm.. I am smart enough.. to realize I am dead. So are you Kain.” Wit said gravely, but with a smile. He ran his hand across the other mans chin, to his lips.

“No! No I will fucking make them heal you.” Kian said in panic. Seeing that light leave Wits eyes once more.

“Kain, what’s big, humble and loyal to a fault.” Wits voice trembled with the effort to stay coherent. Only wit would be able to make a dumb joke while dying from brain hemmorage.

“I… Am.” Kain sobbed.

“Don’t stay and fight Merc. Get out of here. Like you always said you… were..” Wits hand fell down into lifeless limp.

“ Please. Don-” But wit had closed his eyes, smiling that stupid smile even in death. The scream that echoed out in the night was enough to rattle nearby windows. Some of the residents would never forget the sound, and those in the know quietly referred to it as ‘The day Kain went mad’. Wits death would not go unavenged, and his demise would seriously damage Mercs reputation and popularity among the others for years to come. But for Kaine, it was when his entire world collapsed, and rage took over his life.

_________________________________x-x-x-x________________________________________

Camp /// Tundra // Present Day

We are the firebrand. We are the punishment. We are Justice. We are the fire that burns away sin. We are vengeance, we are the retribution found only in the destruction of the craven. Embrace my fire Host, and be one with the only Truth. Be one with Fire.

Kains feet made the snow melt just that much faster then the other around him. His abnormal body heat made the snow barely touch him. Yet he hated the snow. He was a city boy, what snow reached them back in the slums had the decency to look like everything else: Polluted and full of tar. This white stuff was strangely off putting. But he was a soldier, and a SOLDIER caught complaining about snow would garner strange looks. So Kain sat, a hulking brute of a man, steaming. Not out of anger but because his body heat literally made steam rise off his skin and his bare arms had the added effect of being the size of some mens legs. Sitting there, steam rising off his body in tendrils of hot vapor, sharpening his trench knives made for a intimidating sight. The ordinary personnel took routes that would keep them out of his sight and he would have to be blind not to notice the looks they gave him

. Everyone knew a bad apple when they saw it. Kain didn’t care much for them either. Ever since he had been taken to train for Soldier, he had wondered back in his head why he was allowed such an opportunity. Wit had told him to never trust “The Man” but after he had been put in a cell, he had not seen much choice. He had only the one life, the one that Wit had made sure he could have outside of Mercs insidious influence. He might have traded one asshole for a whole bunch of them, but it didn’t matter.

The slumdog sat, sharpening his knives for the fifth time that week. He found it was a great way to get people to leave him alone and that way he didn’t have to become pissed off at someone over something trivial like the fact that didn’t leave him alone. In short, he wasn’t a people's person. Not since Wit had died in his arms, part of his head caved in by a lead pipe had he really tried to be anything close to social. Yet, the being inside him was tugging him towards the fire, it called to them. It was their element, regardless of whoever huddled around it. That, and he picked up something about eating. And so he rose, like a titan getting up from its rest, and began lumbering towards the others. His steps made the snow melt wherever his feet touched , leaving a pretty obvious trail behind him.

“I heard food.” Kain said in that deep, baritone voice of his as he made his way to the small group of fellow Soldiers. This was his first time meeting most of them. Except for Corr, as Kain had seen him around camp being one of the early arrives himself. He nodded respectfully to his fellow giant of a man. Corr was ok in Kains book, the man had a easy way to him and a emphatic nature that was a strength rather than a exploitable weakness. He could respect that, he knew Wit would have to. The berserker didn’t care for many of the others however, Carmen reminded him of Merc entirely to much. Those eyes were filled with a mad dogs will to survive at every cost, Merc had the same eyes. Manic, dangerous and charismatic. Never again would he trust such a person. Realizing suddenly he had not introduced himself he spoke.

“Kain.” He said, as if that explained everything. “Just. Kain.”

Inside him, his aeon coiled itself around in a fiery knot. “Wicked. Wicked. Do not trust the wicked. Let the fire speak. Fire, Burn, Exact the toll of the the infernal pit. “ The Aeon was entirely not helping and he was still coping with the way it seemed to fuel his own misgivings and not to mention his rage. “Burn. This world. So full of evil. So full of injustice. Burn it. Burn it all.” He felt the Aeon rage but he quelled it with some effort. It must have reacted to them. It did that, it was as if it could smell those that had killed in cold blood or otherwise committed terrible crimes.

[Insatiable]

N I C H O L A U S E L D R I C

---

_{SOLDIER Encampment | Zalera Tundra}

Help seemed like an obligation more than anything, especially for a cast teamed up to attain a certain goal. In fact, Nic had a fair share of seeing people throw up in long expeditions, or perhaps, generally during transports. It honestly wasn't a genuinely pleasant experience being around those kinds of people, but helping them in their moment of dread only appeared to be an appropriate thing to do.

"I'm guessing ... not really," He said in response to the question of the female comrade whose name was yet to be known. "He honestly doesn't look that bad. A quick rest should suffice."

There was an immediate recognition of regret when his hands were fastened with the boy's. His hazel eyes scrutinized a cryptic gesture, deemed slightly difficult to pinpoint without speculation, and also due to the silly guiltlessness conveyed by the exuberant yet ludicrous youth. The boy's ambiance, setting the grotesque scene of his vomit aside, reminded Nic of someone. A man who seemed fidgety at first but an exciting comrade to be around. Certainly the boy's appearance struck far from his former associate's but there was a familiar resemblance, and when Nic felt it, it was reminiscently nostalgic, suddenly inducing him through an idle state. A quick trip to memory lane as it seemed to be. Eyes were led to wander off elsewhere, beyond the person of his contact while giving no reminders of his hand still being affixed. His mouth was left agape as he visualized the picturesque moment of the fame he once had. It felt so real yet ambivalent. How rewarding would it be to change back time, to claim his reputation once again and still have the people he love around. Rosela ... my daughter ... Selena ... Their images drew from a warping space, their arms outstretched and faces were struck with glee. But as Nic reached his arms toward them, distortion pervaded. Their chuckles of innocence turned into shrieks of maniacal laughter and the malefic domain of emptiness where Nic found himself were engulfed in flames. He felt his skin burning, and he screamed in terror while flames slowly consumed his entirety.

His attention shifted back to the boy, eyes seemingly in shock. Nic thought he missed what the boy was yammering about. He did, however, overhear the name James and safely assumed that it must be the boy's name. Their hands were no longer held together, but an unusual sense of warmth was felt, as if Nic's short dream was an experience that physically occurred. He clenched his teeth, crunching out his knuckles as he focused on his irritation towards a known culprit that could possibly be responsible.

Caw! Caw!

What do you mean it wasn't you? who else would've done it?

Caw Caw Caw!

Right in between, the boy's apologetic statement made it all clear. Nic almost forgot that these people possessed the same kind of prowess as he did, only in different manifestations. Nic passed the expression of regret as a mere laughing matter. He was instead focused on the strange yet interesting phenomena that the boy conducted. A noteworthy attribute for an upcoming expedition. While trying to comfort nervousness with a quick pat in the back, two other female comrades joined the scene. Perhaps more were concerned about this boy than Nic had ever assumed. One seemed to be a doctor with a noticeable accent and one was determined as a medic from her introductory gestures. Nic gave his courtesy with him graciously nodding to each one of them.

"Nicholaus." He humbly stated with an unintentional smug. "And yes, Nic would be appropriate. Thank you for sharing both of your knowledge. I'm sure this young man is grateful for your concerns."

Nic glanced back at the boy, or James, as what his thoughts suggested. He placed an arm around James' shoulder, still thinking if it was the right thing to do or if there were any possibilities that he might smell from the vomit alone. He adjusted his hat and shifted a bit of his arm's weight towards James' shoulder. "If you want some rest, I'll get you to a tent where you can lie down and take a nap. Otherwise ..." Nic remembered hearing a pleasant announcement of food being ready. He turned back at the two women before continuing his words. "... let's eat?"